Bindweed

by Janis Harrison

  “No.”

  I stared at his hand. “If you don’t need that gun, can you put it away? It makes me nervous.”

  “It isn’t loaded,” he said, but he slipped the weapon behind his back and into the waistband of his jeans. “Is that better?”

  “I’m not sure.” I’d been paralyzed with fear, but now that my preconceived notion of danger was gone, my knees buckled. Bailey was at my side in an instant and helped me over to the porch steps. He sat next to me and took my icy hand in his.

  I asked, “What were you doing?”

  He gave me an embarrassed grin before he explained, “I’m working on a scene in my book. It’s been a while since I’ve been decked out in a vest and held a gun in my hand. I was hoping that if I reenacted a search-and-seizure scenario, I could describe it more accurately.”

  “If you can capture on paper the tension I just witnessed, you’ll have one helluva book. I was terrified.”

  “I’m sorry. If I’d known you were anywhere around, I’d have clued you in.”

  I thought about that for a moment, then said, “No. That wouldn’t have worked. You’d have been self-conscious. This way you were right there in the role. When you identified yourself as ‘Special Agent Bailey Monroe’ in that stern, no-nonsense tone, I got goose bumps. If I were a criminal, I’d have been out that door in a flash. I’d have surrendered in a heartbeat.”

  Bailey arched an eyebrow at me. “Really?” He ran a finger along my jaw. “So, if I want you to surrender to my wishes, all I have to do is talk in a stern, no-nonsense tone and identify myself as—” His voice deepened. “I’m Special Agent Bailey Monroe. Drop your defenses and come into my arms.”

  I complied with a giggle, pressing my cheek into his shoulder. The vest was stiff and hard against my skin. I wiggled about but couldn’t find the familiar hollow where I liked to rest my head.

  With a sigh of regret, I leaned away from him. “That vest stops more than bullets, Special Agent. It puts the kibosh on intimacy. I feel as if I’m trying to cuddle a hunk of wood.”

  “I can take it off. Come inside, and we’ll get comfortable.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.

  I jerked upright. “That’s why I came over here.” Bailey’s eyes widened. I hurried to say, “No. No, not that. Let’s go on a real date tonight. We can get dressed up. Go to a nice restaurant. Maybe even find some music where we can dance.”

  Bailey thought about it. “We can do that. Why the change of plans?”

  I touched his cheek before standing. “I want to forget work, death, and murder for an evening. I want to be happy and carefree and spend time with a handsome man.”

  Bailey stood and put his arms around me. Once again the vest kept me from getting as close to him as I wanted. Miffed, I said, “I’m glad you don’t wear this thing often. Carl had one, too, and he wore it whenever he was on duty. I’m sorry to say it’s still as unromantic as ever. I could have sworn Carl told me years ago that some new product was being researched to make these vests lighter, less stiff, and more user-friendly.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. I need to do some checking in that area. I’ve decided to include a chapter about the equipment we use to make an arrest. Technology advances at such a fast rate that, once I write this particular segment, it will probably be outdated, but I’m going to give it a go.”

  I ran my hands over his padded chest. “The vest may be stiff and unromantic, but I’m glad it’s kept you safe.” I looked up at him and gave him my rendition of the eyebrow waggle. In a sultry voice, I said, “But you won’t need this extra protection tonight.”

  Bailey chuckled. “Since you brought up the subject of protection —” He left his sentence hanging suggestively.

  My cheeks warmed to a fiery red. I gulped. “I—uh—we—uh—” I floundered to an embarrassed halt.

  Bailey shook his head. “You’re a tease, Bretta Solomon, but I can play that same game. The protection I’m referring to has to do with your feet. You might want to wear steel-toed shoes tonight. I’m not much of a dancer.”

  A short time later I walked into my home with a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. As I approached the kitchen, the bounce turned to a shuffle, and the smile shriveled like a tender flower that had been nipped by frost. My father’s voice was expected, but the trill of female laughter that followed his comment wasn’t. I stepped to the doorway and looked in.

