At the basement door, I turned to Bailey. “I can take it from here, Mr. Monroe. As I said before, I’m not feeling social this evening.”
Bailey’s brown eyes widened. “That’s a cool dismissal. We were doing fine when we left the ninth floor. In fact, between the sixth and fourth, I thought we shared a common understanding of what it was like to be left without our spouse. What happened, Bretta? What did I say that annoyed you?”
I didn’t bother answering. I opened the door and went down the corridor toward the storage room. To my irritation, Bailey followed. If he couldn’t take a hint, then I’d have to spell it out. I wasn’t interested in his company, and if he knew the truth—that I’d once been a fatty—he wouldn’t be interested in mine.
I faced him and said, “You’re right about one thing. It does take two to make a relationship. You might want to take a closer look at your own actions before you place the blame for the failure of your marriages.”
Instead of taking offense, Bailey flashed me a winning smile and grasped my arm. But before he spoke, his breast pocket rang. He frowned and took out a cell phone. It was shiny chrome, tiny, and compact—just the way he liked his women, I was sure.
“Monroe,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah.”
I tried to pull away, but Bailey’s fingers tightened. “Wait,” he said to me. “Not you,” he rumbled into the phone. “Go ahead.”
This man was testing the limits of my patience. I jerked my arm. His eyebrows drew down into a frown. “Can’t say,” he murmured. “Can’t say.” He cupped the phone closer to his lips. “Bodies?”
I froze, but cocked an ear.
Chapter Six
Hearing the word “bodies,” and being the widow of a law officer, my mind instantly went to homicide. Carl had taken calls like this a number of times when we’d been married. Thinking back, it seemed that most of the requests to report for duty had come at night. I’d lie in bed and watch him dress to go out to investigate a scene that would keep him absorbed to the point that neither of us could rest until the case was solved.
In view of where I was, and whom I was with, it was a ridiculous assumption, but I didn’t think about that. As soon as Bailey had slipped the phone back in his pocket, I asked, “Whose bodies? What happened?”
“Bodies?” he repeated, frowning. “Oh. A couple of butterflies were caught in a net. In their struggle to get free, they thrashed themselves to death.” He touched his jacket pocket. “The president of our organization asked me to help him mount the bodies on a poster to insure this kind of torture doesn’t happen again.”
“That’s the silliest thing—”
Bailey’s tone was chilly. “I have my hobby, and I take it very seriously. Capturing butterflies that are burdened with eggs is against our club policy. Those butterflies are dead because a couple of members wanted a closer look at the markings on the wings.” He dropped my arm. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
I stared after him as he hurried down the corridor and through the basement doorway. I didn’t buy that bit about the butterflies for a second. Something was going on, and my next best guess was shapely bodies. Bailey had been on the make in the lobby and later in the bar and the elevator. It sounded to me as if he’d gotten a call from a friend who’d arranged a hot date.
Out loud, I said, “Mount the bodies,” and was shocked at the inappropriate way my body responded.
“Carl, I wish you were here,” I said, calling on the best defense I had against these stimulating thoughts. But this time there was no answering voice. I hoped it was because my mind was crowded with other things, and not because Carl had slipped away. As time went on would his voice dwindle until I never heard it again?
I couldn’t abide pursuing this, so I let my guard down and thoughts of Bailey crept in. It was interesting that we had several things in common—the loss of a spouse was an emotional bond that not everyone could understand. When Bailey had mentioned his first wife, I’d detected a deep sense of loss, but to marry two more times seemed irresponsible, if he was only lonely. He had said he was an avid gardener, so he liked flowers, which was a redeeming quality to this florist. But he couldn’t abide fat women.
I sighed and meandered down the basement corridor. For the preparation of the contest, I’d been assigned two rooms with a connecting door. One room contained a walk-in cooler, while the other had easy access to water and trash pickup. The hotel forbid handing out storeroom keys to guests. This had been the deciding factor in making the categories secret. Since I couldn’t stop the contestants from snooping, I had to have some way to keep their work spontaneous during the competition.
To my way of thinking that’s the only way to judge creative talent. If they were prepared with the knowledge of the flowers, the containers, and the categories, they could map out their strategy. How would natural ability come into play?
I opened the door to the storage area where I’d directed the hotel staff to put any deliveries for our convention. Alvin had just cut the twine from around a large box.
He straightened when he saw me. “Hi. I thought you were eating dinner.”
“Don’t you ever rest?” I asked.
“Not when there’s so much going on at the hotel. Weekends give me that ‘red-eye flight’ look.” He nodded to the box. “One of the girls told me a shipment had arrived. I’ve learned it pays to get the flower stems into water as soon as possible. Since you were busy, I thought I’d help out.”
“Thanks, but I need the therapy. I might complain about being overworked, but when I’m upset, I always head for the buds and blooms.”
“I go to the lake. There’s nothing like sitting in a boat with the wind in your face, the sun on your back, and the smell of a fresh-caught bass.”
“Nice picture you’ve painted, but it’s dark outside. With both Taneycomo and Table Rock Lake nearby, I know there’s plenty of water, but no available boat. As for the fish—” I sighed. “I see it fried to a crispy golden brown and surrounded by potatoes and coleslaw.”
