“You should get a nice price for this room,” he said, looking around. “It has its own bath, and this little sitting area is a good addition. It’s larger than your room, daughter; don’t you want it?”
Daughter? I frowned. Addressing me as such seemed rather formal, but his tone was kind, almost tender. “No. I like being able to see the front drive as well as the garden from my windows.”
“I’d like to name each room. You know, the Green Room, Blue Room, but more inventive. Otherwise, we’ll have to identify them by number, and that seems too much like a hotel.”
“Good idea,” I said absently. Who could I talk to about Claire? Dana was my most likely candidate. She’d always struck me as being gabby. I broke into Dad’s commentary on the wonders of polyurethane. “I have to run an errand.”
His face creased with a frown. “I thought we were going to make plans.”
“Write down your ideas, and we’ll go over them later. I won’t be gone long.”
“I could go with you, and we’ll talk in the car.”
“That would be nice, but you need time to get a feel for each room.”
“True. True,” he said, eyeing a crack in the ceiling like a doctor contemplating a seriously ill patient. “We’ve got a tough road ahead of us. These cracks could stem from a structural difficulty. A quick cosmetic cover-up will only hide the problem. What we want is long-term repairs.”
He patted my shoulder awkwardly. “If that’s the case, we’re looking at a hefty chunk of cash. It’s a good thing your old dad is here.”
He looked at me expectantly, but again I couldn’t say what he wanted to hear. So I teased him. “You’ll have so much to oversee, you’ll wish you were still in Texas.”
“Won’t happen, daughter.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “You go do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I have to hunt up a measuring tape and some paper and a pencil.”
“DeeDee can get whatever you need. I’ll see you later.”
I hurried downstairs, stopping in the kitchen to give DeeDee a brief explanation of what my father was up to. “Keep an eye on him. I don’t want him climbing any ladders.” I took off down the hall.
From the kitchen doorway, DeeDee called after me. “Who’s k-keeping an eye on you?”
I halted my retreat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve s-seen that look. You might as w-well have a sh-shovel in your h-hand. You’re d-digging for information on that m-murder.”
Shovel—Spade.
Digging? Was that what Oliver had been trying to tell me? That I needed to dig for information? Claire had been murdered after Oliver had passed away. What had been on the dying man’s mind?
“I’ll see you later,” I said, going out the door.
* * *
Dana lived on Mossy Avenue. I hadn’t taken time to look up a house number, but I hoped her catering van would be parked in plain sight at the curb. Luck was with me. The van was in the garage, but the door was up. On the concrete pad, a man tinkered with a lawn mower. I parked and got out of my car.
“Hi,” I said, coming up the drive. “Is Dana home?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Go around back and knock on the door. Step light,” he warned. “She has cakes in the oven.”
I nodded and took the well-worn path around the side of the garage. I lifted the gate latch on a chain-link fence and stepped into the backyard. The front of the house had been bland, without personality. Here the place came alive. An aboveground pool dominated the area with a number of brightly colored deck chairs that invited a relaxing break from a hectic schedule. A gas grill stood near a picnic table covered with a red-checkered cloth. A couple of glasses and an almost empty pitcher of what looked like lemonade had attracted a swarm of insects. Flies buzzed happily as they sipped the nectar. The air smelled of grilled meat, chlorine, and some profound baking going on nearby.
I rapped on the screen door.
“You don’t have to knock, Jonah,” said Dana over her shoulder. “Just don’t come clopping in here and make my cakes fall.”
“It’s me, Dana.”
She whirled from the sink, soapsuds dripping off her hands. “Bretta? You startled me.” She tiptoed across the floor and opened the door. “Come in, but walk easy. I’ve got my first batch of wedding cakes in the oven.”
“Getting a head start?”
“With so much to do, I have to. Once these have cooled, I’ll freeze them. No one will know they’re eating week-old cake.” A look of horror crossed her plump face. “Don’t tell Evelyn. If she knows I’m doing this, she’ll throw a fit. I’ll be baking the day before the ceremony.”
“My lips are sealed.”
