by CeCe Osgood
Abby tried to tamp down the niggling suspicion sparking in her mind. Why hadn't Twila mentioned this before?
She kept quiet but watchful and then soon grew mesmerized by Twila's stories about being a travel guide. There was the tale of the three bickering sisters she'd guided through Europe. They only wanted to eat authentic cuisine in small out-of-the-way dives. And then there was the man who thought he was a vampire and wanted to visit the castles of Romania, especially those located in Transylvania. Twila said she often caught him looking at her neck. "It was a lusty look," she laughed.
As the evening progressed, Abby's mistrust of Twila evaporated.
For a while.
Later that night at home, Abby felt a pinch of wariness slipping into her again. Why hadn't Twila mentioned going to the clinic before tonight?
She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. "This must be what happens to cops and private investigators. You get suspicious of everybody."
Then an image of Twila bubbled up and lingered in her mind. Twila in her backyard near the oleander bushes. The website of the former cop turned true crime novelist had listed oleander as a biological poison. So that meant Twila had easy access to a deadly poison. Hmm.
After brushing her teeth, Abby headed downstairs, found her laptop and added Twila to her suspects list.
Chapter Twelve
The tip of the white steeple came into view, flanked by a profusion of leafy sycamores and spreading oaks. The Clancy Street Church, built in 1913, was a classic red brick building topped by a white steeple, and was now used only for weddings and funerals.
Jill, in a black dress with black leggings, climbed out of the Volvo and hurried ahead to the entrance where Fran stood with her daughter, Kendra.
Abby's black pumps crunched on the pebbled sidewalk as Jill hurried on ahead. A pebble in her shoe made her reach down to remove it and her purse slipped off her shoulder. She caught it, then had to adjust the now twisted waistband of her black crepe pencil skirt. The feel of the fabric stirred a memory.
She'd worn this same skirt, with a lime green blouse, to Kendra's birthday party where she first met Alan.
She'd worn the skirt again—with an embroidered Chinese collar blouse—when they spent a weekend at a resort on Lake Malbar. Charles was out of town, so Jill had come with them, and it had been a fun time, despite the gloomy weather and Abby's migraine.
They'd arrived Friday afternoon for an evening concert with fireworks, but it rained, and the guests ended up clustered inside the resort's ballroom enjoying an indoor concert and a barbeque buffet.
The following day, Abby woke up with a migraine and stayed in the room with the blinds closed all day while Alan and Jill went to the resort's putt-putt course.
Later that afternoon, they visited a pond and fed the ducks, then they played tennis. It was her first time on the court, and he later told Abby the kid was a natural.
By evening, Abby's migraine had faded, and the trio joined the other guests for a lively Trivial Pursuit competition.
Jill won both the geography and literature categories while Abby and Alan tied for the "most wrong answers" trophy, although neither one minded since the resort's wine list was extensive.
Shaking away the memory of the trip, she proceeded up the walkway to join Fran who greeted her with a nod, then wiped her eyes and nose with a tissue. "Allergies," she explained, red-eyed.
Inside the church, the women joined their daughters in the third pew. The clinic’s masseur, Raymond, and his wife edged in next to them.
Positioned in front of the altar was the closed casket with a wreath of white lilies. To the left was a sizeable standing spray of blue hydrangeas and white roses.
To the right, among the other potted plants and ferns stood a blooming prayer lily with an ochre ribbon from Abby.
She glanced behind her at the mourners scattered throughout the church. Several single women of various ages seated on the left side made her wonder if they had been his patients or Alan's ex-girlfriends, or both.
A few rows back she spotted two men in navy blue suits with similar blue-striped shirts.
The men, she realized, were Alan's neighbors, John and Jeff. She'd been to their house for a lively dinner party with Alan.
Jeff locked eyes with her and gave her a sympathetic shrug. She nodded back. Seated behind the men was the bowed head of a gray-haired woman with tinted glasses. Another neighbor Abby guessed.
A moment later, an elderly couple drew her attention as they came down the aisle. The man supported himself with a black metal cane. The dour-faced woman wore sensible shoes and proceeded down the aisle with the man in tow.
