When he answered the phone, I’d simply said I was without a car and needed a ride home from the hospital. He’d promptly replied, “I’m on my way.” Twenty minutes after my call, he rolled into the parking lot.
Leaning across the seat of his new blue truck, he pushed open the door. “Are you all right, daughter?” The dome light accentuated the wrinkles on his face and the concern in his eyes.
“I’ll be fine once I get into bed. I’m exhausted.” I started to climb in but saw my purse on the seat. I touched the familiar bag. “Where did you get this?”
“A deputy brought it out to the house. He said there had been an accident, but he assured me you were all right. I’ve been waiting by the phone, hoping you’d call.”
“Accident?” I muttered, as I settled on the seat. I slammed the door with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an accident. We were rammed by an SUV.”
“Rammed?” My father studied me. “Why would anyone ram your car?” His eyes narrowed. “We? Who was with you?”
“I was with Bailey in his truck.”
“Ah,” said my father. “That would explain it. I’m sure Bailey Monroe has made plenty of enemies over the years. A drug dealer who’s been brought to justice would have irate customers wanting to even the score.”
I winced at my father’s choice of words—“even the score.” They brought back happy memories of the first part of my evening with Bailey. The last half had been disastrous.
As we pulled away from the hospital, I said, “Please, take me by the flower shop. Since I have my purse and keys, I’ll drive my car home. I’ll need it in the morning.”
“You’re still shaky. Tomorrow you’ll be stiff and sore. I’d be glad to take you to work.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather have my car so I can come and go as I please.”
“Always the self-sufficient one, aren’t you?” Under his breath, he added, “You’re so like your mother—intimidating and damned frustrating.”
I stared at him. “What do I do that intimidates you? More important, what did she do?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“How did Mom intimidate you? I don’t remember any fights. There weren’t shouting matches. You simply took off. Why?”
“How is Bailey? Was he hurt?”
“Talk about frustrating. You could give lessons on the subject.” I shook my head. “Bailey is in critical condition. He’s in a coma.”
We stopped for a red light, and I felt my father’s steady gaze on me. “So your heart’s bruised as well as your body,” he said quietly.
My chin shot up. “My heart? Good heavens, no. Bailey is just a friend.”
The light turned green. Dad didn’t comment, just pressed on the gas pedal. We rode in silence. The lie I’d told hung in the air, begging me to recant it. But I couldn’t find the courage to speak about my feelings for Bailey to my father. The subject was too personal.
After a moment, Dad said, “When I was in Texas and you were here in Missouri, I took comfort in the fact that the same sun that shone on you was shining on me. I wanted to see you. I missed you until the ache in my heart was almost too much to bear, but I stayed away. Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.”
I turned to him, relieved at the subject change. “What was kind about leaving me?”
“I’m not talking about the leaving. I’m talking about the staying away.”
“I don’t get it. Either explain what you mean or drop it.”
“I knew when I left without saying good-bye your heart would be broken, but I also knew it would mend. Time does that, you know. It heals all wounds.”
I hugged my purse to keep from trembling. “That’s a crock.”
“No it isn’t, Bretta. You had your mother. You had school and other activities to keep you occupied. As time passed, the hole I’d left in your life would grow smaller and smaller.”
I fought tears that were close to the surface. “What you don’t understand is that you left me with all the reminders. You went on to a new and different life. But everywhere I looked, I expected to see you. Coming in the back door. Sitting at the dinner table. Holding me on your lap and reading me a story. Once I was older, I’d think about conversations we’d had. I kept looking for something I’d said that would keep you from picking up a phone and calling me.”
“But if I’d called you, it would have renewed our relationship.”
“But that’s what I wanted. That’s what I needed.”
“I know. But it wasn’t something I could handle. I couldn’t chance talking to you. I couldn’t see you. The sight of your face, the way your smile lights your eyes—” He sighed. “I would’ve been back in your life—and your mother’s.”