She pointed to a chair. “Have a seat. I can use a break. I’ll fix us a glass of lemonade.” She glanced out the window at the picnic table. “Oops. I forgot to bring in the pitcher. How about iced tea instead?”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I’m not staying long.”
Dana bustled around, brewing tea, filling two glasses with ice cubes. The legs of her blue jeans were dusted with flour, and her face was flushed from the heat that radiated from the dual stack ovens. The kitchen had been remodeled to accommodate her catering business. The refrigerator was monstrous. Mixing bowls were oversized, as were the pots and kettles that hung from hooks above an island.
By leaning back in my chair I could see into a formal living room that impressed me as being more froufrou than comfortable. The furniture was Queen Anne chairs and a sofa that looked as inviting as an oak log. Table lamps had shades trimmed in beaded fringe. The farthest corner caught my eye. A megaphone imprinted with the River City Royals’ logo sat on a shelf. Near it were framed snapshots of Dana in a cheerleader’s uniform. Blue and gold pom-poms clashed with the room’s formal decor, so I assumed this corner meant more to her than maintaining a fashionable theme.
“I thought my daughter and her family were coming for dinner,” said Dana, “but Kyle, her youngest, has the sniffles, so it was just me and Jonah. I put steaks on the grill. It’s an easy meal, and his favorite. He’ll mow the yard, and I can clean up my mess. Tomorrow I’ll bake another batch of cakes. And the next day another. By Wednesday, I should have them done, and I’ll start on the main course menu.”
She glanced at the refrigerator. “The shrimp arrived by special courier yesterday. I’ve cleaned them, and they’re marinating. I’ll drain them this evening and put them in the freezer.” She shook her head. “Evelyn wants me to deep-fry them at the park. She’s even brought me a special cooker. Everything has to be freshly prepared. I’ve never seen anything like it, or her, for that matter.”
“She has specific ideas, that’s for sure.”
“What about the flowers? Can you do any early preparations?”
“Not a lot. We’ll have the containers ready by cutting the floral foam to size. The bows for the corsages are made. But working with flowers is like working with food. Both are perishable, and it’s the last-minute rush that’s a killer.”
It was a sly way to introduce the subject of my visit, and I hoped it would jar Dana’s preoccupation with the wedding. The word had the desired effect. Apparently, Claire’s death wasn’t far from her thoughts. Dana’s hand trembled as she set my glass of tea on the table. Liquid slopped over the rim.
She grabbed a paper towel to mop up the spill. “I still can’t believe Claire’s dead. If she’d been sick—”
“But she wasn’t.”
Dana pulled out a chair and sat down. “Maybe it was a random killing,” she offered hopefully. “The paper didn’t mention a motive.”
“It’s a safe bet she was killed for a reason. She knew something. You heard her in the park. She had a ‘hot piece of gossip’ she wanted confirmed. How many people do you think she teased like that?”
Dana propped her elbow on the table and cupped her chin. “Knowing Claire, it could have been her entire clientele or no one. When I saw her green hair, I should have suspected someth
ing was going on.”
“Because it was green?”
“Not so much the color but that her hair had been changed. If Claire was upset or out to prove a point, she’d try a new style, but I’ve never known her to go for weird colors.”
“Do you think the green was significant?”
“I doubt it. This hair business goes back to when we were sophomores in high school. Claire had the most beautiful auburn hair. It hung to her waist in gorgeous waves. When she discovered girls weren’t allowed to take shop class, and boys weren’t allowed to take home ec, she went to the administration and told them they were discriminating. According to Claire, young men needed to know how to cook and sew on a button. Young women needed to know how to change a tire, use a hammer, or anything else that would make them self-sufficient.”
“That’s sensible. Did she win them over?”
“No, and Claire was furious. In retaliation she whacked off her hair and took to wearing boys’ jeans. From the back she looked like a guy.”
“And how was that supposed to help convince the administration to change their school policy?”