Alan's parents, Abby assumed, when they sat in the pew reserved for family. He'd only mentioned them twice during the many times she'd brought up being raised by her widowed father.
During the service, Abby managed a few side glances at Fran whose demeanor was cool, even frosty, and quite unemotional.
Odd, Abby thought. Fran and Alan seemed to be genuinely fond of each other, and yet, as far as she could tell, Fran appeared not to have shed a tear.
Abby dabbed her own eyes with a tissue several times. He'd betrayed her with Gina, but she still felt melancholy.
There weren't many mourners. A few were whispering to each other or sitting like Fran staring blank-faced at the casket. Abby indulged herself in a bit of speculation.
Maybe Fran expresses her anger easily, but grief makes her feel too vulnerable, so she keeps it buried inside.
Or it could be that her real self is selfish and cold-hearted, and the friendly, affable Fran is an act.
"Would anyone like to say a few words?" the minister asked.
Fran leaned forward, and, for a moment, Abby thought she might get up to speak. But she didn't.
No one did.
Abby shifted her weight and took the opportunity to glance behind her, surprised then to see Gina who must've come in late.
Gina, wearing a black vest with an ochre blouse, sat alone. Did her husband know she was here? Abby wondered. They locked eyes momentarily before Gina averted her gaze.
Behind Gina, Abby noticed another person arriving late and blinked in surprise. What's he doing here?
It was the short balding man with the receding chin, the man she'd seen dining at Emile's with the blonde in the teal dress.
Curiosity brimming, Abby wondered how he was connected to Alan, and if the blonde was too. Did she know Alan?
Abby turned back to face the minister who was now ending the service. As she stared at the wreath of lilies topping the casket and the large standing spray of blue hydrangeas and white roses, she decided she had to seek out the balding man when the church emptied.
With the final blessing from the minister, Fran's cool composure cracked a little. Sniffling, she rummaged in her handbag for a packet of tissues, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. "Allergies," she said, though her gloom-filled eyes told Abby that was a lie.
The organ chimed, and mourners began to rise. Kendra and Jill walked ahead of Fran and Abby who watched the balding man standing near the arched double doors. He moved aside to let others leave.
Good. I can introduce myself and find out how he knows Alan.
But to Abby's surprise, the man held up a hand to stop Fran. "Mrs. Francine Flores?"
She nodded. "That's me. Who are you?"
"Silas Wabash. Alan Durant's attorney. This is for you," the balding man said, removing a white envelope from his breast pocket and handing it to Fran.
She turned it over, saw her name typed out and under it was another word: beneficiary.
Wabash urged her to open it.
She did, read the note and her eyes watered as she handed it to Abby with a sniffle. "I can't believe he did this."
Abby read: Fran, you stood by me during the early days and I've never forgotten it. My attorney will apprise you of your beneficiary status. With love and admiration, Alan.
Eyes wide with astonishment, Fran re
ached for the attorney's arm. "What does this mean?"
Wabash withdrew his arm from her grasp and explained in a hushed voice. "Last year, Mr. Durant had me draw up his will naming you as his primary beneficiary."
He offered a business card. "Please, call me and we can discuss this at my office. I'll need you to sign the documents and have your signature notarized before we can move forward."
Wabash patted her arm. "It's a goodly amount."
Fran blinked. "I had no idea. I'll c-call you tomorrow, Mr. Wabash."
Abby stood watching the exchange and waited for an opening to ask him about the blonde woman he'd dined with at Emile's. "Mr. Wab—"
But he directed his attention to the couple walking up behind her. "Hello. Mr. and Mrs. Durant?"
"Yes," answered the pinched-face woman. The cranky old man lifted his cane and swung it left and right so that Fran and Abby had to move out of his way or be struck. "Stop that nonsense," snapped the woman. The old man obeyed, lowering the cane.
Wabash stepped toward her. "I'm your son's attorney. We spoke on the phone."
"Ah, yes," said the woman.