  My father was squeezing the juice of a lime into a shallow bowl. Next to him on the counter were a blender, an ice tray, a box of powdered sugar, a bottle of gin, and a bunch of green leaves. Abigail DuPree was at his side, soaking up every word, grinning up at him with unabashed adoration.

  He was saying, “The trick to a good mint julep is the powdered sugar. It dissolves quickly and doesn’t leave granules to spoil the silky smoothness of the drink.”

  “And we have fresh mint from the garden, too,” said Abigail. “That has to improve the flavor.”

  “Most assuredly,” said my father. “As will the paper-thin goblets I found in the china cabinet. Bretta is fond of saying, ‘Presentation is everything.’”

  I spoke up. “Really? I say that?”

  My father turned a beaming smile on me. “Yes, you do, and I’m glad you’re home. I should have the drinks ready in a jiffy. We’re having ours out on the veranda. Would you care to join us?”

  I shook my head. “You two go ahead. I have to get ready. Bailey is picking me up later. We’re going out tonight.”

  My father put down the lime and faced me. “But you can’t. I have this evening all planned. Abigail is joining us for dinner. DeeDee has fixed a true Texan feast. We’re going to eat, drink, and play Scrabble. It’ll be a good chance for you to get to know Abby, and it’ll be something different to do.”

  My eyes narrowed, but I kept my tone even. “I want something different tonight, too, but my plans involve relaxing with Bailey.”

  “But—”

  Abigail touched my father lightly on the shoulder. The gesture was fluid and easy, as if she’d done it a hundred times. “It’s fine, Albert,” she said. “Bretta can sample the beefsteak chili tomorrow. As for Scrabble, it might be best if it’s just the two of us. Spelling is not my strong point. I’d hate to embarrass myself in front of a prospective client.”

  Her easy way of accepting the situation and soothing my father was appreciated, but I still didn’t trust her. What was her game? I nodded politely and turned to go upstairs, but stopped when Abigail said, “I have a suggestion you might want to consider.”

  I waited to see where this was going, though I had a pretty good idea. Neither Abigail nor my father understood that decorating the bedrooms was not my primary concern. They didn’t know that thoughts of Toby intruded on my peace of mind time after time.

  I didn’t want to argue. I wanted to go gently into this date with Bailey. I needed time with him. I needed that more than I needed rooms painted and papered and prepared for strangers who might not appreciate the final outcome.

  I was primed to utter those very words when Abigail said, “If you have a teal blue dress, I suggest you wear it tonight. That color with your eyes will knock Bailey’s socks off.” She smiled at my surprise and said quietly, “A woman has to maintain her sanity any way she can. Dressing up and going out with a handsome man often helps.”

  I smiled uncertainly and took myself off to my room. As I climbed the stairs, I thought about the stressful week coming up. On Monday we’d fill the sympathy orders for Toby’s funeral. That evening I planned to attend his visitation. The funeral was on Tuesday, with the reading of the will later that day. So much sadness lay ahead, but this was only Saturday. I had tonight.

  When I closed my bedroom door, I left my sorrow in the hall. I lounged in a bath of bubbles, played soft music on the radio, and dressed in the teal blue sheath dress I hadn’t worn in ages. To my amazement, the dress fit even better than before I’d pushed it to the back of my closet. I strapped on sandals with heels tha
t showed off the delicate curve of my legs. I fussed over my hair, my makeup, and my choice of perfume. When six o’clock rolled around, I was ready and waiting.

  Right on time, Bailey parked in the driveway. I was watching for him, but when he didn’t immediately get out of the truck, I waited to see what he would do. He sat there behind the steering wheel, staring at the house, expecting me to materialize. Stubbornly, I waited him out. I wanted to be collected at the door. When I didn’t show, he grinned, got out, and headed up the front walk.

  I stepped away from the window and waited for the doorbell to ring. The melodious chimes made my heartbeat quicken. Taking my time, I crossed the foyer and opened the door. Bailey was dressed in cocoa brown dress slacks with a cream shirt and plaid sports jacket. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but he didn’t need one to impress me. The open neck of his shirt was enough. The evening was already off to a wonderful start. Then he held out a single red rose.

