Floral Depravity

by Beverly Allen

  “Seems Brooks was telling people he was CIA.”

  Nick coughed on a mouthful of popcorn. I ran to get him a glass of water. He was rubbing tears out of his eyes when I got back.

  He sipped. “CIA? I don’t suppose there’s any truth to it.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” I said. “How can you check if someone was in the CIA? I mean, I don’t expect there’s a master list on Google somewhere. Maybe Bixby can find out.”

  “So you think the lure of being involved with some kind of James Bond type was his ticket to getting women?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but Brooks might have also used those inferences in other more lucrative ways.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just a half-formed idea,” I said. “But think about it. The CIA is intimidating. No one wants to be on their bad side. So all Brooks needed to do was drop a few hints about what might happen if people stood in his way . . .”

  “And everyone bends over backwards doing what he wants without asking too many questions.” Nick shook his head. “He could have been manipulating employees, competitors. Someone he’d had under his thumb for a lot of years might have wanted out.”

  I couldn’t help the quick inhalation. My father was one of those people feeling the pinch of Brooks’s largest digit.

  “What?” Nick said. “You think of something?”

  I waved it off. “Worth considering.”

  “And how does the good father fit into all of this?”

  “The . . .”

  “The friar. Father Richard.”

  I closed my eyes. There was no way this wasn’t going to become public knowledge at some point in the investigation, so it was better if Nick heard it from me. “He’s my father.”

  “The father is . . .”

  “My father. Confusing enough yet?”

  “Your father father? But his name’s not . . .” The black kitten hopped into Nick’s lap and nosed his water glass. Nick wiped a few spilled drops of water from the front of his tunic, set his glass on the side table, and stroked the kitten behind her ears.

  “He had it changed.”

  “I see.” Nick slid a little closer to me and put an arm around my shoulder.

  “He’s apparently now a bounty hunter. From Texas.”

  “A bounty hunter. Here on business?”

  “He didn’t say. He did say that he didn’t know I was going to be there, and he didn’t know Brooks was going to be there. But I did learn that he used to work for Brooks Pharmaceuticals.”

  Nick tightened his grip on my shoulder. “That’s some coincidence.”

  “He also admitted that he left town because he was accused of embezzling a large amount of money.”

  “But he didn’t.” I wasn’t sure if this was a question or a statement.

  “I’d like to think he didn’t,” I said. “He claimed that Brooks fixed it so that nobody would press charges as long as my dad left home. Ambiguous bad and scary things might happen if he didn’t. Mentioned that whole CIA business.”

  “Oh, Audrey. I’m sorry.” Nick pulled me even closer and kissed the top of my head. I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes.

  “At least now I know why he left.”

  “But not why he came back. And not whether he could have had anything to do with the murder of Barry Brooks.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to believe it, but especially if Brooks framed my dad and ran him out of town, my father has more motive than anybody. And I really don’t know him anymore. Just vague memories.”

  The kitten nosed Nick’s chin, then rested against him like a newborn baby. I guess we were having a group hug.

  “I should get my camera,” I said as the kitten sighed and snuggled against him.

  “What? And destroy my macho reputation in Ramble?” Nick stroked her shiny black coat. “I think now I understand why you haven’t named her.”

  “I just haven’t thought of the right one. There’s time enough for that.”

  Nick looked skeptical.

  “Okay, Sigmund. Why haven’t I named the cat?”

  Nick paused, the humor gone out of his face. He pulled me closer. “Just understand: not everyone leaves.”

  * * *

  Bang, bang, bang!

  I awoke with a start, jumped up, and was chagrinned to find a stream of drool from my mouth to Nick’s tunic. I quickly wiped it while he was stirring.

  His comment about why I hadn’t named the kitten had cut a little too close and had opened the floodgates. I’d practically cried myself to sleep on Nick’s shoulder. Okay, there may have been some cuddling and a few passionate kisses involved.

  I glanced at the mantel clock over the crumbling not-to-code fireplace. Three a.m. Who was banging on my front door?

  While I was frozen in place by a shot of adrenaline not accompanied by coherent thought, Nick went to the door as the banging started up again.

  When he pulled it open, Bixby was standing on my doorstep. He looked at Nick in his damp tunic, then at me, then a silly grin crept across his face. “I hope I haven’t disturbed anything. I saw the light on.”

  “No,” I said. “We were just . . . no.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Come in.”

  Nick stepped back, allowing Bixby to enter, causing all kinds of racket on the squeaky floorboards. When he found a quiet spot, the chief gave Nick’s bare legs a long look.

  “Maybe I should see if my pants are dry,” Nick said, and headed back to the bathroom, squeaking the floorboards all the way.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, wondering just how bedraggled I looked. “At this time of night.” I caught a glimpse in the mirror and discovered the crisscross imprint of Nick’s tunic tie embedded into my cheek. There really is no way of carrying on a conversation with your hand draped casually covering half of your face, but I gave it a shot.

  “I’ve been thinking about this case,” he said with that silly grin still on his face. “Just driving around. Like I said, I saw your light. Look, I’d appreciate if you don’t hide things from me. You should have told me about Richard Wilson.”

