Bindweed

by Janis Harrison

  Abner was the third generation to run Garrett’s Grocery. I didn’t shop there. He and I had an ongoing feud over the semi-trucks that unloaded his merchandise in the alley. Because the trucks had to angle their way to the back of his store, they penned in my delivery vehicle. It often took some major finagling on Lew’s part to free the van.

  I’d asked Abner for some cooperation. If he’d let me know when a truck was on the way, Lew could park in front of the flower shop. Abner had tactlessly informed me that he had more important things to do than alert me to an impending delivery.

  Giving Abner a wide-eyed, innocent look, I said, “What do you think we talk about?” Turning his question into a question irritated him.

  He glared at me. “If Melba or Yvonne didn’t get in touch with you, Bretta, how did you know that Toby had been brought to the hospital?”

  Bailey gave my hand a warning squeeze, but I ignored him. “The sheriff called me.”

  Heads jerked up. All eyes were on me. Melba asked, “Why did Sheriff Hancock call you?”

  When I didn’t answer right away, Abner snorted his contempt and walked across the room. I watched him, wondering if something was bothering him—other than me. He stared out the window, seemingly unconcerned with this new topic of conversation, but his head was cocked, as if he was straining so he wouldn’t miss a word.

  Bailey whispered in my ear, “Not cool, sweets. How are you going to get out of this?”

  I was wondering the same thing when that decision was taken out of my hands. Attention shifted from me when the door opened. Avery Wheeler shuffled into the room. He looked like a sad old walrus, baggy body, short neck. His prominent salt-and-pepper mustache drooped. His bulbous nose was red, his eyes weepy. The hand on the crook of his cane trembled. His gaze swept one and all until his eyes met mine.

  For a moment his somber expression lightened, and he almost smiled. But his burden was too great. Wearily, Avery shook his head. “It’s over. Toby is gone. He never regained consciousness.”

  Silence greeted his announcement. Then I heard the tiniest of sighs. Was relief behind that gentle gasp of expelled breath? Was Toby’s killer in this room? Did he or she feel safe now that Toby was dead?

  Overwhelmed by my thoughts, I turned and buried my face in Bailey’s broad chest.

  Chapter Three

  I managed to wait until Bailey and I were in the SUV before I demanded, “Did you hear that sigh when Avery said that Toby never regained consciousness?”

  Bailey shook his head. “I can’t say that I did.”

  “Damn. I was hoping you could help me pinpoint where it came from. Then I’d have a clue as to who I should question first.”

  “Whoa. What’s incriminating about a sigh? We’d just been told that Toby had passed away. I felt like sighing, too.”

  “It sounds weird, Bailey, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I heard a sigh of relief, not sorrow. It makes me think the killer was in the waiting room with us. He or she was relieved that Toby didn’t have the chance to—”

  “Bretta, Bretta, what am I going to do with you?”

  My chin shot up. “Don’t patronize me. Someone maliciously tied a hornet’s nest to Toby’s bedroom doorknob. Harmon knew Toby had a heart problem. I don’t like Abner Garrett. He’s irritating. I don’t know if there was something going on that would make him target Toby, but I can find out. In fact, I need to research all the Hawthorn Street business owners. Did I tell you that Toby never strayed from our street?”

  “No, you hadn’t mentioned that.”

  I grabbed my purse off the seat and rifled through the contents. Unsuccessful, I said, “Could you switch on the dome light, please?”

  Bailey hit the switch and the interior blossomed with illumination. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Found it.” I held up a notebook. “I want to make a list of suspects while they’re fresh in my mind. And I can’t forget Mr. Barker.” In case Bailey wasn’t familiar with the name, I added, “He owns Merry’s Delights, the bakery. I don’t suspect him, but did I tell you the new woman he has working behind the counter made a derogatory comment to Toby?”

  Bailey shook his head. “Bretta, are you hearing yourself? You’re rambling on and on, snatching and grabbing any theory that pops into your head. Slow down, honey. You’re on an adrenaline rush. When you crash, it’s going to hurt.” His tone softened. “Nothing you do tonight or tomorrow or even next week is going to change the fact. Toby is dead, sweetheart. Catching his killer won’t bring him back. Take time to mourn his passing, or at least acknowledge that he’s gone.”

