“Good to see you back, Willie,” Lilliana said. “Is everything going okay after your surgery?”
Willie grimaced. “As well as can be expected. It will be a few more weeks until I can turn in this pushcart.” He gestured toward the walker. “I miss my walking stick.”
“You’ll still need your stick?” She’d been under the impression the hip replacement would eliminate Willie’s need to lean on his staff to get around.
“The doc says no, but I kind of like having it. Enough about me. I want you to meet a good friend of mine.” He smiled affectionately at the white-haired woman. “Lilliana, this is Ruby Robinson. She just moved here from Tucson.”
Ruby looked a little older than herself, early eighties if she had to guess, but not at all impaired by her age. She might have been ten or fifteen pounds overweight and looked reasonably fit. A candidate for the softball team? Ruby’s smile widened as she held out her hand confidently, and Lilliana grasped it. “So good to meet you. Any friend of Willie’s is a friend of mine.”
“Willie’s told me so much about you,” Ruby said. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you personally.”
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Nancy Gardner, wearing a sweater in garish shades of orange and green, sidled through the crowd until she reached Lilliana and Willie. She held a plate of cupcakes in front of her. “I should have baked more cupcakes.” Nancy’s face was pinched with worry. “I tried a new recipe just for the meeting. Chocolate devil’s food with mustard. And I added chili to the frosting, so it’s kind of like a mole sauce.”
Lilliana had tasted some of Nancy’s recipes. Like many elderly people, Nancy’s sense of taste wasn’t what it used to be. She was always trying to spice things up, not realizing what they tasted like to other people. She hadn’t actually eaten any of Nancy’s food in months. “I’m sure there will be plenty,” she said dryly.
Lilliana looked around the room, wondering if she’d missed Sarah Higgins, the president of the club. Sarah was a skosh shy of five feet tall, so she was easily lost in a crowd. Just as Lilliana was wondering whether she should go upstairs and look for her, Sarah entered the library. She carried a rather sorry-looking African violet in a ceramic pot.
“Oh, my.” Sarah scanned the table, looking for an empty seat.
“Take my seat, Sarah.” Lilliana rose and stood beside Ruby to let Sarah sit down.
Frank, noticing Willie was still standing because of the lack of chairs, pushed his back. “I don’t need to sit.”
Willie awkwardly maneuvered the walker around Frank and eased himself into the proffered chair. He sighed as his tush hit the seat.
It must be difficult for a man of his size, thought Lilliana. It was a good thing he’d lost about thirty pounds due to the magic of the wafers he’d been given. He would never have been able to handle the walker, much less have surgery, if he still weighed as much as he had a while ago.
Sarah cleared her throat and looked anxiously around the room.
Frank, noticing Sarah’s expression, announced authoritatively, “Will everyone please find a place.” The quiet conversations ceased as the twenty or so people focused their attention on him. “Sarah?”
“Uh, I call this meeting to order. So nice to see so many of you here. Please introduce yourselves during our break, and I hope you’ll all become members of the club.” She paused and cleared her throat again. “We had a wonderful show and sale in March, as I’m sure you all know. Except for that little unpleasantness, but that’s behind us now. How many of you have African violets growing in your homes?”
Most of the hands went up, but there were a few that didn’t. Lilliana wondered even more about their reasons for attending.
“How many would like to?” Sarah asked, warming to her role.
Most of those who had kept their hands down the first time now raised them. The man who had taken her picture still didn’t raise his hand. A ghoul, Lilliana confirmed. All he was interested in seeing was the woman who had solved the murder.
“Well, in that case we have a wonderful program for you. Frank, who has been raising African violets for years, is going to give a presentation on how to care for your own African violets.” Sarah sank into her seat with visible relief. She fanned herself with a hand.
“Welcome, welcome,” Frank said. “I’m glad to see so many of you here. Pretty soon, you’ll be growing your own plants and bringing them to a show. Growing African violets is an addictive hobby. If you’re lucky, you’ll all be just like me.”
