Once he looked up at the crowd. When his eyes passed in my direction, his smile faltered and his skin blanched. Yes, he’d recognized me. No, apparently he hadn’t known I would be here. He managed to refocus his smile on the happy couple.
My brain played my options:
I could act dumb. Pretend I didn’t recognize him. I wasn’t sure how to explain the glaring. Maybe that unfortunate past incident with a friar?
Or I could leave. Now. While he was busy and before darkness fully settled, trapping me overnight in the encampment.
Or I could confront him. Demand an answer to those questions I’ve had throughout the years. But did I really want answers? Or just the chance to ask the questions.
Or I could . . .
Before I could plan another response, the wedding ended with a kiss and a shout. The bride and groom picked up the handles of a large covered basket, and opened the lid. Two white doves took off flapping.
One headed straight for the bride’s hair. Andrea screamed and ducked, then tried to swat it away and stepped back. Too far. Her arms windmilled as she tried to catch her balance. She failed to recover and instead tumbled off the makeshift platform.
The other dove swooped in a wide, low circle over the rest of the crowd, who squealed and shouted, and more than one hit the dirt. Then the bird gained altitude and fluttered off into the sky.
A few people applauded, then the shadow of a large hawk zoomed over the guests. I was afraid to look. An “oooh” came from the crowd, then a collective gasp, and people winced and turned away.
But then friends and family gathered to congratulate the happy couple . . . after they helped Andrea out of the dirt.
The friar turned on his heels and strode quickly into the woods.
Without another thought, I hopped off the wall and ran after him, grateful I didn’t have to worry about that long dress catching in the brush.
He, however, wore long clerical robes, and I caught up to him while he leaned against a tree, out of breath, trying to dislodge his vestments from a prickly bush.
As an angry teenager, I had penned long speeches of what I would say to my father if I ever saw him again. The gist of all these missives was that I’d been getting along fine without him and didn’t need him now. Not that that was entirely true, I later considered, or I’d never have written them.
But none of those words were coming, so I stared at him, both of us out of breath from the exertion.
“Audrey?” he finally managed.
I nodded and brushed an unwelcomed tear from the corner of my eye.
“I must say, you’ve grown into a lovely young woman.”
I crossed my arms and looked away into the woods to avoid his gaze. Everything from my throat down to my chest felt heavy, like my lungs were suddenly recast in lead.
“I’m sorry.” He closed the distance between us. “It must be a shock to see me like this. If I knew you were going to be here, I wouldn’t have come.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snapped, looking back into his face in the darkening woods. “Not sorry you walked out of my life. Just sorry you came back.”
“I never meant to walk out of your life. Things just got . . . complicated. And I still haven’t come back. You must understand, I can’t come back. Please, Audrey, I can’t explain it right now, but you need to trust me. Dangerous things are happening here, things I can’t explain. I’m going to have to ask that you pretend you don’t know me.”
“I don’t know you.”
He took a step back. Even I was surprised at the venom my words contained.
“Fair enough,” he said.
“I didn’t mean . . .” I started. But maybe I did mean those words.
He opened his mouth to respond, but just then a scream sounded, coming from the encampment.
“Help, oh, help!” someone cried. “I think he’s dead!”
* * *
No one was dead by the time I arrived, but a man lay on the ground in the middle of a convulsion while people dressed in medieval attire stood in a wide circle around him, some of them holding torches.
“Is there a doctor?” I asked, rushing into the circle. The man writhing in the dust was Barry Brooks, father of the groom.
“No, just an herbalist,” someone said.
“Oh, and we have leeches,” another added. Fat lot of good that was going to do.
Andrea and her groom dropped to their knees next to him. “Dad?” he said.
I crouched on the ground next to the ailing man and managed to get a pulse. It was irregular and racing out of control. His skin felt cool to the touch, but sweat beaded on his forehead. He was conscious only long enough to vomit onto the dusty path.
“When did this start?” I asked.
“Just before the wedding,” Andrea said. “He said he felt a little dizzy.”
“He has high blood pressure,” the younger Brooks said, “if that makes a difference.”
“Did he have anything to eat or drink just before?” I asked.
Andrea shrugged and shook her head.
“He ate some of the stew I made for the wedding feast,” Nick said, leaning in to my ear. “You don’t think it could be tainted, do you? I tried to keep all the ingredients cool. It tasted fine. I ate some myself, and I’m okay.”
“Just . . .” I had a bad feeling about what was happening. “If I were you, I’d keep everyone else away from the stew. Could you do that?”
“Gotcha.” He took off.
“This man needs medical attention immediately.” I pulled out my cell phone, ignoring the tsks and gasps of the encampment, and dialed 911. Within minutes I was talking with a doctor and the dispatcher, describing the symptoms, the limitations of my nursing background, and the remoteness of the location. They were sending a medical rescue helicopter to the nearest road, and the county sheriff was on his way.
I turned to the crowd. “We need to get this man to the road. Any volunteers? I could use a few strong men to carry him and something to put him on.”
