by Jessa Archer
I grabbed my purse and suppressed a grin at the mental image of Opal waving her cane around wildly at my neighbors. She was right. I had to get home and protect my property. I'd been babying my grass along all spring. My lawn was finally coming back after a wet winter had caused the grass to melt out. I didn't need my delicate new grass trampled.
Fortunately, I'd driven to Flourish. Auntie Opal moved at a snail's pace. At her walking speed, it would take us forever to get to my house. My lawn would be a mud patch by the time we got there. I pulled my keys out of my purse. "Let's go."
At the house, I had to honk to get through the people clustered in front of my driveway. It had been less than fifteen minutes since the cleanup team had called, but already my front yard was crawling with people on a scavenger hunt to find a clue to convict the killer. People carrying flowers and teddy bears, balloons, candles, posters, and greeting cards. The sad part was that I recognized most of them.
Phyllis Ward, Earleen's purportedly backstabbed best friend, stood in the spot where Earleen's body had been when I left, directing the aesthetics of the growing memorial to Earleen. It was the kind of tribute people leave at the site of a fatal car accident and was just as much of a wreck. The bad lettering and, in some cases, spelling on some of the signs made me shudder.
Phyllis lovingly adjusted a poster-sized portrait of a smiling Earleen in the center of it, but there was a malicious glint in her eye. Dana Culp Bailey was acting as Phyllis' right-hand woman. It might have been my imagination, but I thought she shot me an apologetic look.
Given the rumors flying around town about Earleen and Phyllis' husband, Artie, having an affair, it was a surprising show of support. If you didn't have a suspicious mind like mine. But Phyllis had her pride. And wasn't acting broken up about Earleen's death the perfect cover? And a way to squelch the rumors?
Artie hovered around Phyllis, stealing glances at Earleen's picture. It may have just been me, but he looked furtive.
I had to give Phyllis credit—she'd picked a flattering picture of Earleen, which was what Earleen would have wanted. At the same time, I silently cursed one-hour photo services. Phyllis had certainly wasted no time getting a picture of Earleen printed and framed. And the pile of flowers and bears was already large enough to be alarming. Some of those bears were downright freaky. Many of them had come from Earleen's stationery shop, and we already know she didn't have good taste. One good spring rain like we were famous for and they'd all be a soggy mess of fake fur.
Call me selfish, but the last thing I wanted to see when I looked out my front window was Earleen's smiling face and a memorial that reminded me of stumbling over her dead body.
"See?" Auntie Opal whispered in my ear as we got out of the car. "No one liked Earleen that much." She gestured toward the memorial with her cane. "This is all just an excuse to take a closer look at the murder scene and take any suspicion off themselves. Any one of them could have done it, including Phyllis and Artie Ward.
"Poor Artie. He really has lost his cuteness. It's hard to believe Earleen saw anything in him. She must have been getting desperate, especially with you back in town. Now there's no way she'll get Ridge. Ha!"
Before I could stop her, Opal brandished her cane and shouted, "Get off Jamie's lawn!" with surprising vigor for a near octogenarian.
I grabbed her arm. "Put that away. Let me handle this."
Seeing Auntie Opal and me, most of the people scattered. Some had the good grace to slink away. A few muttered condolences as they passed us and eyed Opal's cane warily. A few others looked at me with suspicion. I thought someone whispered, "Murderer."
Phyllis stood her ground, arms crossed, expression fierce, Dana looking embarrassed right beside her. "You have some nerve showing up here."
"I have some nerve?" I have as much sympathy as anyone for people who are in shock and need an outlet for their grief. But I was frazzled and in shock, too. "This is my house. The rest of you are trespassing." I pointed to Earleen's portrait. "Please. Take that, and all the flowers, bears, and whatnot, and move it to a more appropriate place to honor Earleen. Like the stationery store or her home."
Phyllis leaned into me, getting right up in my face. "You never liked Earleen. And you have no compassion. You don't make memorials at the place a person lived. You make them where they died."
I wanted to say, Where Earleen died is no fault of mine. Why did I have to suffer for a murder's choice of venue? But I kept my thoughts to myself.