“Sounds like you’re hungry.”
“My own fault. I left the dining room as the waitresses were bringing in the meal. Eating while peeved makes for a bad case of indigestion. I’ve got enough problems without getting a stomachache.”
“Are you still peeved?”
I grinned. “No. I’ve mellowed out.”
“Do you like hot chicken wings and French-fried onion rings?”
“I love them.” If I was really mellow, I’d have said, “No thanks, I steer clear of those high-caloric snacks.” However, I kept my mouth shut and watched Alvin go to a wall phone and poke two numbers. I could have stopped him when he gave the order and added two glasses of iced tea, but my lips refused to say the words.
When he’d hung up, and it was too late, I said, “That’s nice of you, but not necessary. I won’t waste away without one meal.”
“I haven’t eaten either, and we have to keep up our strength. The weekend is just starting.”
“Tell me about it. Once it’s over, I can go home and settle into my same old rut.” I shook my head at him. “How do you do it? Conference after conference, followed by crisis after crisis. Or is my conference the only one that’s a pain in the … uh … hibiscus?”
“That must be florist jargon because I’m not familiar with that particular body part.”
I chuckled. “I could have expressed myself in more vivid terms, a habit for which I’m noted, but I was trying to be polite.”
“Relax, Bretta, it’ll work out. Everyone comes here to get away from that ‘same old rut’ as you so aptly put it. If the beds are comfortable, the service is efficient, and the food is delicious, who’s going to complain?”
“I hope you’re right.” I studied him thoughtfully. “How did you get into this business?”
Alvin leaned against the wall and talked as I filled a couple of buckets with warm water. “I started a career in the Peace Corps. Now I cater to the ‘lush’ and �
�gush’ of our society.” He made a face. “I’ve dealt with both ends of the spectrum—famine and deprivation and gluttony and abundance. Overseas, I literally got sick from all the deplorable sights. I had to come home to recuperate.”
Alvin gave me a sad look. “It’s a fact that children are starving all over the world. I couldn’t make myself go back overseas, so three times a year, I produce a benefit performance at the open-air theater that’s part of the Haversham Hall estate. All the proceeds go to an orphanage in Somalia.”
“Alvin, I had no idea. That’s admirable and very—”
“I’m not doing anything fantastic. Tell me how you became a florist?”
I was in the middle of my tale when the food arrived. While talking, I’d filled several buckets and was ready to pry off the lid from the box of flowers. Alvin suggested we eat before we cut stems. My stomach growled agreement.
The waiter had put the food on a small table after we’d cleared it. As Alvin and I sat down, I studied him, looking at him in a new light. His smile was shy; his eyes twinkled good-naturedly.
“I’m impressed with what you’re doing for those kids overseas. Most people talk about it, feel bad, but don’t do anything. If you’ll send me information about the next benefit, I’ll see to it that you have coverage in my hometown paper.” I raised my iced-tea glass in a toast. “Good luck and congratulations.”
Alvin clicked his glass to mine. “Thanks, Bretta. It’s a deal.” He took a slurp, then wiped his upper lip with a napkin. “Now let’s talk about this floral conference. What’s got you so upset that you’d walk out on that—what did you call it?—introductory dinner?”
I picked up a section of a chicken wing and took a bite. Alvin would be impartial and from what I’d discovered he was a good listener, but did I really want to talk about the contest?
I chewed and after swallowing reached a decision. “Let’s just forget it. We’ll eat this great food, and then cut the flower stems. Afterward, I’ll toddle off to bed, and tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up with a clearer head and a brighter outlook.”
“Sounds good.” He dipped an onion ring into the puddle of catsup on his plate. “You know what this snack calls for?” he asked, casting me a conspiratorial glance.
My mouth was full. “Hmm?”
“A piece of blackberry cobbler, or there’s coconut cream or chocolate pie. Take your pick.”
“I can’t eat all that before I go to bed. I won’t sleep a—” My willpower fled at his offer of my favorite dessert. “Did you say coconut cream?”
We were visiting, having a good time, when the door opened and Gellie stuck her head in. Seeing me, she demanded, “How many storage rooms are there in this place? I must have opened twenty doors before I heard laughter. I knew it was you. There’s no mistaking that cackle.”
She came into the room, eyeing the food and licking her lips. When she saw Alvin, she smiled. “A party? I hope I’m invited.” She unzipped her purse. “I don’t suppose I could get a cup of hot water?”
Purse. I whipped around looking for mine. I searched under the table, on the back of my chair, then stopped as memory surfaced. I’d left it hanging on the back of my chair upstairs in the private dining room.
“Sit here, Gellie. I’m leaving.” I explained about my purse. “But first I have to put these flowers in water.”
“Is that the shipment Bernice was ranting about?” asked Gellie. When I nodded, she continued, “Bernice has a bad case of tunnel vision. No matter what the subject, she focuses all her attention on it until she drives everyone around her bananas. When she won the association’s bid for treasurer, I knew she’d be hell-on-wheels with this conference.”
I pulled the lid off the flower box. “As long as we stay within our budget, what difference should it make to Bernice?”
