African Violet Club Mystery Collection

by Elise M Stone

  The July heat was like a slap in the face when they exited the shop. “Maybe I’m not as ready as I thought I was,” Lilliana said.

  “I’m sure you can make it,” Christopher said. “Then we can have a nice leisurely lunch from what I bought at the gourmet grocery.”

  She hadn’t noticed the fourth shopping bag, the one with Pulaski’s Gourmet Grocery printed on the side. She couldn’t imagine what was in it, but since it came from Jaclyn’s store, it was sure to be delicious. And then she realized that Christopher didn’t mean to eat in the dining room.

  Her heart thudded in her ears. What would she do if he tried to kiss her again?

  While he’d offered a reasonable explanation for his relationship with Fox Fordyce, the fact that two people thought they needed to tell her about it gave her pause. “Thank you for the invitation, but I think I’d better set up my fairy garden. Perhaps another time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE next morning, Christopher extended his hand to Lilliana to assist her down the step from the retirement community van. So many residents had been interested in attending the wake for Fox Fordyce, they’d scheduled the van to drop them off and take them back once it was over.

  Apparently the retirees weren’t the only ones interested in the funeral. A line had formed on the steps on the funeral home. Sam Horn was snapping pictures of the crowd.

  Nancy and Mary had hurried ahead with the likely intention of grabbing the best seats possible. Surprisingly, Pieter and Harlan had also come on the expedition, as had Sarah and Bob Higgins, who attended most funerals and memorials. At least she and Christopher had met Fox in life. The others, she was sure, were merely curiosity-seekers.

  When she and Christopher reached the entrance, Sam spotted them and waved. While Lilliana smiled back, Christopher turned away. Did he not want his picture taken? Or did he not want to speak to Sam Horn?

  Once inside, they joined the line snaking its way toward a couple seated near the casket. A man somewhere in his forties, with the same angular build as Fox, sat beside a carefully groomed woman of about the same age. The man looked uncomfortable in a new suit and stiff white shirt. He ran a finger inside his collar every minute or so.

  Lilliana tapped Nancy, who was standing ahead of her in line, on the shoulder and asked, “Who is the young man?”

  As she’d expected, Nancy, an inveterate reader of obituaries, had already determined the answer to that question. “Tom Fordyce, Fox’s son. She only had the one boy. I read he lives in Ohio now. Something about the wife not wanting to move to the desert.”

  They shuffled forward a few more steps.

  Lilliana asked Christopher, “Did you ever meet Fox’s son?”

  Christopher shook his head, left his eyes averted when he answered. “I didn’t even know she had one. I told you we weren’t that close.” His breathing seemed labored.

  “Odd. You’d think a woman would talk about her child.” Then Lilliana realized she hadn’t said much about Anne to Christopher. But Anne was different, she thought. Anne wasn’t alive. And she had only gotten to know the handsome Scotsman over the past week. Surely the subject would come up sometime soon. But if what he’d told her was true, he’d spent several months in Fox Fordyce’s company. Surely they would have discussed children in all that time.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Christopher’s voice whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, nothing important.” She peered around Nancy’s shoulder to see how much longer they’d have to wait. They’d moved up to the point where there were only three or four people ahead of them. At last they reached the bereaved relatives.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Lilliana said in a rote recitation of what you always said to mourners whom you didn’t know very well. “I’d just gotten to know your mother. I’d hoped we could become friends, but unfortunately now that will never happen.”

  The young man thanked her, and Christopher added his condolences. They moved on.

  “Are these seats all right with you?” Christopher waved toward a pair of chairs in an otherwise full row toward the back of the room. She noticed Nancy and Mary seated a couple of rows ahead.

  “Fine,” she said, and took a seat. Christopher sat next to her. They had been two of the last in line, and Lilliana was glad they wouldn’t have to wait long before the service started.

  A silver-haired gentleman in a black suit entered the room and stood at the end of the line. When it was his turn, instead of adding his condolences, he leaned down and whispered something in Tom Fordyce’s ear. Tom got up and followed him out of the room.

  Nancy turned around and said, “I wonder what that was about.”

  “Probably some minor problem with the service or something,” Lilliana said. Nancy stared toward the exit, then asked the same question of Mary, who seemed more than willing to offer opinions, and started telling a story about when her husband died. As long as the funeral service wasn’t going to start right away, Lilliana thought she had time for one other thing. She turned to Christopher. “I’m going to find the ladies room. I’ll be right back.”

  He indicated he’d heard her, and she slipped out of her seat and went into the vestibule. She didn’t take much time in the restroom, and hurried out the door, hoping the service hadn’t started.

  And literally ran into Tom Fordyce, who had just come out of a door labeled Funeral Director across the hall. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Tom Fordyce answered.

  “I hope there isn’t any problem with the service?”

  He shook his head. “No, no problem.” He grimaced. “Just more paperwork. I didn’t write down the number of copies of the death certificate I needed.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing serious,” Lilliana said, then realizing how what she’d said might be taken, she added, “Not that death certificates aren’t serious.”