We’d come full circle. I still didn’t understand, and I was too tired to pursue it. A block later, I pointed to the alley entrance. “Turn there,” I said, searching in my purse for the keys. They always settled to the bottom.
“Oh, my Lord,” said Dad. He slammed on the brakes.
I pitched forward, and the seat belt dug into my bruised shoulder. I moaned at the pain. “Dad, that hurt,” I said, frowning at him. He stared straight ahead.
I followed his gaze and caught my breath. My car had been vandalized. Tires slashed. Windows smashed. Fenders battered.
Dad’s theory about a drug-related hit was shot all to hell when his truck’s headlights picked out the writing on the driver’s side of my car.
“STRIKE 2!”
Chapter Thirteen
My father got a flashlight out of his truck, and while we waited for the police to arrive, I inspected my car. I was careful to not get very close, but I couldn’t stop staring. I’d been too upset since the SUV rammed Bailey’s truck to give thought as to why it had happened. My father’s explanation had sounded viable, but to realize I’d been the intended victim was mind-blowing.
The devastation to my car made me heartsick, but the message painted on the driver’s door panel shocked me. “STRIKE 2!” The unwritten words crept through my brain—strike three, and I was out.
I played the beam over the interior, wondering if I’d left anything in the front seat that I might need. Amid the twinkling bits of glass, I saw something lying near the accelerator. Leaning closer, I stared at a small bundle of flowers and leaves tied together with a piece of orange twine.
“Look at that,” I said.
My father took a step forward and peered over my shoulder. “What is it?”
“It’s a tussie-mussie. It’s a custom that dates back to pre-Victorian times. From what I’ve read, people didn’t bathe regularly, so the women carried these little bouquets made from fragrant leaves and flowers to mask body odor. In later years the language of flowers evolved, and blooms and foliage were given individual meanings. The tussie-mussie was sent to a special person to convey a message of love. Each leaf, each flower, even the way the blooms were placed in the bouquet had a meaning, and they were all tied together with a piece of twine.”
I frowned. “But I doubt this combination means I have an admirer. That dried white rose represents death. I wish I had a camera. Someone more knowledgeable than me will have to identify each leaf and the placement of the flowers.”
“Why don’t we take it? The police won’t know anything about a tussie-mussie, and you’ll have—”
“I can’t do that. It’s evidence—and important, too.”
“Why so important?”
“Not just anyone would know how to construct a tussie-mussie. That in itself is a clue.”
“I don’t have a camera, daughter, but I could make a sketch.”
“There isn’t time—” I stopped speaking when he ignored me and went to his truck. He came back with a tablet and a pencil. With swift, sure strokes, he etched in the general outline of the nosegay. When I saw the bouquet come to life under his expert hand, I leaned closer to the car so I could better aim the flashlight at the floorboards.
“Make each leaf as accurate
as possible, Dad. Isn’t that a milkweed bloom in the center?”
“Could be,” he mumbled, leaning through the broken window. “Smells funny in here. Pungent.”
I sniffed, but a squad car pulling into the alley drew my attention. “Are you about done?” I asked.
“Need a few more minutes.” He took the flashlight out of my hand and made another quick study of the tussie-mussie before he turned off the light. As he stuck the flashlight into his back pocket, he said, “Stall.”
“How?”
“Hysteria might work.”
I rolled my eyes, but moved away from my car and down the alley. Before the officer had climbed from behind the steering wheel, I was wringing my hands. I put on a good act—or was it an act? The fear and confusion came awfully damned easy.
* * *
Last night I’d said a sad farewell to my car as I watched the police tow it away. This morning I was behind the wheel of a cherry-red SUV, not unlike the one that had plowed into Bailey’s truck.
When my father had offered to arrange transportation, I’d gritted my teeth and accepted. Only this time I’d given him a description of what I wanted. I didn’t know motor size, make, or model, but I knew big and red.