Gellie chuckled dryly. “Bretta, you really ought to attend more floral meetings so you’ll be privy to all the gossip. Bernice has a thing for Tyrone. After he told her that he expected the association’s bank balance to show a marked increase after the conference, she went into high gear, pinching pennies and doling dollars like a tightwad, hoping to please our esteemed president.”
Alvin took the cardboard lid from me and leaned it against the wall. “I’ll do these flowers, Bretta, if you want to get your purse.
“First let’s see what came from California,” I said, pushing away the plastic packing material. I rocked back on my heels. “I’m not impressed. I was expecting exotic blossoms, not this stuff.”
I pulled a woody branch out of the box. The leaves were dark green and shiny with touches of bronze on the new shoots at the tips. I held it up for Gellie to see. “What is this? Do you recognize it?”
“No, but like Tyrone said, growers are coming up with new products every day. At least it’s dramatic and has a sturdy stem.”
I nudged the cardboard container with my foot. The mailing label directed the shipment to me here at the hotel. “There isn’t an invoice, so I assume we aren’t being charged. That should make Bernice happy.”
“I don’t mind putting these greens in water,” said Alvin. “They have a nice, clean smell.”
“I’ll help him,” offered Gellie. She shooed me away. “Go get your purse, but let’s meet for breakfast. I want to talk to you.”
And I wanted to talk to her. Had Effie been mistaken when she said it was Gellie who had pulled out in front of her at the hotel? What was Gellie doing in Branson yesterday, when she’d phoned me and said she couldn’t arrive until today because she’d had car trouble? If she had come to Branson earlier, why keep it a secret? I also wanted to quiz her about Darren. He harbored some pretty intense feelings toward her, and I wondered what had happened to cause them.
The McDuffys were coming to my room at seven. How long would it take to talk with them? Ten minutes? Half an hour would be better. Gellie agreed to meet me in the hotel café at seven-thirty.
In the hall I decided I was too tired to climb the stairs. I found an elevator marked SERVICE and pushed the button. I wasn’t sure where this ride would deposit me, but figured I could find my way. The bell soon dinged, and the doors slid open.
On the balcony I took a minute to get my bearings. The dining room was across the abyss, so I started around the perimeter. As I walked, I glanced down to the fifth tier of rooms and located my door—seventh from the end. I wished I were in bed and asleep. My stomach was full and—
I stopped and squinted. Was my door open? Silently I counted from the corner room—one, two, three, four, five, six—it was my room and there was a light on.
I hung over the railing for a better look. Reality took a swing at my stomach, and I nearly showered those teeny-tiny people in the lobby with chicken chunks. I flung myself away from the chasm and galloped around the balcony and down the four flights of stairs to the fifth floor.
Like a shadow with respiratory problems, I wheezed along the corridor that led to my room. Maybe it was a cleaning lady, I thought to myself as I stopped to catch my breath. I eased the door open and peeked inside. From this angle I couldn’t see anything.
I stepped farther into the room and saw my open purse on the floor. On the bed was the key card, its plastic surface covered with something that looked like blood. I stepped closer, seeing droplets on the beige carpet. I thought the room was empty until I heard muffled sobs coming from the bathroom.
I nudged that door open a few inches, and my heart nearly stopped. Bloody fingerprints rimed the sink. A bloodstained towel was wadded on the floor. I pushed the door open wider and saw Delia leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed, her skin the color of ashes.
“Delia, what happened?”
Her eyes opened slowly as if she were awakening from a bad dream. She licked her lips and mumbled something. I didn’t catch what it was, and repeated, “Delia? What happened? Where did all this blood come from?”
“Me,” she said. “I could have bled to death, and it would’ve been your fault.”
Chapter Seven
I took a step toward Delia. She came out of her daze with a shriek. “Stop! Don’t come any closer. As soon as my head clears, I’m out of here.”
“Why are you in my room?”
“I took your purse from the dining room, and I used the key to get in here. I had to know if you’re taking this contest seriously. You surely have a list of the categories written down somewhere. This contest is important to me, but nothing warrants booby-trapping your door.”
“Booby-trapping? What kind of booby trap?”
Delia didn’t answer right away. She loosened the towel from her hand. With the palm held toward me, I saw blood trickle from a four-inch cut that crossed three of her fingers. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m out of the contest. I can’t work with my hand like this.”
“Why did you say my door was booby-trapped?”
“Razor blade taped to the door handle.” She gulped and shuddered. “It was a reprehensible act. What if a maid had come by? What if a child had gotten mixed up on which room was his?”
A razor blade?
I spun on my heel, headed for the door. I jerked it wide open and stared at the handle. Nothing. I looked at Delia, who’d followed me. “There isn’t anything here.”
“What?” She leaned around me so she could see for herself. “It was there.” She held up her wounded hand. “I have the proof.”
I touched the metal lever and felt a tacky residue that might have come from a piece of tape. “Something was here, but it’s gone now.” I looked Delia straight in the eye. “I didn’t do this. I wouldn’t do anything so horrendous.”
“If you didn’t put it there, then who did?”
Lilies That Fester Page 6