  “I’d better get inside so the service can begin.” He didn’t wait for a response, but rushed off in the direction of the viewing room. Lilliana followed him.

  The service was brief. A clergyman in a brown suit read traditional Bible passages and said a few words that sounded as if they could have applied to anyone, interspersed with some canned organ music. The music didn’t sound like any hymns Lilliana recognized, more like the background music that used to be played on soap operas. That was probably appropriate. Fox Fordyce hadn’t struck Lilliana as the church-going type.

  At the end, Christopher leaned over and told her he’d meet her at the van. She assumed he had to make the same kind of trip she’d made before the service. Since she expected to have to wait for him, she didn’t hurry to leave the room. They’d made some announcement about meeting at a restaurant afterwards—food following a funeral being one of those mandatory traditions—but most of the retirement home folks didn’t have money for restaurant meals.

  She passed through the lobby and opened the front door, but the van wasn’t parked outside yet. Rather than wait in the hot sun, Lilliana backed up a step or two and stood with the Higginses, making all the usual comments about how good the corpse looked and how nice the service was. She kept glancing up to see if Christopher was coming. The restroom visit seemed to be taking quite a long time for a man. She glanced up once again and was surprised to see him coming not out of the men’s room, but out of the funeral director’s office. Whatever had he been doing in there?

  The sound of an engine signaled the arrival of the van, followed by Raul poking his head inside the door to summon the seniors. Lilliana decided to go outside after all. Christopher caught up with her just as she lifted her foot to climb into the vehicle.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked him.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Christopher looked surprised.

  “No reason.” She reached the first empty seat and slid into it so she could sit next to the window. As soon as Christopher was seated beside her, she added, “I saw you come out of the funeral direc
tor’s office.”

  “There was a light out in the men’s room,” he explained. “I thought it might be a safety hazard, and I didn’t know who else to report it to.”

  There wasn’t much conversation on the trip back. If Lilliana’s own feelings were any indication of the others’, going to yet another funeral had reminded them of their own demise, an event that was closer than any of them would like to admit.

  It was still too early for lunch when they got back from the funeral. Christopher went back to his casita to change into something more casual, while Lilliana went to her apartment did the same.

  For a change, she didn’t feel like sitting and reading or grooming her African violets. She felt restless. It crossed her mind to take a stroll to Christopher’s casita while she waited for the dining room to open, but she didn’t want to seem too eager to pursue their relationship. She wished she could make up her mind. One minute she wanted to spend all her free time with him, and the next she wanted to avoid him.

  She decided to wander indoors and see who else might be about. She found Rebecca sitting in one of the easy chairs in the lobby, a crochet hook in hand with a length of white cotton trailing from it to a ball nestled in beside her. It looked like she was crocheting a doily. Who in the world used doilies any more?

  She sat in the matching armchair close by. “Hello, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca’s lips moved silently as she quickly completed a couple of stitches. “There.” She peered over her half-glasses and smiled. “Can’t lose count, you know, or the pattern won’t come out right.”

  “Do you crochet a lot?” Lilliana asked.

  “Depends on what you mean by a lot. I pretty much always have a project going, but I can’t work as long as I used to. My eyes get tired.” She took off her glasses and held them in her lap. “Do you crochet?”

  “Me? No. I never learned.”

  “I could teach you,” Rebecca said.

  “My African violets keep me busy,” Lilliana said. Spending her days crocheting sounded just a little too old ladyish for her.

  “So where was everyone this morning?” Rebecca put her glasses back on and resumed working on her doily.

  “Fox Fordyce’s funeral. There was quite a large turnout. I wasn’t aware so many people knew her. I suppose you’re one of the few who didn’t.”

  “Me?” Rebecca snorted. “I knew her all right.” The crochet hook flew faster in her fingers.

  “Oh?”

  “I know I don’t look it now,” Rebecca said, “but I used to be a rodeo queen myself back in the day.”

  “So you knew Fox from the rodeo,” Lilliana encouraged her.

  Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. ’Course, I was a little older than she was. I won all the barrel races before she started riding. Did calf roping and bronc riding, too. Back then women competed in all the events, just like the men.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “’Struth. Then Gene Autry came along and said women didn’t belong in the tough events. Said they should stick with barrel racing. Well, that’s all those men needed to ban us from competing.”

  “So how old were you when you met Fox Fordyce?” Lilliana was trying to envision the difference in ages. Rebecca looked so old and, yes, feeble, compared to the robust Fox Fordyce. Well, robust a week ago. Not so much now.

  “Twenty-five.” Rebecca closed her eyes and leaned back, a smile on her lips. “I was beautiful back then. Had all the cowboys after me. Drove the crowd wild, too, with my skirt flying up as I rode around those barrels, encouraging my horse with the crop, hair streaming in the breeze. I was always voted rodeo queen.”

  Rebecca’s eyes opened as her brow formed a frown. “Then Fox came along, sixteen if you believed her. I think she was closer to fourteen. Didn’t stop her from competing. If you could call it that.”