My new set of wheels outclassed me in the color department. I was dressed in black. Oliver’s funeral was at ten o’clock, and I planned to attend. But first, I made a trip to the hospital. I asked at the desk if Bailey was conscious and learned that his condition was unchanged.
My mood was glum when I arrived at the flower shop. Lois had the doors unlocked, the lights on. I didn’t have to ask how she was doing. She gave me a quick grin as she carried a bucket of flowers to her workstation.
“I’ve taken another order for Oliver’s service,” she said. “The bouquet is to be in a large basket, so I guess you won’t be able to haul it in your car. Lew can—”
“I’ve got plenty of room.”
Lew strolled in. “Who owns that hunk of hot metal in the alley?”
I waved a hand. “Dad bought it after my car was vandalized last night.”
Lois looked from me to the back door. “I wanna see what you’re driving, then you can tell the tale.”
“I don’t have much time, and neither do you if you’re going to do an arrangement for Oliver.”
She nodded and took off. In a flash, she was back. “Wow. Why didn’t you get a tank? That thing’s as broad as it is long. Are the highways wide enough?”
I admitted that it was huge but that it drove like a dream. “Or a nightmare, if the wrong person is behind the wheel. I don’t want to go into detail, but Bailey and I were rammed last night by an SUV that looked like the one in the alley. His truck went over Make Out Point with us in it. I had my seat belt on, and I’m fine. Bailey is still in a coma.”
Accustomed to the task, Lois’s hands flew as she designed the bouquet. “Rammed. SUV. Make Out Point. You’re fine, but Bailey is in a coma.” She tossed the order form at Lew. “Type the sympathy card.” She handed me a bolt of yellow ribbon. “Make me a bow.”
I drew the satin ribbon through my fingers. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Are you kidding? I’m about to explode with questions. You didn’t mention how or why your car was vandalized.” She shot me a frown. “Though, since I know you so well, the why is obvious. You’ve been poking into that beautician’s murder.”
“The few inquiries I’ve made hardly warrant the type of destruction that was done to my car. It was bashed and battered.”
“By a vengeful hand,” said Lew.
I didn’t comment, but folded the ribbon back and forth, creating even loops. “Vengeful hand” was an apt description.
Right now the big question was—did I back off? My shifting emotions ran as hot as my new car and as cold as a well-digger’s ass. Anger surged through me each time I thought about the devastation to my car, but the thought of Bailey lying in that hospital bed because I’d been the intended victim was enough to freeze me in my tracks.
I reached for a pair of scissors and saw Lois watching me. “You aren’t telling us everything, are you?” she said.
“You’ve been pretty tight-lipped yourself. How’s it going? Are you ready to talk about Kayla’s problem?”
Lois gave me an exasperated glare at the subject change, but relented and spilled the beans. “Raising children can be rewarding, but it’s also nerve-racking.” She cut the stalk of a yellow gladiolus. “I’m sorry for my sister. Kayla is a brat, but now she’s my responsibility, and I’m not going to shirk it.”
“Send her back to Cincinnati,” I said.
Lois shrugged. “I could, but I know I can make a difference in her life. I just have to find the right approach.”
“What did she do?”
“My niece and two of her new friends thought it would be a great joke if they put a mud turtle in the principal’s aquarium.” She poked the gladiolus stem into the floral foam. “Cute, huh?”
“Where’d they find the turtle?”
“Does it matter? Suffice it to say they picked up the nasty thing on some road. It had crud and leeches on it, but my finicky niece put it in her backpack and took it to school.”
“So?” said Lew. “What’s the big deal?”
I ignored him to ask, “Was it a large aquarium?”
“Fifty gallons.”
“Expensive fish?”
“Oh, yeah, to the tune of three thousand dollars.”
“I still don’t see the problem,” said Lew, typing fast and furious. “A turtle can live in water, especially if it’s a mud turtle.”
A clueless Lew was awesome. If we’d had more time, I’d have played on his ignorance, but Oliver’s funeral was in forty-five minutes. However, I couldn’t resist putting Lew’s own brand of pomposity in my tone: “A mud turtle can live in water, but it has to eat. I’m guessing that old reptile had a rich banquet.”