Instead, I sighed. "Earleen and I had our differences, true. That's no secret. But I'm not hardhearted. I'm sorry for your loss, Phyllis." I glanced at Dana. "You too, Dana. I truly am. It's been a horrific, emotionally draining day for all of us. As sorry as I am about Earleen, I'm going to have to insist you move that off my property."
Phyllis huffed and glared at me. When I didn't back down, she grabbed Earleen's picture and signaled to Dana and some of the ladies who lingered nearby, watching our exchange with interest. "Let's pack this up and move it to the sidewalk. That's public property. Miss Cold-Hearted can't do anything about it there." She flashed me a defiant look and turned her back on me.
As Dana trotted past me after her, I caught a glimpse of a familiar scent. She mouthed, Sorry, as she passed me.
Auntie Opal and I retreated to the house. I watched as Phyllis and her minions moved the memorial to the public sidewalk bordering my lot.
I supposed it depended on your perspective what their motivations were. I would say they were out of spite. Phyllis might say out of respect and tradition. Whatever your point of view, they kept the memorial as close to my property and the spot I tripped over Earleen as possible. No matter where I stood in my living room, it was directly in view of my front picture window.
Opal took a seat in her favorite chair and settled in for a quick nap. I waited until the mass of mourners subsided before heading outside to survey the damage. My lawn was a trampled mess that resembled the way it looked at the very start of spring—lots of patches of bare mud. And Phyllis had left me a few presents—her team hadn't tidied up my yard as much as promised. A few wrapped roses and a small teddy bear with a muddy tread mark from a boot across his belly.
"I know how you feel, buddy." As I bent to pick him up, I caught a glint of purple plastic from beneath one of my bushes near the porch. I squatted and took a closer look—it was a tiny roll of cellophane tape in a purple plastic dispenser the size of maybe a quarter. Earleen sold them in her stationery store, usually in a multicolored pack of six. They were so small they fit in pockets and purses—great for taping emergencies. They were a favorite of hers. I'd seen her use them in her shop many times. It sure looked like Earleen had been on her way to tape another quote to my door.
I picked it up and stared at it in the palm of my hand. "Ridge, how could your team have missed this?"
Chapter Five
I glanced from my hand to my front door and back, calculating. Earleen had been wearing a lightweight running jacket with pockets when I found her. Conceivably, the roll of tape could have fallen out and bounced into the bushes when I tripped over Earleen's body. But something about it was bothering me. I slipped the tape into my pocket.
When I came back inside, Auntie Opal was in the kitchen making something for dinner that smelled delicious. "When did you have time to run to the grocery store? Did you sneak out the back door when I wasn't looking?" I winked at her. With as slow as she moved?
She laughed. "Pantry hash. A clever cook can make a meal out of almost anything. You had enough in your pantry and fridge to inspire me. Well, what's the verdict out there?"
"The lawn's a mess," I said, snitching a bite from her frying pan.
She scooped out a spoonful and handed it to me. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour or less. I saw some frozen vegetables in your freezer. When it's time, you can put them in the microwave. So. What did you think about that act Phyllis was putting on? You could run a knife through the tension in the air between Artie and her.
And when did she get to be such good friends with Dana?"
I had to stop nibbling on the spoonful of food to answer. "Dana and her boys have been staying with Earleen for the last, what? Three weeks? Dana's house in Redmond is being renovated. I think Dana was simply helping out the effort to honor her cousin's memory."
Redmond was part of the high-tech corridor around Seattle, a beautiful suburb that used to be rural farmland until high-tech took off there in the late eighties. It was pricey real estate these days, and the place to live if you were a tech geek.
Opal grunted and tasted her concoction. "Needs salt." She sprinkled more in. "Dana's husband works for some startup, doesn't he? She likes to brag that they'll be multi-multimillionaires once the company goes public. Something about it being a unicorn startup, whatever that means."
"It means it has a market valuation of a billion dollars before it goes public." I set the spoon down.
"I suppose Dana's not a multi-multimillionaire yet. But it seems like an imposition to plunk herself and those two rowdy boys of hers down with Earleen for so long. Especially since Earleen isn't, wasn't, used to having children around."
