Yew to a Kill

by Kim Smith

  “What?” I demanded.

  “I tried to call you to tell you I was on the way over.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Said the spider to the fly. No. I’m dog-tired and almost asleep. You’ve spoiled my chances at a decent doze twice now.”

  He produced a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from behind his back. “Not even for some of these?”

  Only a man who looked as good as Salvador Ramirez, and who offered donuts smelling as good as the ones he held could make me open my door and step backwards.

  “I knew I would get you at hello,” he taunted, strolling inside. “Nice pants.”

  I slammed the door. “Don’t get comfortable. One donut and you are so gone.”

  “Why? We have some discussing to do.”

  I swayed a little and he reached out to grab my elbow. “Whoa, Nellie. What’s up?”

  Kneading my forehead with one hand, I explained again. “I told you I’m half-asleep, I have the headache from Hades, and your happy face and donuts are not going to fix things this time. Go away.”

  He forced me to sit in my wingback recliner with the soft sage-colored upholstery. “Sit down and rest. I’ll get some coffee going to have with these donuts. You really probably just need some food.”

  I let my hand trace the raised piping along the arm of the chair. “What needs discussing?”

  Water splashed in the sink, and I heard the top on my coffeemaker snap open. Then it got quiet for a moment, so I twisted around to see what he was doing. He rifled through the address book, which had fallen out of my purse onto the counter, with quick flicks of his finger. Damn! I hoisted myself out of the chair and hurried over to snatch it out of his hands. “Hey! That’s private property.”

  “And you worried about my personal journal in college. You even called it a scorecard. Shannon, Shannon, Shannon,” he said, shaking his head, hands on hips. “You’ve got every man in the country in that book.”

  My face burned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s okay,” he said, tilting his head a little. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’ll cost you for my silence though.”

  “Get a life.” I shoved the book down in my purse. No Southern gentleman would dare rifle through a woman’s most private item, her purse.

  “Yes, to ensure your secret’s ultimate security, you’ll have to go out with me.”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  He strolled over and took two cups from the drainer, clinking them against the sink as he set them out to pour coffee in. “That remains to be seen. At any rate, you’re stuck with my terms, I’m afraid. I’d hate to have to call up all of those men and—”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Is that so? Cream? Sugar?”

  I hated the way his eyes sparkled. “You damn well know how I take my coffee, and you are not getting any more information from me, my lips are sealed.”

  He handed the cup to me. “Oh? I hope my poor memory serves, but you’ve always been a bit of a flirt.”

  “Oh? Oh, my foot. That book is not mine. I found it.”

  He put four donuts on a plate and closed the box. “Do you know who it does belong to? She’s some doll, I bet.”

  “Yes. No! I mean I don’t know,” I stammered.

  He calmly bit into a donut and stared me down. No doubt about why they always asked him to do interrogations.

  “It’s Rafe’s.”

  He tried to continue chewing, but my words finally hit him and he choked, spewing half-eaten chunks into the sink. I hurried over and pounded him on the back. When he’d washed down the last cough with coffee, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting.

  I waved at him. “What are you looking at? I told you it was Rafe’s. You’re just mad because you didn’t get to it first.”

  “No,” he said, wiping glazing from the corner of his mouth. “I’m waiting to find out how you came by it? Even his mother, Mina, couldn’t have known where to find such a personal item of his.”

  “I’m not telling you anything else, Sal. You’re a cop, and I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “I’m not here on official business. I’m your friend, stopping in with donuts for coffee. You can tell me off the record.”

  I shook my head. “Bull. You came here wanting to discuss something, by your own admission. And until you prove you’re off the record, my lips are sealed. First, you tell me something about Bubba’s case. Then we can call it an even exchange.”

  “Okay. Let’s discuss what you know about the night Mr. Thames died.”

  I set my cup in the sink. “You know I was in the cemetery. I saw you just after, at your cousin’s house, remember? You and I were together after that, so why are you asking?”