"And, hello, I'm Fran Flores, Alan's assistant at the clinic. Please accept my condolences and thank you so much for the white roses and blue hydrangeas. It's a beautiful spray."
Mrs. Durant shook her head. "It's not from us," she said with enough frost to kill an evergreen.
Mr. Durant stood leaning on his cane while Mrs. Durant's sharp eyes assessed Fran and Abby. Then those eyes turned to Wabash. "We've come for the Van Wyman paintings Alan had on loan from his grandfather."
"Yes, of course," Wabash said. "I've secured the painting at my office. Please follow me."
Outside on the church steps, Abby and Fran watched the lawyer escort the Durants to his Mercedes. Fran grunted in disapproval. "He rarely spoke about his folks. They weren't friends."
Abby nodded. "He told me once his mother believed a chiropractor was one step away from a quack."
Fran sniffed. "Yeah, I heard that too. Seeing her just now, I can understand. I'd say she's one cold mama."
Then Fran smiled and snagged Abby's arm. "You know what? I'm feeling like one hot mama, right now, and I'm ready for a drink. Let's go somewhere. My treat. I'll ask Raymond and his wife to drop the girls off at my house."
The Fontenelle, Alan's favorite bar because of its tranquil ambiance as well as the wealth of craft beers and fine wines, had been named after Omaha's historic Fontenelle Hotel, built in 1913 and then demolished, despite protests, in 1983.
After ordering, Fran fingered the white envelope. "I still can't believe he did this."
She read the note again then returned it to her handbag.
Abby observed how delicately Fran handled the note. Was that an indication of her romantic feelings for him?
Or their friendship?
Fran felt chatty and rambled on about the early days with Alan at the clinic.
When she finished her Mai Tai, Fran held a finger up to signal the server for another one. "Enough about me, Abby. Tell me about you. Where are you from?"
"Originally, Tulsa."
"That's where you met Jill's father?"
"Yep. Charles was going to law school in Texas and was visiting his sister over the break. I'd gone with a girlfriend to a movie, and I ended up spilling popcorn all over him."
"Was it a deliberate spill to meet him?"
Abby tittered. "No. I'm a klutz. I tripped trying to get to my seat and dumped most of the tub of extra-buttery popcorn on him, which stained his white polo shirt. He's fussy about his clothes so it was not a fun scene. When the audience booed us for making a racket, we went out to the lobby. He calmed down, and I did too, and we started flirting."
"When did you move here to Martindale?"
"My father retired from the post office and decided he wanted to make his dream come true. His father, my grandfather, was a baker, and my dad loved helping out when he was a kid. So, when retired, he decided to further his education and enrolled in pastry school. It was there that he learned of this bakery going out of business here in Martindale. It was such a good deal, he had to act fast. He did and that's how Burt's Desserts got its start. It was profitable for a while, but then his health started failing."
"Is that when you moved here from Tulsa?"
"Yep. Charles had his own small firm in Tulsa, but it was floundering. When he heard of an open position with a law firm in Omaha, we decided to make the move. I was thrilled to be able to help out my dad."
Instead of waiting for Fran to ask, she said, "We lost my mother when I was five. It was just Dad and me."
Fran gave her a warm look. "I'm sorry."
"It happens," Abby said with a sigh. She seldom ever spoke about her mother. She knew so little about her.
"I need another Mai Tai," Fran said. "You?"
"Sure." Abby drained the last drops of her drink. "Fran, I have a question for you. It's about the clinic."
"Oh?
"I recently found out my neighbor, Twila, brought her landlady in to see Alan for a couple treatments. Did you ever meet her?"
"The landlady?"
"Twila."
"Gee, it's not a familiar name. But I can't really talk about patients, Abby, because of the privacy laws."
"I don't think Twila was a patient."
Fran shrugged. Then her brows knotted into a frown. "Are you thinking Alan and this Twila were involved?"
Abby flushed. "I don't know."
Fran, intrigued and a bit sloshed now, leaned forward. "Is she a suspect?"