  When I didn’t make a move to accept his gift, a frown creased his face. “Is it wrong to give flowers to a florist?”

  Finding my voice, I whispered, “Nothing could be more right.” I took the rose, slipped my hand through the crook of his arm, and we went out to his truck. He opened the passenger door for me and stole a kiss once I was seated.

  On the ride into River City, I encouraged Bailey to talk. Since he’d just gotten off the phone with his agent before picking me up, the progress of his book was uppermost in his mind.

  “I told Elaine about my plans to include a chapter on the equipment we use in the line of duty. She agreed it would make for interesting reading, but I’d have to preface the chapter with something like ‘as of this writing’ because innovative marvels are being created almost every day.

  “This afternoon, after you’d gone, I did some preliminary research on Kevlar. It’s a petroleum-based material. Since it’s manufactured from toxic chemicals, other options are being explored. Apparently, back in the midsixties, during the Vietnam War, military scientists began searching for an alternative to Kevlar for protecting soldiers on the battlefield. I’ve come across a program that’s being funded by an army research grant. The man in charge is a molecular biologist in Wyoming. Genetic engineering is involved and it sounds bizarre.”

  As we crossed the city, we discussed books we’d read and movies we liked. We touched on several subjects, but not in any great depth. It was an evening made for light, easy conversation.

  The restaurant Bailey had chosen was an old favorite of mine. The food was excellent, the company superb. During dinner I listened to stories about his career, about his plans for the book he was writing. And all the time I drifted in a rosy glow.

  Once dinner was over, Bailey took me to a lounge that featured music from the sixties. We found a dark corner and settled in, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. When the band played an old Ray Charles tune, “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” Bailey led me onto the dance floor. It was romance at its finest. Our bodies blended to the rhythm. His arm around my waist kept me snug against him while we circled the room.

  We danced to several more songs, but by eleven o’clock the floor was crowded. Serious partygoers had arrived, and the noise level had escalated. I suggested it was time to go. Bailey agreed, and we headed for his truck.

  The night had turned cold. Streetlights wore halos of wispy fog. A gentle breeze swirled the mist in an eerie pattern, blowing leaves across the windshield of Bailey’s truck. We were only a few blocks from Hawthorn. I had the urge to see the street one more time before I went home.

  Unsure how Bailey would react, I kept my voice casual. “Do you mind driving by the flower shop? I don’t want to go inside, but I’d like to give it a—uh—visual check.” I glanced at Bailey’s profile to see how he took my request.

  “If I turn here,” he said, easing the wheel to the right, “we can travel the entire length of Hawthorn. Would that suit you?”

  I met his knowing gaze and shook my head. “Am I that transparent? I should keep you guessing, but that takes too much effort.”

  “Has Toby’s death been on your mind all evening?”

  “No. Thanks to you, I’ve managed to push it away.” I patted his thigh. “You were the perfect date. This evening was wonderful. It was just what I needed. But I can’t squash my thoughts forever.”

  “Bretta, with me you don’t have to try. I’ve been there. I know how a case can eat away at you. It’s the controlling part of your personality. You have to have all the questions answered.”

  I made a face. “I’m not sure I like that description. Controlling sounds overbearing and not very charming.”

  “You’ve already charmed me. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  We drove in silence for a time, then I asked, “Did I tell you that Sid took me into Toby’s house this afternoon?”

  “No. Was the experience enlightening?”

  “It was, up to a point.” I proceeded to tell him what I’d seen. When I finished, Bailey commented, “Sounds to me like Toby was programmed.”

  “Programmed?”

  “Yes. Agnes tried to anticipate every eventuality in her son’s life—a home, a job, his meals, his recreation, his friends. Over and over, like a recording, she drilled into him how he should spend his time.”

  “Do you think she threatened him with dire consequences?”