  “You always hear things from places I can’t get to.” He was lying through his teeth. There was no place a cop couldn’t get info from if they worked it right.

  “As if.”

  “Hey, we’re friends. You can talk to me. Donuts, coffee, you know.”

  “Right. So why don’t you tell me about Bubba’s case. And how Rafe fits in. I mean, my info for your case file, you’ve got to have more for me than just sugar and caffeine.”

  “Can’t.” He flipped out his fingers from his closed fist, counting. “One, because it’s an active case. Two, because you are not a detective working it, and lastly, but more importantly, because you always get some sort of trouble brewing when you learn what I know.”

  Three strikes, and I was out? Not this time. I used female logic for the first time.

  “Fine,” I said with a smile.

  He watched me. I tried to keep my face straight and show no sign of being irked by his ticking off reasons to keep me from learning about Bubba’s case.

  “What do you mean…fine?”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me.” It was working. I could tell by the way he was squirming.

  Exasperated, he asked, “Are you going to explain how you got his address book?”

  I bit into a donut and didn’t answer.

  He licked a fingertip and wiped glaze off his jacket. “He’s my family. I have a right to know.” Then he pinioned me with those dark, sexy eyes. “You’ll tell me. You always do.”

  I swallowed hard. Um hum. When donkeys fly. I strolled into the living room and plopped down on the couch. Gone with the Wind still played, and I tried to focus in on it to strangle my emotions. He made me feel weak in the knees and in the willpower department. How does he even do that?

  He came out of the kitchen, zipping up his black bomber jacket. “I have to go. I left the donuts.”

  I waved at him. “Hasta la vista.”

  He stood a moment more, glaring at me. I grinned and remained mute, letting him have a taste of his own medicine. He finally shrugged and left.

  A short while later, I pressed pause on the DVR and went back to the kitchen to have another donut. I tried to convince myself it was just to settle my nerves, to get over my anger at Sal. My fat cells were not buying it for one second. When I passed my purse, it was not in the same place I had left it. It gaped strangely at me from the table. I walked over and peeked in.

  He had taken the address book with him.

  “Sir, you are no gentleman,” Vivian Leigh said from the living room.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  I dug through my purse, hoping he hadn’t found the check reorder form. Then I recalled I had put it in my jeans pocket. Oh, thank God. I hurried to the bathroom and yanked the jeans out of the hamper. I needed to do laundry in the worst way, but it would have to wait. I unfolded the paper and smiled.

  Sal Ramirez wasn’t the only one with an ace up the sleeve.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday, while stopped at the light on Greenman Road waiting to turn onto the old highway where The Delicate Petal resided, I thought about what I would tell Dwayne. We were meeting there to get the keys from Bubba’s sister, Carrie. He’
d spoken to her and she’d agreed to let us keep the shop while she wrestled with the funeral and her family.

  I recalled the check reorder form safely tucked in my wallet. This item might prove to be a great way for us to nose around and get more info on Rafe. I just wasn’t quite ready to pony up the fact I had committed a criminal offense by breaking into Rafe’s place to swipe it.

  Dwayne wouldn’t really care, might have done the deed himself if he’d been in his right mind. Still, my conscience needed to be contended with, and I wasn’t through with the battle. I still smarted from Sal getting one over on me by filching the address book.

  A white Corvette zoomed around me on the right, and my heart sank with jealousy. My beat-up Cougar would never again see a day where it chewed up ‘Vettes and spit them out on the highway. The whole my-car-is-badder-than-your-car era was as past as my chance of Sal not getting one up on me with that address book.

  This situation with the missing address book wouldn’t make Dwayne happy. For the cops to know more about Rafe’s personal business than he did would not sit well. Especially when said business included information about many of their mutual friends —all two hundred and ninety or however many of them were listed in that book.

  I pulled into the parking lot and found Dwayne standing beside his Mustang, glaring at his watch. I pulled my flip flops on, collected my tote purse, and climbed out. “What took you so long?” he asked. “I’ve been warming my toes for almost thirty minutes.”