"Yes," I agreed. "But Earleen dotes—it's hard not to keep using present tense—doted on those boys. I'm sure she was happy enough to have them around. I think she gave them my quotes to use as target practice with their new BB guns."
"Set the table for dinner, honey," Opal said.
I was interrupted by a knock at the door. When I answered, Ridge stood on my front porch, holding a bouquet of flowers. My heart lurched, until I realized how bedraggled they were and where they were from. "For me? You shouldn't have."
"Nothing's too good for an old friend," he said. "How are you holding up?"
I shrugged. "All right, I guess, considering the sidewalk in front of my house now looks like a cemetery on Memorial Day."
"Someone missed. These were in your yard," he said, rattling the cellophane wrapper as he shook the flowers. "Or someone wanted to expand the memorial."
"You're not here to arrest me, I hope?"
"The thought of you in cuffs is tempting," he said with a lecherous look. "But no." He peered around me and inhaled deeply. "Yum. I smell pantry hash. Opal must be cooking."
I would have been insulted, but I rarely cooked for myself, and we all knew it. And under the circumstances, it was only a natural assumption that Opal would come to keep me company. Now that he'd smelled Opal's cooking, and hinted broadly, it would be rude not to invite him in. "I suppose you're hungry after a day of chasing murder suspects. Care to join us for dinner?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"One condition—you leave those flowers outside and toss them when you leave." I stepped aside to let him in.
"Toss them where?" He was egging me on and knew it.
"Anywhere you want, as long as it's not my property."
He dropped them just outside my front door. "What happened to your lawn?" he asked as he brushed past me.
"You have to ask?" I rolled my eyes. I was sure he was tweaking me. He had to have heard. "The town happened."
"Really?" He grinned. "Nice memorial to Earleen out there, though."
"Depends on who you ask." I led the way to the kitchen and got another place setting out as he hugged Opal.
"I hope you're not here to arrest Jamie," Opal said. "It's plain as day that if she'd wanted to kill Earleen, she's smart enough not to have done it on her own front lawn." Opal moved her pan from the stove to the trivet on the table, and we all dug in.
Ridge served himself a heaping portion. Which was okay. I wasn't very hungry all of a sudden, anyway.
Ridge picked up his fork. "The theory being circulated is that Jamie didn't intend to kill Earleen."
"So people think I accidentally shot her in the head?" I took a deep breath. "I'm not that good a shot. If I were shooting at someone, I'd aim for the torso. Better chance of hitting something."
"Good to know." Ridge dug in. "I'll make note that this murder doesn't fit your MO."
"You haven't finished the theory," Opal said in a surprisingly pleasant tone, looking as if she was hanging on his every word. She was always on her best behavior around Ridge. Sometimes I thought that if she were forty years younger, she would have made a play for him. As it was, she was always trying to impress him for my sake.
"The theory is pretty simple. When Jamie stumbled on Earleen, Earleen was clutching another one of Jamie's quotes. It was also full of BB holes. People think Earleen was out for her morning jog and decided to kill two birds by pinning that quote on Jamie's door. She didn't expect Jamie to be up and out so early in the morning. When Jamie came out of the house, Earleen startled her. Jamie pulled her gun and shot her."
"I knew that exploit in Seattle would come back to haunt me," I said. "There are so many holes in that theory." I winced at my own words. "One, I don't carry here. My gun was at Flourish. Or should have been. Two, I supposedly left her body out there for however long while I disposed of the gun, and then staged it to look like I stumbled over it and then called the police? Does that really sound like something I'd do?" I looked directly at Ridge. "You know that if I'd accidentally shot someone, I'd call for help immediately."
"I'm only repeating what others—less informed others—are saying and thinking," he said.
My appetite was fading by the moment. "Have you found the murder weapon yet? Or my gun?"
"No on both counts." Ridge's appetite seemed as healthy as ever. "But we got the report back from ballistics—9mm. Until we can match it to a gun, however…"
The roll of tape I'd found was burning a hole in my pocket. If I didn't turn it over, it would look bad for me. I pulled it out and handed it to Ridge.