  “What good will that do?” I fought back tears. “If I keep busy, it won’t be nearly as painful.”

  We rode in silence for a while, then Bailey said, “If you truly believe that, then ask your questions. You won’t win any popularity contests, but if it helps keep you sane, then go for it. I’ll cover your back.”

  I froze. No “Mind your own business.” No “Keep out of this.” No “Let the authorities handle it.” I’ll cover your back.

  Bailey’s caring offer opened the floodgates. Tears filled my eyes and brimmed over. I slumped against the seat. “It’s not fair, Bailey. Why Toby? He was so uncomplicated, so unassuming.”

  Bailey pulled into my garage and shut off the SUV’s engine. Before he hit the button to lower the garage door, he gathered me tenderly in his arms. “Bretta, Toby had ties to the people on Hawthorn Street, but what about the rest of his life? Just because you briefly visit with him a few times a week doesn’t mean you really know him. There are too many unanswered questions. A good investigation is conducted in layers.”

  I sniffed a couple of times. “Carl taught me that. To make his point clear, he used a zinnia as an analogy.”

  “Why a zinnia?”

  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “Obvious reason. I’m a florist. I can relate best to a flower.”

  Bailey shook his head. “I get that, but why a zinnia specifically?”

  “Oh. It’s because the zinnia belongs to the composite family of plants. The flower heads have tight layers of petals. Carl said the stem of the zinnia is the foundation, which is what a case is built on. Next is the outer row of petals. Most of the time he believed this was relevant but fundamental information. Each consecutive row of petals overlays the preceding row. Just like fact upon fact has juxtaposition.”

  Bailey leaned back. “I get it. The progression of petals grows smaller and smaller as they near the center of the flower.”

  “Just as a case advances toward the ultimate goal—capturing the villain.”

  Bailey’s eyes twinkled with humor. “I think I would have liked your husband. Carl sounds as if he was a fine man.”

  I reached up and put my hand against Bailey’s cheek. “He was, but so are you.”

  He turned his head and kissed the sensitive area near my thumb, kissed my wrist, but eventually he found my lips. I wound my arms around his neck. I put my thoughts aside and lost myself in this man who understood me so well.

  I’m not a light sleeper, but the noise that woke me the next morning could have roused the dead. I winced as my thoughts touched on Toby. Last night’s events were surreal. Who was responsible for the hornet’s nest in Toby’s house? Why? Why? Why?

  Thump. Thump. Thump!

  I listened to the sound of a heavy object bumping down the attic stairs. I glanced at the clock on my side table. Quarter after eight. What was going on? Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I grabbed my robe and went to investigate. I stepped out into the hall and saw my father wrestling with a trunk that was wedged in the doorway that led to the attic.

  Albert McGinness was in his seventies. I’d inherited his blue eyes, and was working up to a full head of gray hair just like his. He was a handsome, distinguished man with a pile of money in his bank account. He’d invented some branding gizmo in Texas that had netted him a small fortune. He’s artistic and creative, and we’re just en
ough alike to cause friction.

  I’d been unusually busy at the flower shop lately, so I hadn’t paid much attention to my father. I saw that he’d dropped a few pounds. His paunchy stomach was flatter, his skin a deep golden tan. I glanced down at my arm and saw the pasty white of a woman who spent too much time indoors. But my stomach was in better shape than it used to be.

  I’d lost one hundred pounds after Carl died, but food was my nemesis. I tried to remember that I ate to live, not lived to eat. In the past, any emotional upheaval in my life had been remedied by devouring whatever was close at hand. Chocolate, potato chips, ice cream, and cashews were all comfort foods, but they defeated my attempt to keep the lost weight from reappearing. Why is it that when I’m upset, I never crave radishes or carrots?

  Just watching my father made me wonder if I could talk DeeDee into fixing French toast topped with blueberry syrup for breakfast. I pushed that thought away, and said, “What are you doing, Dad?”