  I took a deep breath and motioned for him to follow me. “Katie called to catch up. She’s worried about me. I don’t spend any time with her anymore.”

  He grunted. A semblance of understanding, I guessed. I pushed on the door to go inside. Straight ahead, the showroom exuded a heady scent of incense and candles. On a long glass table in the center of the room an enormous flower arrangement welcomed us with spring flowers including dogwood, pansies, irises, tulips, and lilies.

  “Wow. That’s beautiful,” I said, admiring.

  Carrie Thames greeted us from a work area to the left of the door and up a few steps.

  “That’s the last thing Bubba made.”

  Carrie was petite, a little heavy through the middle, and had a serious, heart-shaped face. Her grief hid behind dark-framed glasses a bit too large for her small features. She’d been busily separating bunches of babies’ breath, and, I suspected, trying to collect herself enough to meet with us.

  Dwayne sniffed one of the lilies, and I caught his gaze as it traveled to the cooler where they must have found Bubba. He clenched his keys before jingling them absently, a sure sign of nerves. He spent a few moments taking in the surroundings, and I knew he was remembering.

  I followed his gaze and came to one conclusion with a quickness: Bradley Thames knew flowers. Buckets of them clustered around the workroom, and every corner of the place was overgrown with them in some sort of arrangement or picture.

  In one corner stood a potted bonsai, and in the other, a massive yew tree flowed out of a container. It took talent to be able to visualize all of this sort of floral art and make it happen—something I always wanted to be able to do myself.

  “Pretty place you got here,” I said to Carrie as she wiped her hands on an old stained towel.

  She walked slowly down the steps. “I guess so. Sure never expected to own it.” She led us over behind the counter where a small register sat, and hauled out her purse, a small tweedy thing with side pockets. “Here’s all the keys. I won’t be back until next week, but I’m not leaving town or anything. Just please keep me informed of anything you find out that might lead to whoever did this—” She waved the rest of her words away, then handed me the key chain with a fob in the shape of a lemon.

  Dwayne patted her arm. “We will, little girl. I told you we would.”

  She gazed up at him and tears filled her eyes.

  I couldn’t stand the emotions right then, so I interrupted with, “Is there anything we can do while we keep an eye on the place?”

  She wiped the tears away and said, “Just tell people there’s been a family tragedy and we’ll be closed this week. Maybe next week I’ll be up to having customers. Right now, I’m not sure about anything.” Then she turned to Dwayne. “Are you coming to the funeral?”

  He let out a breath and tapped his finger against his nose. “Um. No.”

  My mouth fell open and I blurted, “Why not? We’re going to hang out and see if anyone looks suspicious, remember? We discussed this.”

  “Hrumph. You discussed it. I just collected the payment for it.”

  “You’re Bubba’s friend,” Carrie said, looking forlorn. “He would want you there. The nice lady who spoke to me over at the funeral home—I think her name was Shelley—said they would need pallbearers. I thought—”

  “Nooo,” Dwayne said with a definite shake of his head. “I ain’t doin’ no casket carrying.”

  “But, he needs his friends to do this one last favor.”

  The agony in her words made Dwayne slump in defeat but he didn’t agree.

  “Don’t listen to him, he’s just not into funerals. We’ll be there,” I told her.

  Then in a whisper to her, I added, “I don’t know about the pallbearer thing, though. Better not count on that.”

  She nodded, and I went on in a normal voice. “What can we do for you until then?”

  “Nothing. Just come. Wednesday, four o’clock,” she answered and motioned for us to follow her back up to the work area.

  Dwayne sidled close and hissed in my ear. “I changed my mind.”

  I smiled sweetly and replied in a low voice. “I changed it back.”

  Carrie moved around foam crosses, and placed a large plastic planter on the wide work table. She gazed at Dwayne and said, “The people hosting that casket spray contest you were asking me about have approached me to see if I want to replace Bubba.”