“Remember, I’m talking about the sixties. Radical actions were the order of the day. Free love was the rage, along with bell-bottoms, miniskirts, and Beatles’ haircuts. On a more dramatic note, we had the Vietnam conflict, riots, and demonstrations. Acid, not antacid, was in heavy use, and yet we were a naive society. We still thought we could save the world.”
“I suppose that’s true. I was about eight or ten, but I remember the hype. Save the rain forests. Save the whales. Feminist groups. Power to the people. Flower power.” I grinned at Dana. “I must have been influenced even at that tender age.” I expected her to give me an answering smile, but she stumbled to her feet.
“My cakes are about ready to come out of the oven.”
As if on cue, the buzzer sounded. She waited for me to move, and when I didn’t, she stepped to the ovens. She turned off the timer, twisted a couple of dials, and then opened the doors. A rush of hot, vanilla-flavored air wafted out.
Instead of reaching for a hot pad, Dana faced me. “I have work to do. You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Had you talked to Claire recently?”
“Just on the phone, the night before I saw her in the park.”
“And she didn’t say anything about knowing something that might have devastating results?”
“If she had, I’d have warned her to be careful. Claire wasn’t always cautious. She wanted to right wrongs, to compensate for any injustice, and she was good at it. She had this built-in radar. She instinctively zoned in on wickedness.”
“Her radar must have hit a snafu on the day she was murdered. Or maybe she thought she had the upper hand?”
Dana’s face crumpled. “Please. I don’t want to think about Claire anymore. I just want to do my part of this wedding and have it over.”
I could relate to that. I stood up. “Did you know any of Claire’s husbands?”
“Just Howie. He’s in prison.”
“Howie Alexander?”
“Oh no. Claire always took back her maiden name after each of her divorces. Howie’s last name is Mitchell. His mother is my granddaughter’s Girl Scout leader.”
Mrs. Mitchell. The name was another thread in the tapestry of people who had a connection to Claire. I thanked Dana for the iced tea and left the house. I drove to the flower shop, where a quick hunt in the phone book revealed eight River City residents with the name Mitchell. I dialed the first three numbers without success but hit a bull’s-eye on number four.
“Mrs. Mitchell?” I asked hopefully. “Are you a Girl Scout leader?”
“Yes, I am. What can I help you with?”
“My name is Bretta Solomon. We’ve never met, but I’d like to stop by your house and talk with you.”
“Is this about one of my Scouts?”
“No, ma’am.” She sounded nice, and I wasn’t going to lie. “Your son, Howie, called me today. He said some rather … uh … unpleasant things.”
Her voice trembled. “My son is thirty-seven years old. I’m not responsible for his actions or what comes out of his mouth.”
“I understand, but I’d still like to speak with you. I can be there in about five minutes.”
Mrs. Mitchell’s tone lacked enthusiasm. “Very well. You have my address?”
I told her I did, and we hung up. Before I left the flower shop, I grabbed a bouquet from the cooler. I’d made the arrangement several days ago and had included three lavender roses. The blooms were past the bud stage, which meant salability was chancy at best. But the roses still had a wonderful fragrance. Since I have a hard time tossing discards into the Dumpster, I hoped Mrs. Mitchell would appreciate the unexpected gift, and cooperate.
What I wanted from her still wasn’t clear in my mind when I rang her doorbell some eight minutes later. The house was small—a two-bedroom bungalow dating back to the early fifties. The windows next to the porch were open. A breeze filled the lacy curtains. When they billowed away from the screen, I got the impression of a tidy living room with several silk arrangements and a floral-patterned sofa.
Good, she likes flowers, I thought to myself as I pressed the bell again. This time the chimes set off a riotous barking from inside. The timbre wasn’t the annoying yip-yip of a lapdog but a deep woof-woof that carried the threat of bodily harm.
I shuffled my feet. I’d done enough delivering for the shop to have an aversion to house dogs. Most guarded their property with aggression. Lew kept a big stick in the van and carried pepper spray with him at all times. I had neither.
The door opened a crack. A pair of brown eyes peered at me through the screen door.
