The Demise

by Diane Moody

  His thoughts bounced here and there before focusing on someone else in town who knew a lot about everything that transpired in Braxton. He glanced at the clock and realized how late it was. But Matt had a pretty good hunch that the town florist was hard at work getting ready for tomorrow’s funeral.

  Maybe it was time for a little chat with Mr. Harley Creech.

  Chapter 13

  “Lordy, lordy, how will this ever be ready in time? How will I ever make it? How?!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Harley Creech jumped half a foot off the ground, both hands flying to his chest. “Who the—what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?”

  Matt tried not to laugh. “I’m really sorry,” he offered, hands raised in apology. “I knocked, but nobody answered. And I could hear voices and music inside, so when I found the door unlocked, I just came on in.”

  Harley leaned back against his work table, clutching it on both sides as if hanging on for dear life. “Son, I don’t know who you are, but you had better have a darn good reason for scaring the bejeebies out of me like that.”

  Matt dug his card out of his pocket and handed it to the flustered florist. “Matt Bryson, TBI.”

  “TBI—what’s that? You some kind of tuberculosis Nazi looking for diseased souls?” Harley wiped his forehead with the hem of his bib apron then reached over to turn down the classical music filling the shop.

  Matt laughed. “That’s a good one. But no, I’m not a TB Nazi. I’m an agent for Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. No tuberculosis to speak of.”

  “Ohhhhh, I get it.” He stared at the card for a second then snapped his attention back on Matt. “Oh my lord, my lord—you’re in town because of Peter Lanham’s death, aren’t you?” His tone had changed completely, more conspiratorial. “I knew it! I knew it. Peter didn’t jump, did he? He was PUSHED!”

  “No, now Mr. Creech—”

  “Oh son, please call me Harley. You call me Mr. Creech and I’ll think my daddy has risen from the grave like Lazarus of old.”

  “Okay, Harley.” Matt couldn’t help his barely-contained laughter, but the guy didn’t seem offended. In fact, he seemed to enjoy having an audience. “We don’t know yet if Mr. Lanham was pushed, which is why we’re conducting a thorough investigation.”

  Harley looked over his half-glasses at Matt. “Uh huhhh. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. Is that a problem?”

  Matt could almost see the options ping-ponging back and forth in Harley’s head. Do I tell him? Or do I not? Finally, he motioned Matt toward a bar stool at the other end of the messy worktable covered with flowers and greenery. “Might as well talk now as later, though I’ve got to work while we chat. I’m racing that clock on the wall behind you. My normally dependable assistant is out sick with pneumonia, and there’s not a soul in town who can help me get these done. Everybody and their dog has ordered flowers for tomorrow’s memorial, and to make matters worse, my supplier was not able to find the calla lilies Patricia wanted for the casket spray. I told her to stick with roses or glads, but would Her Majesty listen to a word I say? Never! ‘Overnight them from Paris,’ she says. Like I can snap my fingers and they’ll suddenly appear in time?” Harley trimmed the thorns off another white rose. “If you ask me, that’s what happens when people live their whole lives expecting everyone else to jump at their every whim.” Harley peered over his glasses again. “Where did you say you’re from?”

  “Texas. Born and raised.”

  “That explains the accent.”

  “Says the Tennessean to the Texan.”

  “Point taken,” Harley chortled as he fussed expertly with the placement of the roses. “What brought you to Tennessee?”

  “A job.”

  “Texas was plum out?”

  “Not the kind I wanted. Harley, I get the impression most folks around here don’t particularly care much for Patricia Lanham. Why is that?”

  He stopped again, nailing Matt with another quirky glare over his glasses. “Have you met the woman?”

  “Oh, indeed I have. This morning, remember?”

  “Well, sure you were there, but that doesn’t mean squat. Patricia only sees who she wants to see.”

  Matt toyed with a roll of green florist tape. “I’m fairly confident she didn’t want to see me, but she did.”

  “Don’t assume any such thing. If I had to guess, I’d say she was probably sizing you up even more than you were checking her out.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Oh, that is totally so.” Harley stepped into the cooler and emerged with an armful of more white roses and asparagus fern stems. “All I’m saying is, take nothing for granted where Patricia Lanham is concerned.”

  “Good to know. You seem to know everyone in town—”

  “Understatement of the millennium,” he murmured sarcastically.

  Matt smiled. “So tell me, is there anyone in Braxton you’d consider capable of murder?”

  Harley continued snipping, wiring, and arranging the flowers. “You mean other than me?”

  Matt’s hands stopped in midair, the roll of tape still spinning around his forefinger.

  “I’m just kidding! Good heavens, son, you need to lighten up.”

  “Whoa . . . you had me going for a minute there.”

  “Not that we don’t all have thoughts like that now and then. People who bug you day in and day out. You know the type. But someone who’d actually push the town’s only millionaire off that water tower? No way. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. If there was some ‘evildoer’ in our midst, I promise I’d know it. But you’ve got to broaden your horizons, Agent Bryson. Peter Lanham is—was as much a fixture in Nashville as he was here in Braxton. Only difference, it’s a bigger pool with a lot of other millionaires swimming around. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Absolutely,” Matt said. “And we plan to include Nashville in our investigation.”