  He whirled around. “Bretta. You’re awake.” He waved a hand airily. “That’s just as well. You need to get dressed and eat breakfast. You’ll be more receptive to Abby’s ideas if you have a full stomach.”

  “Abby?” I murmured. Then remembered. Abigail must equal Abby, which in turn equaled the interior decorator. I shook my head. “The meeting has to be canceled. A friend of mine passed away last night. Lois can’t handle the flower shop alone.”

  “But this is your day off, and I have the library almost ready for our presentation.”

  “You have it ready? Isn’t it up to that DuPree woman to see to whatever needs to be done?”

  “She’s doing more than her share, Bretta. And please don’t refer to her as ‘that Dupree woman.’ She has excellent ideas. We’re lucky to have her helping us.”

  It was showdown time. I wasn’t in the mood for any of this, but I had to get a couple of things straight. In a reasonably kind tone, I said, “Dad, I haven’t hired her yet. I haven’t given my okay to anything. The last time I looked, my name was on the deed to this house.”

  I knew I’d gone one step too far when my father’s eager expression changed to one of dejection. “I know this is your home, daughter. Nothing concerning the furnishings has been ordered or decided. All I ask is that you give Abby and me an hour. I think you’ll be pleased with what we have in mind.” His tone turned wheedling. “Can’t you call Lois and tell her you’ll be late? I told Abby you’d be a hard sell, but I think we’ve hit on the right theme for the rooms up here. We’ve put in a lot of time on this presentation. Can’t you give us one hour?”

  I thought about the schedule involved in Toby’s funeral. Avery had told us last night that he would plan Toby’s funeral service for Tuesday. If that was the case, we wouldn’t do any designing until Monday, when Toby would lie in state. Lois could probably handle the calls that would come in this morning. If Lew was in an agreeable mood, he might lend a hand. He would be at the flower shop getting the banker’s birthday bouquets loaded in the van for delivery to the country club.

  My father saw I was considering his plea. As an added incentive, he said, “It might not take an hour. Once you get the general drift of what we have in mind, you can look over our ideas at your leisure.”

  I nodded. “All right. I’ll stay, but I have to call Lois again. I told her last night that Toby had passed away and to be ready for a hectic morning. Once the word gets out, we’ll be inundated with orders.”

  My father shuffled uncomfortably. “I guess you should know, the word is already out. The newspaper has the story on the front page. It says the sheriff’s department is investigating your friend’s death because of ‘suspicious circumstances.’”

  I waited for his inevitable questions about what these suspicious circumstances might be, but Dad fooled me. He went back to the attic doorway and attacked the trunk with renewed energy. He got it free of the door frame and hefted it onto a two-wheeled dolly that leaned against the wall.

  As he rolled the trunk past me, he said, “Don’t come into the library until we call you. I want to see the surprise on your face when you get your first glimpse of our proposal.”

  If he’d taken the time to look at me, he would’ve had a preview of that anticipated look of surprise. I couldn’t believe my father had passed up the opportunity to probe the meaning of the “suspicious circumstances” surrounding Toby’s death.

  When my father lived in Texas, he’d subscribed to the River City Daily newspaper, where he’d read of my success in solving a couple of cases. He’d come to Missouri with the wild notion of forming a partnership—McGinness and Solomon Detective Agency. I’d put a stop to that. It was one thing to dabble in sleuthing, but a totally different realm of existence to do it for pay. When I’m involved in an investigation, it’s because I’m personally motivated. I either knew the deceased or someone I care about is under suspicion and I want to prove his innocence.

  My father’s lack of interest in Toby’s death was puzzling. I followed Dad to the elevator that saved steps from the first and second floors. “So?” I said. “Did you draw any conclusions from the newspaper article?”

  Dad pushed the button, and the elevator door creaked open. “Not really. Just skimmed the piece. I had other things on my mind.”

  I moved so I could see his face. Not one iota of curiosity, just a few beads of sweat trickling from his hairline down to his temple. I helped him roll the dolly into the elevator, then stepped back into the hallway. Before he pushed the button, I offered him a juicy tidbit. “I have inside information that came directly from Sid.”