"What's this? One of Earleen's?" he asked.
"I found it in my yard beneath one of the bushes when I was cleaning up what I thought was the last of the memorial on my lawn," I said. "I can show you where it was if you like."
Ridge frowned. "Given the crowd that was in your yard earlier, it could have been dropped by anyone. Even it if was Earleen's, all it proves is what we already know—Earleen was in your yard." He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and dropped it in, even though it was already contaminated with other fingerprints.
"So where does the investigation stand now?" I asked.
"At a standstill." He looked resigned.
Opal looked relieved.
"Without the murder weapon, or any eyewitnesses, there's not much to go on." He eyed the rest of the hash in the pan.
I pushed it toward him. "Help yourself."
"What happens now?" Opal asked. "Does it become a cold case?"
Ridge looked like he wanted to shake his head and was having a hard time resisting the temptation. "Not yet. Not for quite a while. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours. We'll keep looking and interviewing people." His gaze bounced between us. "Do either of you have any idea who might have done it?"
I told him about Artie and Earleen and the rumors they were having an affair behind Phyllis' back. "They were both at the memorial. Artie kept glancing furtively at Earleen's picture."
"Furtive looks how?"
I imitated it.
Ridge laughed. "That's not what I meant and you know it. What do you mean by furtive? Like he's heartbroken to lose a lover?"
"More like he hopes Earleen took their secret to her grave," I said.
"You think he'd kill for that?" Ridge looked skeptical. "That's not the Artie I know. In school, he was kind of meek."
I shrugged. It wasn't like the Artie I knew, either. I didn't want to throw Artie under the bus with no real evidence, but Ridge had asked for my thoughts. "Unless the murderer is some vagrant who was passing through town, whoever the murderer is won't seem like the person we know them to be."
"True. I'll look into it," Ridge said.
"Good." I tried to look innocent, but I was already thinking of asking around a bit myself.
Ridge knew me too well. He r
ead my mind as if I was his twin instead of Rut. "Let me do the investigating, James. For now, you're still a suspect."
After dinner, Ridge drove Auntie Opal home. I was left alone. My mind wouldn't stop wandering back to the crime scene, and my nerves were jangly. To calm myself, I did what I always did—dove into my work and the pleasant, upbeat, inspirational world of quotes and lettering. I had a lot of work to do anyway. I'd never been more grateful for having a job I loved so much.
I lost myself in my project, working until my eyes grew bleary. Finally, I got up and stretched. I turned out the lights downstairs and took a final peek through the curtains at my yard, just to, you know, make sure there were no more dead bodies lying around. To my surprise, I caught Jack Davis, Earleen's supposed boyfriend, laying a dark rose on her memorial. And I wondered why he hadn't come earlier.
Chapter Six
Thursday
On Thursdays I usually have appointments with brides and event clients at Hallie's Hair Salon at Lighthouse Gardens most of the day. Today was a little different—after a morning meeting with a client, I had an important morning vendor meeting with Colleen Saylor Capshaw, the coordinator of the Lighthouse Gardens spring bridal fair, which was coming up in just weeks. Colleen's family owned Lighthouse Gardens.
Lighthouse Gardens holds two bridal fairs a year—one in the spring and one in the fall—to showcase the venue and their recommended vendors. The spring fair was the largest of the two. A successful fair would result in enough bookings to let me breathe a bit about finances. It was a key part of my business plan. I couldn't afford to blow it.
Among the many horrible and tragic things about Earleen's murder was the timing was so rotten for me. I was worried about the meeting and what Colleen would say about me finding Earleen's body on my lawn. If she suspended me from the spring fair—
I shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about. I had to keep moving forward.
On Thursdays, my part-time assistant, Rosemary Fulmer, comes in to watch the shop for me while I'm out. She's a single mom with a cute six-year-old son. She can usually only work school hours during the school year. Summers the little guy spends with his paternal grandparents on the coast, so her schedule is more flexible then. Rosemary is one of the few people in town who wasn't born and bred here. But she seems to be accepted by most.