Lilliana hoped not. Frank had turned his bedroom into a plant room filled with hundreds of African violets. He slept on a convertible sofa in his living room. She hoped she’d never be quite that obsessed. Although she had to admit once you got started growing African violets, it was hard to know where to stop.
“Here on the table you can see some of the tools you should have.”
Everyone leaned forward to see the display Frank had put out earlier.
“Sarah agreed to bring one of her plants so I can show you how to use some of them.”
Lilliana took a closer look at the plant Sarah had brought. Frank was good, but he’d have to be a miracle worker to bring that plant back to glory. If it was even alive. Countless brown leaves clung tenaciously to dry stems. Other leaves drooped over the side of the pot. The plant displayed no flowers or buds.
Ruby shook her head, and Lilliana had a feeling Ruby was having thoughts similar to her own. She hadn’t noticed whether Ruby had responded when Sarah had asked who raised African violets. Of course, it didn’t take an expert to see that Sarah’s plant was in mortal danger.
“I know what you’re all thinking,” Frank said as he held up the pot. “But African violets are a resilient species. This one just needs some TLC.”
He put the pot down and picked up the ice pick. “The first thing it needs is a new home. It looks like it hasn’t been repotted in a long time.” He glanced over at Sarah, who nodded. “A plant that’s been in the same pot for too long grows a massive root system. The ice pick”—he held up the tool—“can dig into the sides of the root ball so you can easily get the plant out of the pot.”
Frank lifted some of the leaves and stuck the ice pick into the soil. Lilliana dropped back as several of the newcomers crowded forward. She never let her plants get to that state, didn’t think she’d ever need an ice pick to free them.
Once Frank had pried out the plant, he held it up for them to see. “We’re going to have to prune back the roots as well as the top of the plant.”
He put the ice pick off to the side and picked up one of the knives. Expertly, he cut away all the dead and dying leaves and exposed a still-green crown. He turned the plant sideways and pointed. “See? There’s still a viable plant here.” Next he trimmed back the roots, until the rootball was half the size of what it once had been. He laid the plant on the newspaper and reached down into his satchel. He brought out a plastic pot about half the size of the ceramic one Sarah had brought the plant in. Lilliana recognized it as an oyama pot, which was actually two pots in one. The plant went in the inner pot, which had a long tube-shaped protrusion, while water filled the outer pot.
“Now we’re going to prepare the new home.” Frank held up one of the plastic bags. “You want to start with some perlite on the bottom to enable the water to both be absorbed and to drain.” He opened the bag and poured some into the pot. Some of the group pressed closer so they could see better.
“Keep your elbow out of my ribs,” the man taking pictures grumbled.
“Next you add the potting soil, making sure to keep it loose.” Frank picked up the trowel and shoveled a couple of scoops from another plastic bag into the pot. Then he put the trimmed African violet in it and added soil around the sides. “You want to leave the soil loose so it can breathe. Don’t tamp it down, tempting as that might be.” He picked up the inner pot and tapped it on the table. “This will settle the soil without compacting it.”
The crush of
people made it hard for Lilliana to breathe. One of those close to her must have had garlic for lunch. She took a couple of steps back, letting others squeeze forward. Disgruntled muttering from those whose toes got stepped on in the process almost made Lilliana wish fewer people had shown up for the meeting.
Frank picked up the plant and held it at eye level, judging whether it sat evenly in the pot, that the stem was covered to a sufficient height, and probably looking for any more imperfect leaves. Lilliana knew that even though he didn’t describe what he was doing. He probably thought he’d already said more than the newcomers could absorb at one time.
“Last,” Frank said, “we need to groom the plant with one of these little brushes. I call them plant brushes, although you ladies might recognize them as makeup brushes.” Frank picked one up and gently brushed one of the leaves. He gave the plant a critical eye, then nodded as if pleased with the results.