"Ladies." A young female server placed another Mai Tai and a plate of quesadillas in front of them. Near her wrist was a tiger tattoo. Seeing it triggered Abby's memory. The guy with the wolf tattoo.
"That last time I was there at the clinic, Fran, I bumped into a guy, a strange guy with a wolf tattoo on his bicep. Do you know who he is?"
Fran took a long swig of the Mai Tai. "Is he another suspect, Abby?" There was a teasing tone in her voice.
Abby shrugged. "Well, no. I remembered him 'cause I thought he was weird."
"He is weird."
"Was he a patient?"
"No. I met him when he came into the clinic to see Raymond, not Alan. He's a massage therapist and Raymond was interviewing people to replace him when he went on vacation. Tattoo guy was the last one he interviewed."
She drained the last drops of the Mai Tai. "Look, Abby, if you're looking for suspects, I have one in mind."
"Who?"
Fran's top lip curled. "Gina. Did you know Alan fired her?"
"When?"
"That day you bawled him out because of the insurance thing. I told him how she ticked me off by making a scene in front of the other clients."
She clucked her tongue. "I can't believe she had the nerve to show up at the funeral."
Lips loosened by alcohol, Fran kept talking. "Abby, I want you to know they kept it from me. I didn't know they were fooling around. But that day you came in, it was clear that they were up to something. I was so mad at Gina. And Alan too. I lit into him. I couldn't believe I'd been such a sucker."
"You?"
"He swore to me he was a changed man after meeting you. He told me 'his straying days were over' and I believed him. I thought he'd finally met the one."
Fran swallowed more alcohol, then leaned back for a long moment before changing the subject. "It was a good service. I liked the minister, and the wreath on the casket came from all of us at the clinic."
"I sent the prayer lily with the ochre bow."
"That was lovely." Fran reached into her purse for a tissue. "I wonder if it was Gina who sent the blue hydrangeas and white roses. I have to admit the spray was gorgeous."
Abby nodded. "Definitely."
"It had to be expensive." Fran paused. "Which makes me wonder if it did come from Gina. She's so cheap—frugal if you want to be nice about it. Whenever we sent out for lunch, she always wanted something from a fast-food place. S
he'd throw a fit when I'd suggest Red Lobster or Larry Tom's."
She shook her head. "That makes me think those flowers didn't come from her."
Chapter Thirteen
The next day Abby waited until Jill pedaled away on her bike for a babysitting job in the neighborhood before she left the house.
Fifteen minutes later, she clutched her purse and her knees wobbled a bit as she tapped the key fob to unlock her Volvo. With an eye on the overcast sky, she drove to an area of Martindale she'd never visited before.
Life was certainly offering her new and different paths these days. This would be her first time in a pawn shop.
The original offer from the skinny clerk behind the counter was for less than four hundred bucks to which she sputtered, "No, n-no way. I know for certain my ex paid close to over two thousand for this set. We were young and broke, but he somehow sprang for it."
"Take it or leave it, lady."
Abby was about to accept the clerk's offer, when something inside of her sizzled up from her toes to her crown. Stop being a weakling, Abby. Time to rattle the cage.
Emboldened, she prattled on and on about the gold setting, the cushion cut of the diamond and the sprinkling of the smaller gems. "Look, this isn't a standard wedding set. My ex bought it in Paris, from a diamond cutter whose family was known to have sold jewels to Napoleon."
The clerk slit his eyes. "You conning me?"
Abby shrugged. "Not entirely. It is from Paris and the jeweler said he had a connection to Napoleon."
She didn't add that this particular Paris was a town in Texas, and when the jeweler mentioned Napoleon, he was referring to the pastry not the emperor.
The clerk held her gaze. "Okay, lady. Four-twenty-five."
"Four-fifty," she countered.
"Alright, but that's it. Take it or leave it."
She took it. Stuffing the cash in her purse, she glanced at her watch. She wanted to be early for the job interview at Len Stubbs's Fine Furniture.
The owner had been gruff on the phone but agreed to let her come in for an interview, even though she had no experience selling furniture.