  “I doubt it. She probably felt it wasn’t necessary. Toby was impressionable. Agnes had years of directing Toby—what he should do, where he should go, and to whom he should speak. He wasn’t ever going to be what society terms ‘normal,’ but Agnes knew Toby couldn’t be without human contact. A recluse is an oddity and vulnerable to outside forces. By introducing him to people of her choosing, she could give him a controlled environment, hoping to bind him to a life she thought would keep him safe.”

  “Before she died, do you think there was already someone in his life she feared might influence Toby in a bad way?”

  “That’s highly possible. It would go a long way toward explaining why Agnes went to such lengths to make provisions for Toby.”

  Seeing that we were on Hawthorn, I wiped a spot of moisture off my side window. “Drive slow, if you can.”

  “It’s late enough that there isn’t much traffic.”

  Bailey let the truck’s engine idle us along. One by one I gazed at the stores that represented Toby’s clients. Mr. Barker’s bakery, Merry’s Delights. Leona’s Boutique. My flower shop. Agnes hadn’t chosen Josh from the video store as one of Toby’s stops. After seeing the electronic setup in Toby’s bedroom, I decided I needed another chat with that young man. Abner Garrett of Garrett’s Grocery Store was next. Followed by Harmon Purvis’s pharmacy, Melba’s candle store, and Diana’s discount shop.

  Musing aloud, I said, “It must have worried Agnes no end that Toby might meet someone she thought would be unacceptable. Those last few months before she died must have been heart wrenching as she planned Toby’s life.”

  “That’s where the protectiveness comes in. From what you’ve told me, she did everything she could to make his future secure.”

  “But it didn’t work, did it?”

  “That’s a given, since Toby is dead.”

  “But why is he dead? Was he mixed up in some devious plot? Was someone exploiting his naivete? I feel sure that Agnes taught him right from wrong. Are we dealing with some slick-tongued shyster who preyed on Toby’s gullibility? Did this person see an opportunity to use Toby? And to what purpose?”

  “Again, those are excellent questions, but you’ll have to ask someone who’s more attuned to the facts. I’ve picked up bits and pieces from what you’ve—”

  “Look, Bailey. Flashing red lights.” I leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “I can’t tell, but they look like they’re at Yvonne’s house.” I quickly amended that statement. “No. No. They’re at Toby’s.”

  Bailey eased down on the accelerator. We could have closed the distance quickly, but Bailey h
ad to brake when an officer waved us to a stop. Bailey rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Police business. You’ll have to take another route.”

  From my perch on the edge of my seat, I scanned the uniformed figures. Sid had to be here. Finally I spotted him, leaning against the rear fender of one of the patrol cars. I opened my door and started toward him. Hearing rapid footsteps behind me, I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see Bailey. The officer was bearing down on me. I didn’t want trouble, so I stopped, but I called out to Sid. “Sheriff? Can I speak to you?”

  Sid looked up and grimaced. But after a moment, he said, “Let her through.”

  I didn’t need any more encouragement.

  Chapter Nine

  Sid gave me the once-over, taking in my stylish dress and high-heeled sandals. He looked past me to Bailey’s truck and said, “Out and about on a Saturday night? Must be nice.”

  “What’s going on, Sid?”

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  Patiently, I said, “Yes, Sid. We had a lovely time. Why all the patrol cars?”

  Wearily, he rubbed a hand across his face. “I’ve wrapped up this case. We have a suspect in custody.”

  Craning my neck, I could see a silhouette in the backseat of Sid’s car, but I couldn’t make out who it was. I turned to Sid for answers but bit back the words when he winced as if in pain. Taking a closer look, I saw he was paler than usual and his eyes were bloodshot. I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Been better. I suppose you had a tasty meal in some fancy restaurant.” In a wistful tone, he said, “I remember a time when I ate at a leisurely pace from an honest-to-goodness plate.” He tried to take a deep breath but flinched. “Haven’t felt good all day. Earlier I had a chili dog served on a flimsy piece of cardboard, followed by a nasty case of indigestion.”

  “I have some Rolaids in my purse. Do you want me to get them?”

  “Nah. I have my own stash. We’ve about got things wound up here. Once I do a couple hours of paperwork, I can go home.”