A high-pitched, agonized screech ripped through the murmurings of the throng.
Who’d screamed? Lilliana quickly scanned the crowd. Ruby’s face was twisted in agony, and tears ran down her cheeks. The piercing scream had dissolved into whimpers as her breath came in short, painful gasps.
The crowd, who’d been huddled close to see Frank’s demonstration, backed away from Ruby, whose complexion had turned ashen under her dark skin. Once a space cleared around her, it was easy to see the cause of her scream.
A large, red stain spread over the yellow dress, the wet blood sculpting the contours of her ribs. Frank’s ice pick stuck out from its center.
CHAPTER TWO
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Nancy clamped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. Recovering, she leaned over and peered at the ice pick, mesmerized. She lowered her hand from her face and tentatively reached out. Before anyone could stop her, Nancy pulled the ice pick out of Ruby’s side.
Bad idea.
Blood spurted in rhythmic pulses, spraying everything in the vicinity. The ice pick must have pierced an artery. Sarah shrieked as blood splattered her face and clothes. Willie pushed himself up from his seat to go to Ruby’s aid.
Lilliana plunged through the crowd and pushed Willie back down. He didn’t have the strength to stand on his own yet, and she was afraid he’d damage his vulnerable hip. Just as she got to her, Ruby’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped to the floor.
Lilliana dropped to her knees and pressed on the open wound, applying pressure to try to stop the bleeding. Blood welled up between her fingers, its coppery scent making her gag. Her hands turned slick and threatened to slip off the site of the puncture. “Someone get Kirstie!”
Frank charged out of the library in search of the retirement home’s nurse. Lilliana pressed harder, willing Ruby to stop bleeding, but the pool of blood grew larger as seconds crept by.
After what seemed like an age, but was probably less than five minutes, Kirstie ran through the door with a package the size of a paperback book in her hand. “Someone call 9-1-1,” she yelled.
Willie held up his cell phone. “Already done.” Hopelessness sucked the strength from his voice.
Kirstie tore open the package and pulled out a surgical pad. “Let me take over,” she said to Lilliana.
Lilliana nodded and pulled her blood-soaked hands away from Ruby’s body. Kirstie sucked in a breath as blood weakly pulsed out of the wound, then slapped the pad in place and rose up on her knees to put her full weight on the injury.
Lilliana shook her head, then quickly looked at Willie. His face sagged and his eyes were the saddest Lilliana had ever seen them. After thirty years as a police officer, Willie had certainly seen his share of violence. He also shook his head, confirming what she already knew. Ruby would not survive this attack.
Sirens screamed outside as an ambulance pulled up in front. A few seconds later, a pair of EMTs hurried a gurney through the door. “Make way!”
Many who had been at the meeting had fled the room. Those who remained fell back to let the EMTs through. They pushed the gurney to the end of the room and stopped beside Kirstie. An EMT with graying hair clenched his jaw as he lowered the gurney, then lifted Ruby’s shoulders as a younger medic lifted her hips. Kirstie continued to apply pressure to the wound as best she could. Once Ruby was positioned and the gurney raised to its normal position, the young EMT gently pushed Kirstie away and took her place.
The seniors watched the EMTs in their race against time, a race that was already lost. Shock drained Kirstie’s face of color, her skin white as a shrike’s breast. Except for the purple bruise around her eye.
A shiver shook her body as Lilliana sank into the chair next to Willie. For the first time she saw the blood soaked into her clothes, felt the damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks. Her eyes fell to the carpet where a stain outlined the shape where Ruby’s prone form had lain. Lilliana shivered again.
Frank and Lenny Rothenberg, a regular member of the African Violet Club, stood in a corner whispering to one another. Nancy and Mary Boyle, a sweet woman who raised miniatures, had been joined by a couple of the new attendees just inside the door. Sarah Higgins had fled at some point. At least, that’s what Lilliana assumed since the president of the African Violet Club was nowhere in sight.