  “We? Oh, that’s right. I heard about Son of Sam with his shaved head and his bossy pants.”

  “He’s direct, that’s for sure. But for the record, my partner Sam is no relation to David Berkowitz, the actual Son of Sam.”

  “David. Sam. Whatever. I heard he’s a ring-tail tooter, your partner.”

  Matt smiled. “Haven’t heard that expression since I left Texas. But getting back to the subject. You mentioned Nashville. It’s a big city. Anyone in particular you think might have had it in for Lanham?”

  “Not specifically, no. But then I’m sure you know about the girls.”

  “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “Harley, tell me something. If Lanham’s philandering was so well known, any chance some spurned lover might have been out for blood?”

  “None that I can think of.” Harley set his snippers down and reached for a large Mason jar filled with ice and water. He pressed it against his forehead then downed several gulps. “But here’s a thought. I can give you a list of most of those girls, and I can also tell you which of them were married, and which of them had boyfriends while they were sleeping with Lanham. I’m thinking those guys ought to be considered. If everybody in town knew my wife was having an affair with Lanham, I’d kill her. In a heartbeat.”

  “You married, Harley?”

  “Not currently. But that’s a story for another day.” He wiped his hands on his apron and perched back on his stool. “Listen, I’d love to sit and chat, but right now—”

  “—you’re racing that clock on that wall.” Matt was already on his feet.

  “I am. This casket blanket has to look positively stunning—sans calla lilies—or Patricia’s liable to yank it off right smack-dab in the middle of the flippin’ funeral.”

  Matt laughed as he rounded the table. “Surely not?”

  “She’s done worse, trust me.”

  Matt shook his hand. “Thanks for your time, Harley. I’ll take y
ou up on the offer for another chat sometime.”

  “Works for me. Just give me a holler after all the drama dies down. Hey, lock that door behind you, all right?”

  “Will do.” As he closed the door behind him and stepped out on the sidewalk, Matt heard the soaring melody of an orchestra climbing toward a crescendo accompanied by Luciano Pavarotti. Or was it Placido Domingo? Looking back through the windowpane, he smiled at the sight of the town florist singing along as he worked.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, Braxton buried its most prominent citizen. Dignitaries, politicians, close friends and family filed into the first four rows of the Community Theater; the remaining seats filled by Lanham’s employees and local residents. By the time the service began, latecomers had to stand in the theater’s lobby where two large screens broadcast the service inside.

  Julie sat beside Georgia, hoping to help her friend stay composed. She’d grabbed three extra packs of tissues in case Georgia’s ever-present hankies got soaked before the service ended. She was pleased to see Donella included in the family’s small entourage which entered last. Donella, dressed in a tailored black suit, held her back straight and her head high as she made her way to the front with the others. She wondered if Donella would keep her emotions in check as she so often did, or allow herself to grieve as others were doing.

  Julie watched Brad lumber down the aisle along with several people she didn’t recognize followed by several dignitaries. Last in, Patricia entered on the arm of Donovan Street, an old friend of Peter’s from his college days at Vanderbilt. The Streets and Lanhams had often vacationed together until Donovan’s wife Nadine died of cancer the previous year. Donovan had been a fixture on Lanham’s board of trustees for more than two decades before stepping down to care for his ailing wife. With her passing and now Peter’s, Julie wondered if Donovan might be considered to step in as CEO of Lanham’s.

  As the organist continued playing, Julie glanced over her right shoulder, finding a straight shot view of Matt still standing against the back wall of the auditorium. He caught her eye and gave her a quick wink before looking away. He’d come to keep a watchful eye on the crowd, and Julie wondered if someone in this room had anything to do with Lanham’s death. As the thought drifted through her mind, she noticed Christopher Smithe slip inside the auditorium and squeeze onto the crowded back row.

  The service opened in prayer by Reverend Young, pastor of Braxton Community Church. Young was an interesting addition to the program since neither Peter nor Patricia Lanham ever darkened the doors of any church. Julie supposed he was simply part of the service Patricia had arranged.

  A few moments later, she peeked over her shoulder just in time to see Matt’s jaw drop, his eyes focused toward the front of the auditorium. There, Harley Creech stepped up to the podium as the organist played the introduction to “The Lord’s Prayer.” Looking back, Matt’s eyes met hers again, his expression chiseled in confusion. She suppressed a smile, giving him a slight nod before turning back around. Yes, Matt, even small-town florists can sing a tune or two. Harley emoted through the familiar slow-paced anthem, as only Harley could, but no one could deny the glorious pipes of the town’s colorful florist.

  The service continued with several eulogies, including those by the governor, a senator, and a congressman, then concluded with a more personal tribute by Donovan Street. His remembrances brought both laughter and tears to those gathered. As he finished, he struggled to say his final farewell to the man he considered his best friend.