  “What do you mean?” Lilliana asked.

  “Well, when she first came up, she used to clock watch to make sure she won her division.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “See, barrel racing has divisions by time. So, if you know you’re not going to be the absolute fastest, you watch the times of the other horses and figure out how fast you need to go to be first in the slower divisions. You clock watch. Then you hold your horse back just enough to be in a slower division.”

  “That doesn’t sound fair,” Lilliana said.

  “It isn’t. But the rule against it isn’t always enforced, even if they catch you at it. Fox, who was always flirting with the judges, rarely got called on it. But that wasn’t the worst of it.” Rebecca lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “What else?”

  “Drugs.”

  “That’s got to be illegal,” Lilliana said.

  “Well, it isn’t. Technically. Or wasn’t back when Fox and I were racing. She’d take a high-spirited horse, too high strung to compete normally, and shoot him up with tranquilizers so’s he could race without knocking over all the barrels. I would never abuse a horse like that. So Fox started winning more than me. After a while, I figured out what she was doing and knew I’d never win again.”

  “That must have made you angry. Or sad.”

  “It did,” Rebecca said vehemently. “I decided it was time to give up the rodeo. Got a clerical job over to Fort Huachuca. Worked there thirty years. Got a good retirement, too.” She smiled.

  She might have continued the conversation, but just then Christopher showed up. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LILLIANA could feel the eyes boring into her as she and Christopher entered the dining room, although every time she turned toward the heat of the laser stares, the person looked away. This was usually followed by a whispered conversation with someone in a neighboring chair. She supposed she should ignore it. Eventually, the retirees would tire of gossiping about the latest couple and move on to someone else. Still, it made her uncomfortable.

  Christopher seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. In fact, he made the situation worse by heading for a table for two near the window rather than joining one of the larger tables with other people they knew.

  “I thought it might be nice to have a view while we ate,” he said as he held out a chair for her.

  She smiled as she sat down. The view wasn’t spectacular, consisting mostly of the empty tennis courts and the start of the labyrinthine paths that wound their way behind the casitas. She supposed she’d be seeing more of those now that heading off toward the foothills was out of the question. As she remembered, there were periodic rest stops with benches at various points along the way for quiet contemplation.

  Once the server had delivered their lunches—a chef’s salad for Lilliana and roast chicken for Christopher—he started a conversation. “Do you have any plans for this afternoon?”

  Lilliana’s heart did a little tha-thump. “I thought I’d start some new plants. Since I’ve actually sold some in the Camerons’ shop, I’d better make sure I have a good supply.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed.

  “Did you have something else in mind?” She wished her heart wasn’t beating so fast.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He cut off a piece of chicken and swirled it in the gravy before lifting his fork in the air. Before putting the food in his mouth, he said, “I saw a flyer near the reception desk about a talent show.”

  Lilliana had seen that flyer. A copy had been put in every resident’s mailbox. Having no talent—other than for growing African violets—she’d tossed it in the trash. But Christopher had talent. “I think you should enter. You play the piano so beautifully.”

  He chewed his chicken slowly. At last he swallowed. “I was considering it. I was also considering entering as a duet.”

  What did he mean? Then she realized exactly what he meant. “Oh, I couldn’t. My voice isn’t that strong. And I’d be frightened of singing in front of people.”

  “That’s w
hy they make microphones. You don’t need to sing loud.” He drank some iced tea. His eyes met hers over the edge of the glass. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. I’ll be right there with you.”

  She found it hard to breathe. Had something gone wrong with the air conditioning?

  He put the glass back on the table and cut off another piece of chicken. “Anyway, I thought we might practice together this afternoon, find a song or two we both like.” Seeing her reluctance, he added, “You don’t have to commit to the contest now. I just thought it might be nice to sing with you again. We can see how it goes.” Another pause. “You can decide on the contest later.”

  An afternoon with Christopher sounded very nice. But she really should work on her plants. If she let them go for too many days in a row, it would be difficult to get back on schedule. Then she chided herself. She knew she was making excuses. Because she was afraid.

  She was a self-sufficient woman. She’d had to be since Charles had had his stroke. She’d gotten used to being alone. A twinge grabbed her chest. Not entirely used to it, she had to admit.

  “Lilliana?” He was waiting for her answer.

  “I’d be willing to try it,” she said reluctantly. Then, as joy lifted inside her like a colorful balloon, she smiled and added, “I’d love to sing with you again.”

  “That’s settled then.” He smiled in return.

  He really did have a magnificent smile. Her smile widened in response, and it wasn’t long before the two of them were grinning at one another like two lovesick adolescents.

  She didn’t even mind when, after they finished eating, he took her hand as they left the dining room in plain sight of the all the residents of the retirement community.

  “When is this talent show?” Lilliana asked, thinking about how long they’d have to practice.

  “A week from Saturday.”

  Her body tensed as if a quartet of mischievous brownies had grabbed each of her hands and feet and was pulling on them as hard as they could. “Surely not so soon. We won’t have enough time. We have to find the right song, and the right key, and memorize the words, and...”