  So he came clean after all. “I’m sorry, Chief. I’m sure you can understand why I . . .” Soon everyone would know.

  “I think I do,” he said. “And it’s partly my fault because I didn’t include you in the investigation. I suppose it’s only natural for you to go off on your own and try to prove something. That’s why I’ve decided you’re probably safer fully briefed.”

  “Fully briefed.”

  “We might have saved some time if you’d informed me that Wilson was a bounty hunter.” Bixby shook his head. “In all my years on the force, I’ve never met one—not in real life. He’s not like they make them out on television. All the leather, tattoos, and hair.” Bixby snorted. “Wilson looks more like an accountant or something. Maybe that helps him. Takes people by surprise. Now, I still don’t want him participating in the investigation.”

  “Of course not . . .”

  “But since he’s been there from the beginning, and he must have had some training . . . or at least experience in the field . . .”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then we can eliminate him from the suspect pool and maybe even glean some insight of people’s behavior just prior to the events in question.”

  “But I was there, too, remember. Just prior to the . . . events in question.”

  “Audrey, it’s no time to quibble over such things. I meant a trained observer. And I just said that I would make sure to brief you regularly on what we discover. I hope I can count on you to do the same?”

  Would that include informing Bixby of Wilson’s real identity? And that he once worked for Brooks Pharmaceuticals? And that he had a clear motive for the murder of Barry Brooks?

  Come to thin
k of it, I now had a motive for the murder. Should I voluntarily recuse myself? But that was ridiculous. I knew I didn’t have anything to do with it, so why should I?

  I think my jaw was hanging down, but fortunately Bixby attributed lack of protest to agreement to his arrangement.

  “So tomorrow, you come with Lafferty and me to the encampment. We can talk about anything else you learned on the way. Don’t get me wrong, Audrey. I still think Foley was an idiot for deputizing you, but I’d rather have you safe where I can see you. Besides, you never know what you might stumble into. You seem to have a talent for that.”

  “Why, thanks.” But inside I was already beginning to seethe. Bixby may have had all the training, but I thought I was doing okay getting people to open up to me. And since Bixby was headed out the door, I had until tomorrow to decide how much of what I learned I would share with the chief.

  Chapter 12

  I awoke again, this time to bright sunlight and the smell of bacon, which certainly hadn’t come from my empty refrigerator. And if Nick had sponged it off my neighbor, I’d be the talk of Ramble for weeks.

  “I hope you don’t mind”—Nick slid two plates of eggs and bacon onto the table next to already poured glasses of orange juice—“but I borrowed your car to run to the grocery store. You seemed out of a lot of things.”

  “Mind?” I grabbed a fork. It was like having June Cleaver on call. By the smacking sounds Chester and the kitten were making over dishes of wet food—which hadn’t magically appeared from my near-empty cupboards—they enjoyed having Nick around as well. But soon the meal was over and Nick rushed back to the encampment.

  As I filled up the sink with soapy water to wash our breakfast dishes—which was when I realized why I don’t cook breakfast for myself that often—my cell rang.

  I checked the number. Mother.

  I slid into the chair and stared at the ringing phone until the call went to voice mail. I guessed I shouldn’t have delayed the inevitable, but I was too tired to deal with the dishes and too conflicted to talk with my mother.

  Instead, I sipped the rest of my coffee as Chester headed for the water bowl. No sooner had he lapped up a bit than the kitten yet to be named scampered over and nosed Chester out of the way.

  He sat on his haunches for a moment, probably shocked by the audacity. He meowed once at me.

  “Sorry, bud. Y’all are going to have to learn to get along.”

  His whiskers twitched, as if he was considering my advice. Then he reached over one gray paw and bopped the kitten on the head.

  She swished her tail a few times but backed off until Chester had his fill and moseyed on to the living room. After a couple of sniffs at the water, she lost interest and chased after him.

  I headed to work, doubling back only once to get Opie’s book—and shoo the kitten off the counter.

  Thursdays weren’t the busiest days, but I had one small wedding job to do, so I wanted to make sure the flowers had arrived. But when I walked into the back door of the shop, Liv and Opie were already hard at work, processing our latest delivery by deftly cutting off the old ends—at the prescribed angle—and putting the newly cut stems into preservative.

  Liv’s hands automatically continued as she looked up. “Audrey, what in the world are you doing here?”

  “I work here, remember?” I set Opie’s borrowed book down on the edge of her worktable before pulling my apron from its peg. “How’s the paper coming?”

  “It’s coming,” Opie said. “The book will help a lot, though. If I weren’t such an honest person, I’d offer Carol money to write this paper for me. Come to think of it, she’d probably enjoy it. I could kick myself for getting thrown out of that camp.”

  “Are we such bad company?” Liv asked.

  “No.” Opie stopped as she found a rotten spot on the calla lily stem she was cutting. She made her cut just above the mushy area. She held up the flower with a now three-inch stem. “Is it worth keeping?”

  “For a boutonniere or corsage maybe,” I said. “But you managed to dodge the topic. Are we such bad company?” I winked at her.