  Apparently, Dwayne had remembered what Herbert had said and had spoken to Carrie.

  Good.

  “You gonna do it?” he asked, looking at his hands.

  “Well, Mr. Stegall, over at Crafty Casket Company says the entry fee still has to be paid, but they are holding the spot for me if I want it. I only have to come up with the five hundred dollars and the best casket spray.”

  “Damn,” I whistled. “That’s pretty steep for a contest entry, isn’t it?”

  Dwayne interrupted before she could answer. “Not compared to what you can win. Bubba told me the entries were all being pooled to create the big winning pot.”

  She nodded, hefting a large bag of potting soil. “Too heavy. Dwayne, would you be a dear?”

  He picked it up and put it on the table. “Yes, that’s what I was told as well,” she continued. “The winnings were close to fifteen thousand dollars. I’m thinking of asking my father for the money to get in. I think Bubba would have wanted us to.”

  Dwayne crossed his arms. “He thought he had someone to invest in this deal. I really thought the fee had been paid.”

  “I didn’t even know you knew about the contest. So, who was the investor?” I asked.

  “Everett Johnson. The bartender at the club we hang out at sometimes. Well, used to.”

  “What makes you think Johnson paid up?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I just figured since Bubba had been talkin’ the contest up and Johnson was interested...um...well, interested in Bubba...”

  Carrie looked pained. “Bubba was not gay. I keep telling you so.”

  Dwayne looked at his feet. “Ev might not have known it. Bubba worked hard to make people believe he could be straight.”

  I nodded and watched as Carrie took her anger out on the soil bag. The sharp shears she handled made me swallow hard. Having a gay brother didn’t appeal to her apparently, and in that case, she had no idea Rafe and Bubba were an item. And no way, no how, was I going to enlighten her.

  She stopped and grabbed a scoop, handing it to me. “Here. I have to go. Make a
potted plant out of this and send it the funeral home.”

  “What kind of plant?”

  “A peace lily. It’s for Bubba.”

  I stared at her as she straightened her skirt and started down the steps. Over her shoulder she gave me a long look. “Make the card read from my father, Donald Thames. And whatever you all do, don’t ever say the ‘G’ word around my daddy.”

  ###

  After she left, we sat around the floral shop answering phones and telling people the shop was closed for a few days. The locals who knew about Bubba’s murder just wanted to offer condolences. We directed their offers of food and support to the family.

  I questioned Dwayne about Bubba since I knew little about him and my curiosity had been piqued by Carrie’s angry reaction.

  “He was really cool; you know what I’m sayin’? Always tryin’ to make a dollar with everything he did.”

  “A real entrepreneur, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, wistfully. “And now he’s dead, and that sucks more than a vampire.”

  I thought about those hefty deposits in Rafe’s account. “Did Bubba ever talk to you about hiring or bringing in a partner?”

  “For his business? Naw. He was a loner sort, a little scam artist, too. He could sell vacuums door-to-door and succeed.”

  “What about Rafe? If they were in a relationship, would Bubba ever hire him to help here?”

  Dwayne shrugged. “Rafe didn’t get into work, man. He liked to sleep too much. I was surprised to hear he got that gig at Bird’s.”

  I persisted. “How so? I mean he had to work to eat, right? Why not work for Bubba?”

  “Because he had a job. He worked at Bird’s. I told you that already. Listen, if you’re tryin’ to figure out how Rafe could have gotten in here and done the deed, stop it. I can’t stand the thought of what happened in here. It gives me the cold chills.”

  I started to tell him what I knew about Rafe, but the phone rang again, and we got busy. When things settled down, I went to make the plant Carrie had requested, and as I worked, wondered if she could have killed her brother over his choice of romantic interests. She had the most to gain, as she now seemed in control of Bubba’s small fortune. I shivered as I gingerly picked up the shears and moved them to a safer location.