The crowd managed to round up a rough-hewn cot and some rope. Then a few of the burly college students, including Darnell, tied Barry Brooks to the makeshift gurney.
“The helicopter will meet you at the road,” I said. “Now hurry.”
They lifted the unconscious Brooks up like pallbearers hoisting a coffin. Hopefully that’s where the analogy would end. But I didn’t like the looks of him.
With one young man holding a torch in front of them, they started trotting off into the woods.
I turned to follow them.
Amber Lee stood in my path. “Where are you going?”
“I should go with them.”
“And do what?” she said. “At that rate, they’ll have him at the road in minutes, and I’m not sure you can keep up with them, especially in the dark. You’ll end up getting lost.”
I looked up, and already the men were out of sight. “You’re right.”
When I turned back to face the crowd, they applauded.
“Great job, Audrey,” Brad called, his video camera hoisted on his shoulder. “I got it all. Just fantastic.”
I could feel the color rush to my face. I turned and paced toward the woods.
I had jumped in out of instinct and need, but now the familiar doubts roiled in my stomach. What if I did something wrong? What if I failed to do something I could have? What if Barry Brooks dies and I could have done something to prevent it? This was why I became a florist and not an RN.
I shivered and crossed my arms against my chest at the advancing cold and darkness, as a thousand and one different courses of action ran through my brain.
Amber Lee laid a hand on my shoulder. “You did a great job. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
I let her pull me into a hug.
Soon
Shelby, Melanie, Opie, and Carol made their way over to join us.
“What was it?” Melanie asked. “Some kind of seizure?”
I gathered them into a tight circle. None of what I would say needed to spread around the camp.
“Was it the food?” Amber Lee asked in a hushed whisper. “Please tell me it didn’t turn. That could mean lawsuits for Nick. He’s catering this whole shindig, you know. I saw the stew. It was in a caldron-type thingy, and he stirred it with a big old paddle, like a witch making a potion.”
“I don’t think it’s food poisoning,” I said. “The symptoms are wrong and way too quick.” I paused as the rotors of the helicopter zoomed over us, rushing Barry Brooks for further medical attention. I let my gaze follow the copter until its lights were no longer visible over the tree line.
“But I heard you tell Nick not to let anyone near the stew,” Amber Lee said.
I scanned the faces, now barely visible in the distant torchlight.
“I think Mr. Brooks was poisoned,” I said.
* * *
Most of the encampment had quieted and huddled around a central bonfire—sans marshmallows and “Kumbaya”—when a bit of a hubbub occurred. Two men in contemporary uniforms emerged into the clearing. And I’d have recognized that sneeze anywhere.
Kane Bixby, Ramble’s chief of police, pulled out a handkerchief. I’d imagine he was as uncomfortable with the allergens in the middle of the woods as he was with the flowers from our shop. While he scrubbed the area under his nose raw, the beam from his high-powered flashlight bobbed over the faces in the crowd. Bixby was joined by Ken Lafferty, the town’s rookie. Recent rumor had it that Ken was moving quickly up in the ranks the old-fashioned way. Nepotism. He was dating Bixby’s only daughter.
Finally Bixby’s flashlight beam found my face. “Audrey Bloom. I should have known.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought the sheriff was coming.” The encampment was outside of Ramble proper, and therefore out of Bixby’s territory. A fact I’d ascertained from Brad, who, in his younger and wilder days, had a few altercations with both jurisdictions.
“He’s coming,” Bixby said. “A bit tied up with the wildfires on the other side of the county.” Bixby glared at our bonfire. “Be careful with that. There’s a burn restriction.”
“We have an exemption,” one of the men said. “In writing. Should I go get it?”
“Foley will want to see it,” Bixby said. “And whatever you do, be careful. With the drought, these woods will go up like a pile of kindling. So, who can tell me what happened here?”
I swear every head in the encampment swung in my direction.
“I should have guessed.” Bixby rolled his eyes and drew me aside. “So what do we got?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the sheriff? If this isn’t your jurisdiction . . .”
“We have reciprocity in emergency situations. Since I was closer, he asked if I’d come check it out, just to secure the crime scene, if we have one. Do we have one?” Bixby was a man of several different temperaments. He could be the no-monkey-business cop sometimes, with a grim expression and those gunmetal gray eyes. At other times, he could be the lead runner in a Mr. Rogers look-alike contest. This is when he was most dangerous, since he could get people to tell him—or do—almost anything. Just to be his neighbor.
“You tell me,” I said. “All I know is that Barry Brooks is pretty sick. Vomiting, irregular heartbeat, chills, convulsions.”
“Is he the only one sick?”
I hazarded a glance around the encampment. What would we do if an epidemic arose? They’d have to call in the National Guard to get all these people out of this remote location. I had to bet the people who programmed this little shindig hadn’t been counting on reproducing the plague for the enjoyment of their guests. Talk about authenticity.
“Thankfully, yes. At least so far.” Although I grew queasier by the moment. “The thought did cross my mind that he might have been poisoned.”