  Opie held the calla lily where a lapel would be—not that you could really wear a boutonniere with the black studded T-shirt of a skull with a pink bow on the top of its head. Then again, why not? She shrugged and put the lily into the bucket. “Not at all. It’s this paper that’s lame. And here I thought that camp was lame. I should have listened to Melanie and Carol and tried harder to follow those—”

  “Lame rules?” Liv suggested. “But our lovely intern isn’t the only one to skirt questions this morning. I seem to recall asking what you were doing here when you could be hunting for clues and interrogating suspects.”

  “I’m going in later. Believe it or not, with Bixby.”

  “Then I guess I need to tell you what I learned while digging on the Internet last night,” she said.

  “About?”

  “About everyone I could think of. I couldn’t sleep.” She patted her belly. “I think these hormones are all messed up.”

  I gnawed on a dry cuticle. It really wasn’t fair to saddle Liv with all the work of running the shop, especially in her condition. “Maybe I should stay here today while you go home and rest.”

  She shook her head. “Amber Lee’s coming in later today, and I have Opie hanging around me like a mother hen. I half suspect Eric of paying her to play nursemaid.”

  Opie smiled but didn’t answer. Apparently Liv was on to something.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” I asked. “Online, that is?”

  “I learned a little more about the gruff Chandler Hines. He does quite a business online in metal working. Mostly armor and armaments for enthusiasts. He’s even done some work for the motion pictures industry. Very pricy stuff, though. And a very limited market. At least for people who want to be truly authentic, and that’s what he does.”

  “He didn’t seem to have much tolerance for Brooks and his factory-made armor,” I said, “but that hardly seems like a motive for poisoning someone.”

  “Oh, you don’t know these guys,” Opie said. “They’re nuts about this kind of stuff.”

  “Hines told me that he’d challenged Brooks to a joust to settle the dispute,” I added. “Why would he then go and kill the man?”

  “Got tired of waiting?” Opie suggested.

  “If he got tired of waiting, you’d think a man obsessed with antique weapons would choose something other than poison.” I turned back to Liv. “Does Hines have any education or training in plants or chemistry or anything like that?”

  “Not that I could find,” Liv said. “He’s former military. Went straight from firing modern weapons to crafting medieval ones.”

  The “former military” part rang a chord.

  “Brooks was also former military,” I said. “Might they have met? Perhaps even served together?” Or if Brooks were involved in black ops, as my father suggested, would that have put him at odds with the military? I really should have paid more attention to all those spy movies Brad had dragged me to.

  “That’s going to be harder to find out,” Liv said, “but I could try. I mean military records are protected, and I’m no hacker. But perhaps someone posted old pictures on Facebook or something. That’s how I found out about Chandler Hines. His old unit is into social networking and quite the raucous reunions. I can try to find a connection between him and Barry Brooks.”

  And I knew by that determined look that if there was anything to learn, she would find it.

  “But if he’s former military,” she said, “wouldn’t that mean he’s had some kind of survival training? Do they do that? Or is that just Boy Scouts?”

  I shrugged.

  “That I can look up,” she said. “But if Hines had survival training, learning what you can eat while stranded in the woods could be just as helpful in
knowing what you can’t eat. Right?”

  That made sense in a Liv sort of way.

  “Did you come across anything on Raylene Quinn?” I asked.

  “She’s a very intelligent woman, but she has a very depressing Facebook page. Kind of passive aggressive. The whole world is bad, it seems. And then more about how adversity makes you stronger. And then she rants when people invite her to play games.”

  “Probably trying to cheer her up.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Liv said. “If she’d bothered to take the ‘What Winnie the Pooh Character Are You?’ quiz, she’d be a definite Eeyore.”

  “I can see why.” I leaned against the table. Apparently just thinking about her could drain the energy from someone. “She’s invested a good part of her life in Brooks Pharmaceuticals and in Barry Brooks personally. And I’m not sure it’s done that much for her.”

  “How do you mean?” Liv asked.

  “She took up with Brooks right after college,” I said, “apparently trading certain . . . favors . . . for rapid advancement in the company.”

  “So she slept her way to the top,” Opie said. “It happens.”

  “Yes, but for someone clearly as intelligent as Raylene, it has to be galling,” I said, “to know your promotion didn’t come from your accomplishments.”

  “Maybe those advanced degrees were Raylene proving to herself that she was worthy of the promotions Brooks was giving her,” Liv said.

  “Or proving it to others,” I said. “The sad thing is, I wonder how far all her education and experience could have taken her if she’d worked elsewhere.”

  “Brooks wouldn’t have let her go to the competition,” Opie said. “Not without a fight.”

  I nodded. “And I’m sure he had ample ammunition to smear her reputation if he’d wanted to. She was stuck. No way for her to rise any higher at Brooks Pharmaceuticals, and no door open to go anywhere else.”

  “Far cry from the Hundred Acre Wood. And,” Liv said, “if she suddenly came to realize Brooks was using her and holding her back . . .”

  I tapped my nails on the table. “She’s still my best suspect.”