  Dad’s lips twisted into a grimace at the mention of the sheriff’s name. Sid and Dad didn’t get along. There’s an antagonism between them that just won’t go away. They’d almost come to blows the first time they met, when my father had boasted to Sid about the detective agency. Sid was proprietorial about his law-enforcement position in Spencer County and took my father’s idea as a personal affront.

  My father’s lips smoothed into an ingratiating smile. “It’s about time the sheriff recognized the fact that my daughter has brains as well as beauty.” He beamed at me like a proud papa.

  It was too much sweetness before breakfast. I didn’t understand my father. Just when I thought I had him pegged, he did an about-face. Where was his curiosity regarding Toby’s death? Since my father had moved into this house, he’d poked his nose into anything that had a surreptitious feel to it. Toby’s untimely demise certainly qualified. What was the deal?

  The elevator door started to close. I took a step toward my room but stopped. Abigail. Abby. My father was quite the charmer, quite the lady’s man. Maybe he was infatuated with Ms. Dupree.

  I frowned. Something about him had struck me as different. I’d noticed his weight loss and his tan, but I suddenly realized it was his clothes. Whether my father was puttering around the house or going out on the town, he favored dress slacks, polished leather shoes, and conservative shirts. This morning he was dressed in faded blue jeans, sneakers, and an ordinary white T-shirt. His arms looked muscular for a man in his seventies. Was he going for the youthful look? Why?

  I spun back to the elevator and pressed my lips to the crack around the door facing. “Dad, how old is Abigail Dupree?”

  His huffy answer echoed up the elevator shaft.

  “That’s hardly relevant, daughter.”

  I walked to the horseshoe-shaped staircase that curved gracefully to the bottom floor. Leaning over the railing, I looked down into the entry hall. After a few minutes, my father came into view. “Dad, Ms. Dupree’s age might not be relevant, but I’d like to know.”

  He glanced up at me but continued on to the library with his burden. “She’s thirty-two years old,” he said. Then he added testily, “Your mother raised you to be a courteous, thoughtful woman. I expect to see that person present in the library when Abby and I are ready for you.”

  Uh-oh. I rarely heard that tone from my father. I saluted his back, spun on my heel, and wa
lked back to my bedroom.

  Chapter Four

  I got dressed before I called Lois about my change of plans. I assured her I’d be at the flower shop no later than eleven o’clock. It wasn’t even nine, but she said the phones had been ringing when she’d come in the back door. I told her to put a couple of lines on hold and do the best she could.

  It’s faster going downstairs by the back staircase, but this morning I took the main steps to the entry hall. I loved the view from this lofty perch. With time on my hands, I paused on the polished oak riser to appreciate the beauty. The morning sun shone through the windows that flanked the front door. The light caught the cut-glass prisms on the chandelier that was suspended from the second-story ceiling, and created a mosaic pattern on the parquet floor.

  I’d painted the walls a soft butternut, a warm, neutral shade that showcased the house’s antique furnishings. The horseshoe-shaped staircase blocked the view from the front entrance down the long central hall, but I knew each room intimately. I’d personally gotten down on my knees and brought the gloss back to the wooden floors. I’d refinished woodwork until my hands were so sore I could barely grip my florist knife, but the labor had paid off. The rooms were just as I’d envisioned.

  The ground floor contained the library, formal dining room, ballroom, and kitchen. Connected off the kitchen were my father and DeeDee’s living quarters. When my father first arrived, I’d offered him his choice of rooms upstairs, but he’d declined, saying he liked the proximity to the kitchen.

  At the end of the hall, a pair of French doors led to a terrace that looked out on a garden in the process of being rejuvenated. The work had come to a halt while Missouri experienced one of its hottest, driest summers on record. Now that it was September, the weather was cooler, and we’d had some much-needed rain. Eddie, my landscaper, was going full steam. He knew exactly what I wanted in the garden, so I wasn’t concerned with his progress. The same couldn’t be said for my next project. Turning this mansion into a boardinghouse had been an idea born out of loneliness.