A tear slid down her face. Why did she feel so sad? She’d only just met Ruby. She didn’t know her. But she was a human being, and Lilliana couldn’t help but mourn her passing. If her grief was so strong, what must Willie be feeling?
She raised her eyes and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Willie,” she whispered and placed her hand over his.
He lifted his free hand to his eyes, wiped away the tears with a rough motion of the back of his hand. “I’d only just found her again.”
A fist squeezed her heart. The strangled words told her Ruby had been more than an old friend to Willie. How much more? And when had he lost her? “I’m sorry.”
“Who could have done such a thing?” Anguish twisted his face. “Why would anyone hurt Ruby?”
“I don’t know, Willie.” The words sounded so empty. Surely she could do better than that. “Did you encourage her to move to Rainbow Ranch?”
He shook his head. “She had no idea I was here when she decided to move in. She thought the place was so pretty, so peaceful outside the bustle of Tucson. I only met up with her three days ago. She was at the gospel hour. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I never expected to see her here.”
The gospel hour was scheduled every Tuesday morning in the game room. Most of the time it consisted of recorded music with the residents singing along, but occasionally a group from one of the churches in Benson or Bisbee or even Tucson would do a live performance. Lilliana, being of English stock and preferring a more dignified if less enthusiastic form of worship, had never tried it, but she knew a number of residents looked forward to it every week.
The funny-looking man who had taken her picture was at it again, using his cell phone to record the carnage. Lilliana felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise. Did he have no consideration or respect? She glared at him, but he was too involved with his picture taking to notice. She turned her attention back to Willie.
“You must have cared for her a great deal.” Lilliana hoped Willie would tell her more about Ruby, but her gentle hinting elicited only a sigh.
Willie’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. Someone with different upbringing would have given him a hug, but the British were not known for hugging. There must be something she could do to help. Food. People often offered food at times like this. She glanced at the plate holding the remains of Nancy’s cupcakes. Not that food, she decided. And, considering Willie’s ongoing battle with his weight, probably not any food.
There must be something else.
CHAPTER THREE
THE whine of another approaching siren announced the arrival of Rainbow Ranch’s chief of police long before he entered the library. The attractive young officer had little experience where homicide investi
gations were concerned. He was, however, the only police officer in Rainbow Ranch, and it went without saying that he would be the chief investigator into Ruby’s death.
Chief Cartwright’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in nervous swallows as soon as he saw the room splattered with blood. His mouth contorted into odd shapes for a few seconds before his tongue slicked across his lips. Relief flooded his face when he spotted Lilliana and Willie, who had helped him solve the prior murder—the first in the history of the village of Rainbow Ranch. He hastened to where they were sitting, ignoring the others in the room.
“Mrs. Wentworth,” he said by way of greeting.
“Good afternoon, Chief,” she said.
“What happened here?” He kept his eyes averted from the bloodstain on the rug.
“Ruby, uh...” Lilliana glanced at Willie for help.
“Robinson,” Willie said. The word came out flat.
“Ruby Robinson was stabbed with an ice pick.”
“An ice pick? Where did an ice pick come from?”
Lilliana wondered if the chief had ever seen an ice pick. They weren’t as common as they once were. No one bought blocks of ice any more; they bought bags of cubes from a freezer. “Frank was using it to show how to remove an overgrown African violet from its pot.”
“He used an ice pick?” Cartwright’s voice rose at the end.
Lilliana had no idea why the chief should be incredulous. What else would you use? Well, she supposed a screwdriver might do, but ice picks worked very well, thank you. She just nodded. Then, noticing exactly what Cartwright had said, she added, “We don’t know it was a he. I don’t think anyone saw who did it.”
Cartwright looked around the immediate area. Frank’s tools were still on the conference table, along with Nancy’s cupcakes and Lilliana’s plants. The murder weapon was missing. “Where is this ice pick?”
African Violet Club Mystery Collection Page 18