“Oh,” said Lew as understanding dawned. He rolled the card out of the typewriter and carried it to the worktable. “You say this was the principal’s aquarium?”
Lois took the finished bow from me and attached it to her arrangement. She plucked the card from Lew’s fingers and pinned it to the ribbon. “That’s what I said. The principal is thoroughly pissed. Two of the fish she raised herself. She’d had the others for ages, and they were like family to her. I wanted to tell her to get a life, but figured that wouldn’t help the situation. We’ve been waiting for her to decide the girls’ punishment.”
I picked up my purse and removed the keys. “Now you know?”
Lois stood back and stared at the arrangement. “I’m done. Does it look okay? My mind wasn’t on what I was doing.”
I assured her the bouquet was fine, and then asked, “So? Tell us what’s going to happen to Kayla, but make it the condensed version.”
“During the next school year each girl has to earn a thousand dollars without a parent or guardian contributing so much as a dime. The money, once it’s earned, is to be donated to an animal rights organization.”
“That’s not so bad,” said Lew.
I agreed and picked up the bouquet, ready to head out the door.
“There’s more,” said Lois.
I stopped and waited.
“When school begins this fall, Kayla and her friends will start the year with ISS—in-school suspension—for the first six Saturdays.” Lois sighed. “It could have been worse. The principal had the right to expel the girls, which would’ve gone on their permanent records.”
* * *
Oliver was laid to rest in a small country cemetery that was about eight miles from where he’d lived on Catalpa Road. It was a beautiful day to be alive, and I silently gave thanks, sending up an additional prayer for Bailey’s speedy recovery.
Across the road, prairie grass waved in the breeze like an undulating tide. A wrought iron fence enclosed the cemetery. Cedar and pine trees sparked the hope that life was everlasting. Carrying the bouquet Lois had
made, I dodged marble markers, crossing the uneven ground to Oliver’s grave site, where I put the flowers next to the casket.
The turnout for the service was small—thirty adults and his two grandchildren. The minister was frail and had to be helped across the rough ground to the grave. His hands trembled, but his voice was firm.
“From Second Corinthians, chapter nine, verse six, the Good Book says, ‘But this I say, He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.’”
The minister closed his Bible and lifted his head. “We have evidence of Oliver’s caring for others right here in this cemetery. He kept the graves mowed and trimmed, without pay. He planted trees and flowers in memory of those who have gone before us. Oliver sowed bountifully, but it us who have reaped the benefit of his compassion, his love, and his charity. Let’s bow our heads in prayer.”
Eddie seemed composed and in control during the brief eulogy. Once the final prayer was said, his jaws clenched. I’d been watching him because I knew what was coming. Oliver’s spade leaned against a tree.
The casket was lowered. The vault lid moved into place. Eddie reached for the spade, taking the handle in a firm grip. For a second or so, he stood with his head bowed. It was a poignant moment—not a dry eye among us.
The funeral director moved a piece of green carpet aside, exposing the soil that had been taken from the grave. Eddie stooped and picked up a clod. As he crumbled the lump, he shook his head. “This stuff won’t grow nothing.” He sighed. “But then I guess it don’t have to.”
He stood and plunged the spade into the dirt, then gently sprinkled the dirt over the vault. “Bye, Dad,” he said quietly before turning to his family. “Son?” he asked, holding out the spade.
Both of Oliver’s grandchildren took a turn, as did Molly, Eddie’s wife. Then he offered the spade to me. “Bretta?”
I didn’t hesitate. My fingers wrapped around the wooden handle. It hurt to move my shoulders when I lifted the scoop of soil. In the past, I’d heard the comment about “planting” someone and thought it unfeeling and crude. But in this case, planting Oliver was exactly what we were doing—as an act of love and respect for a man who’d earned both.
A Deadly Bouquet Page 12