I winced. I truly hated bringing this up, especially without any real evidence. My theory, if Bixby took me seriously, would have ramifications. Nick had prepared the food. I explained about Brooks sampling the stew before the ceremony. “Nick is making sure nobody else has any,” I said.
“I’ll check it out. Before I do, any ideas—if Mr. Brooks was poisoned—who might have had reason to?”
I shrugged. “Not a clue. I just met the man this afternoon. Although I did get the impression that he was not universally liked in the community.”
Bixby’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out to read a text. He shook his head.
“Well, if you’re right, then we might just have a murderer on our hands. Brooks was pronounced dead when he arrived at the hospital.”
Chapter 4
Bixby stood, practically agape, staring at the large cast iron cauldron. He shook his head. “I don’t envy the sheriff at all. That’s going to be hard to log into evidence.”
“There’s more.” Nick pulled a flaming torch from a pole and held it over a wet mark in the dust.
“What happened there?” I asked.
“Mr. Brooks didn’t like the stew, apparently. He threw it on the ground and marched off.” Nick winced. “While threatening to stop payment on the check.” He sighed. “And telling me that I’d never work one of these gigs again.”
“And the stew came directly from the pot?” I asked.
“Before the wedding. He came here demanding to try it. I dished it out for him and handed it to him myself.”
“But you said you had some and are feeling okay? No dizziness?” I pressed my hands against his cheeks, and then his forehead. His skin felt normal, not the sweats or chills that Barry Brooks had experienced.
“No, I feel fine,” he said. “But I’m wondering . . . could something he’d eaten before the stew have affected his taste buds? ’Cause it tasted normal to me. Thrilled, in fact, with how it turned out.”
“What’s in it?” I asked. “Beef? What else?”
“Venison, actually. Let me think. Onions, carrots, cabbage. The old recipe I found called for parsley roots, but I could only find parsnips. Then there’s pears and currants, things they would have had in the Middle Ages. And honey for sweetness.”
“Did you bring all the ingredients in with you?”
“All except the venison. That I . . . locally sourced. And the spices and herbs I got from the camp herbalist. And the water from the main supply.” Nick looked around his work area, as if trying to make sure he had listed all the ingredients.
I gave his hand what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze.
Ken Lafferty leaned over the pot. “It smells good, that’s for sure.”
“Get away from that,” Bixby said. “Until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Oh, right,” Ken said. “Something could be in the air.” He then forcibly exhaled until his eyes were about to pop.
Bixby rolled his eyes.
“Halloo there,” a boisterous voice called as a high-powered lantern swept our location.
Even in the torchlight, I could see Bixby’s posture straightening. Town gossip had it that Bixby didn’t have a high regard for Sheriff Foley.
I’m not sure I disagreed with Bixby. Reports of Foley’s arbitrary appointments and law enforcement policies had circulated all over the county. Justice for all, but not always for his supporters, at least if they were at fault. That went double in an election year. Rumor had it that he’d never pulled over a car with his own bumper sticker on the back.
As for his appearance, the man’s face was almost a perfect square with big ears jutting out from under his mop of silver hair. His head was mounted directly, sans neck, onto a bulbous body trying to bulge out of its too-small uniform. Still, he walked with a purposeful stride and his ever-present whistle, which combined could b
e attributed to either confidence or arrogance.
“What’s up?” Foley said. “And why all these fires?”
“Apparently, they have an exemption from the burn ban,” Bixby said, pulling out the paper that a member of the encampment had provided him earlier.
“Half the county is up in smoke,” Foley said. I couldn’t tell if his face was turning red or just reflecting the glow from the torches. “What fool would issue an exemption?”
“Let’s see . . .” Bixby focused the beam of his flashlight on the paper. “I can’t quite make it out. Oh, yes. I think it says Ronald Foley.”
Sheriff Foley ripped the paper from Bixby’s hands and studied it. He missed the half smile that streaked across Bixby’s face, then disappeared. No doubt these two men did not get along.
“Yeah, well.” Foley shoved the paper into his pocket. “What do we got?”
“Possible homicide, actually,” Bixby said. “Suspected poisoning, unless they discover natural causes. Victim died en route to the hospital. The last thing he ate was that.” He pointed to the caldron.
Foley walked to the pot and took a big sniff. Bixby didn’t correct him, even when Lafferty opened his mouth to say something.
“And there”—Bixby pointed to the ground—“is where he threw what he was eating. Apparently he didn’t like it.”
“Smells good. Anyone else sick?” Foley asked.
“No,” Bixby said.
Foley spun to look around the group. “Anyone else eat any of the stew?”
“I did.” Nick stepped forward.
“And you’re not sick?”
“No, sir.”
Foley turned back to Bixby “And you think it’s poisoning . . . why?”
Bixby gestured to me. “Miss Bloom supplied some basic first aid to the victim. It was her assessment that he might have been poisoned.”
“Are you a doctor?” he asked.
“No, but—”
“A nurse?” He loomed about a foot from my face now.
I could smell the smoke from those wood fires on his hair and clothing. “I had some nursing training, but I never finished—”
Floral Depravity Page 4