“Mrs. Mitchell?” I shouted above the din. From what I could see of her, she was about my height with dyed brown hair and exaggerated penciled eyebrows. One was arched higher than the other, giving her a perpetual look of skepticism.
She nodded primly, then turned and bellowed, “Down, Aristotle. Stop that racket or I won’t give you a puppy morsel.”
Puppy? The dog sounded like a mammoth canine with years of experience ripping flesh from bones. Instead of quieting the animal, her command provoked him. He hit the wooden door panel with a solid thud. The impact slammed the door in my face. I should’ve taken it as an omen to leave. I leaned closer to the windows, listening to Mrs. Mitchell admonish her pet for having “a nasty temper tantrum.”
After another moment, she wrestled the door open to a six-inch gap. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. He usually isn’t so—” She saw the flowers in my hand. “Oh. That’s the problem. He hates anything with a floral scent. Goes positively berserk when he smells roses.”
Raising my voice, I said, “I’ll put the flowers in my car.”
“But you’ll still have their scent on you. I can’t wear perfume. I can’t spray a room deodorizer, but he’s as docile as you please when we go for a”—she quickly spelled—“w-a-l-k.”
The barking had quieted, but deep menacing growls raised the hairs on my neck. “I’d really like to speak with you. Could you step outside for a minute or two?”
She glanced down. “I don’t know. He seems quieter now. I can try.”
She opened the wooden panel farther, giving me my first glimpse of the dog. His black-and-brown head was massive. His eyes were filled with evil intent. Lips curled back to expose fangs that dripped doggie drool. While I gave him a quick appraisal, he did the same to me. His expression seemed to say, “A snack is only a screen door away.”
I shuffled the bouquet behind my back, then checked to see if he was fooled. Aristotle took a step closer and dropped to a crouch. I tore my gaze away from him and suggested to Mrs. Mitchell that we go to a restaurant. I added my own personal incentive: “I’d be glad to buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.”
Her eyes brightened at my suggestion. “I don’t get invited to go out—”
The moment she said “ou
t” Aristotle leaped at the screen. My high-pitched squawk of alarm intensified to an unadulterated scream of terror. The flimsy screen gave way. Aristotle’s head and shoulders were suddenly on my side of the door. Snapping and snarling, he lunged, trying to widen the opening. His sharp toenails scratched and clawed the aluminum panel. He wanted a piece of me, and I wasn’t about to accommodate.
I heaved the bouquet, hit him square on the head, and ran lickity-split to my car. I didn’t have the notion that I was being chased, and once I had the door open, I glared at the house. Aristotle had made his escape, but he’d lost interest in me. He chomped on the flowers like they were a carcass to be devoured. Mrs. Mitchell stared down at her pet, shaking her head.
She looked so forlorn I was moved to say, “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She gestured to the dog. “He’s named after the Greek philosopher Aristotle, who believed that reason and logic are what separates humans from animals. My pet has a high intelligence, and if my son hadn’t mistreated him, I think I could have taught him rudimentary logic.”
“Mistreated him how?”
“Howie doused Aristotle with perfume, then tied him to a rosebush without food or water. I was gone for three days. By the time I got home, Aristotle was dehydrated and almost starved. The chain had gotten tangled with the brambles, driving the thorns into his skin. That happened five years ago, but if I run my hand over his shoulders, I can still feel the scars under his fur.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, staring at the dog with newfound understanding. If Aristotle had gone after his human tormentor with the same malice as was shown him, he’d have been put to sleep. With no other recourse, the dog had sought revenge by transferring his hate to an inanimate object—the rose.
Mrs. Mitchell said, “That emotional trauma rules his life. When he smells any floral scent, he proves his namesake’s theory. Logic and reason are beyond his capabilities.”
I might have sympathy for the dog, but not an all-out forgiveness for his scaring me half to death. I ducked to get into my car, but Mrs. Mitchell’s next words stopped me.
“I don’t know what Howie said to you. It wouldn’t matter if I did. I can’t explain him. I’ve often thought my being involved in Scouts should’ve given me a special wisdom when dealing with youths, but that could be hubris.”
A Deadly Bouquet Page 8