  Julie dabbed her eyes then glanced up again as the organ played quietly, preparing for the recessional. Through a space between several people in front of her, Julie spotted Donella, surprised to find her shoulders shaking as she too appeared to wipe her tears. Poor Donella. So used to hiding her feelings, especially where Peter was concerned. I wonder if he ever knew how she felt about him? I wonder if she ever allowed herself to . . . no, of course not. She would never have stayed if they’d had something together only to have it swept away by the long succession of young, more attractive and willing lovers. What would it feel like, day in and day out, year after year, watching the man you love carry on so flagrantly with all those girl-toys?

  Did Donella love Peter Lanham? Did she love him enough to—?

  It crept in, so unexpected. That gnawing curiosity still plaguing Julie, drawing her back into the web of “research” . . . What harm could it do to pry a little deeper the next time she had a chance to visit privately with Donella? Hadn’t she intimated that she wanted to be friends?

  It would be downright rude to abandon her in her hour of need. It’s the least I can do. Right?

  Both Lanham’s stores reopened that afternoon, but the headquarters remained closed for the rest of the day. While the VIPs gathered at the Lanham estate for a private reception, Julie and Georgia joined others for a reception in the lobby of Lanham’s headquarters. She planned to stay for only a few minutes then slip out and go home where a long nap awaited her.

  “Miss Parker.”

  She turned at the sound of his voice. “Hi, Matt.”

  “Nice service, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.” His eyes darted around the room. Clearly, the man was still in detective mode.

  “Observe anything interesting?” she asked quietly.

  He gazed back at her briefly. “Perhaps. But that would be of no concern to you now, would it?”

  “Touché. It slipped. Won’t happen again. I promise.”

  He smiled, his eyes still roaming the large open lobby.

  “I got the impression you were surprised to hear Harley sing.”

  He laughed easily. “More like flabbergasted. I never would have imagined a guy like him could sing like that.”

  “I know. I was shocked the first time I heard him too. It’s like Susan Boyle, that Scottish woman who sang on Britain’s Got Talent.”

  “Never saw the show.”

  “She walked out on that stage, all plain and dowdy, and in desperate need of some brow tweezing.”

  “Ah, the unfortunate uni-brow syndrome.”

  “Totally. But then she started singing “I Dream a Dream” from Les Misérables in the most glorious voice, almost like that of an angel.”

  He was still studying the crowd around them. “I wouldn’t necessarily call Harley’s voice ‘angelic,’ but he sure can sing. Last night as I left his shop, I—” He glanced back at her.

  “You what?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just surprised, that’s all.”

  “You went to talk to Harley last night, didn’t you?”

  “Julie?”

  Her father had used that same tone when she was young, just before she’d get grounded. She let it pass, biting her lip to let Matt know she got the message.

  “Now where was I? Oh yes—” she continued. “I was going to tell you that Harley has appeared in several of the musicals we’ve performed at the theater. He played Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof and Cogsworth, the mantle clock butler in Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Let me guess. You played Belle?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I played Babette, the maid with the feather duster.”

  Matt’s face creased with a smile. “Now that I’d loved to have seen. She was quite the saucy one, wasn’t she? Of course, I never saw it on stage; only the movie when I was a kid.”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled at the familiar term, his eyes locked on hers. “Of course.”

  Lost in his eyes, she thought for sure he could hear her heart beating.

  “Well, then. I need to—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a few things I need to do. Can I see you later?”

  “Sure. I’m heading home for a nap shortly. Just come by any time.”

  “It will be later this evening because I . . .” Another pause.

  Julie covered her ears. “No, no—don’t tell me. I’m not allowed to know, remember?”

  He laughed, pul
ling her hands free. “Very funny, Miss Marple. I’ll stop by later.”

  “Okay, Matt. Be safe.”

  “You too.” A moment later he was out the door.

  “Hey, Julie.

  She blinked, only then noticing someone had moved directly in front of her. “Brad? What are you doing here?”

  He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”

  “I just thought you’d be at the family reception.”

  His face lit up. “You thought about me?”

  “Well, no, not—I didn’t mean . . . oh, never mind. I was just leaving.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “No, my car’s out front.”

  “Okay, then I’ll walk you out. I was just leaving too.”

  “But you just got here.”

  “Yeah, but this party is even lamer than the one up at the estate.”

  “I’d hardly call it a party.”

  “Yeah? Whatever. I was thinking maybe you and I could—”

  Georgia stepped between them. “Brad, could you give us a hand and take these trash bags out to the dumpster?”

  Julie was out the door as dear sweet Georgia came to her rescue. With any luck, she’d be home and sacked out on the sofa before he made it to the dumpster.

  Later that evening after a long nap, Julie went downstairs to see Gevin. She found him bent over his table working on photographs.

  “Hey, Gevin.”

  “I was just about to call you to come down.”

  “Let me guess.” She plopped onto the stool across from him. “You wanted to know what’s for dinner.”

  “No, come here. I want you to look at something.”

  She padded around the tall table and joined him. “Look at what?”

  “I completely forgot about some pictures I took a few days ago.” He slid an eight-by-ten glossy toward her. “I was on my way back from Nashville where I’d met a client for dinner. As I got off the interstate, the sun had just set, and the sky was spectacular. So I pulled off the road and got out in time to capture it.”