When the knock sounded on my door, my shoulders were squared. I opened the door to find Effie standing in the hall. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
I took her arm and hurried her inside, where I gave her the once-over. She looked okay—no blood, no cuts, and no tears. But I was suspicious of the blush that stained her wrinkled cheeks. My gaze traveled from her polyester pantsuit to her soft-soled slippers.
“Effie, what are you doing still dressed? I hope you haven’t been snooping around the hotel?”
“I can’t do a surveillance of the entire building, so I took the stairs to the lobby and hid behind a plant near the front door. It was a good spot, dear. I was able to observe the comings and goings of everyone. I had quite an adventure. Of course, the man that does maintenance on the tropical plants won’t ever be the same.” She tittered at the memory.
It made me crazy with worry to think about her going up and down that stairwell. I could have given her chapter and verse about the dangers involved in snooping, but I knew my warning would fall on deaf ears. So I tried another tact. “Effie, you need your rest. Everyone’s asleep by now, probably even our killer.”
“We can only surmise what the killer is doing, dear, and everyone is not asleep. I saw Robbee flirting with the front desk clerk. When I heard him mention the McDuffys’ name, I came up here to tell you.”
Before I could answer there was a knock on the door. Effie’s eyes widened when I let Robbee into my room. His face was flushed; his hand shook as he held up the plastic key.
“Got it,” he said unnecessarily. “But it cost the association two dozen red roses, arranged and delivered to Ruby before she goes off duty at six A.M.”
“That’s all it took?”
He made a face. “Her boyfriend won’t propose. Ruby hopes when he sees the bouquet that has come from a ‘secret admirer,’ he’ll pop the question.” Robbee glared at me. “Don’t ever shame me again, Bretta. Women are just as manipulative as any man could ever be.” He glanced around and saw Effie. “This is a pleasant surprise—I think.”
“Effie was just on her way to her room. We’ll escort her before we go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” said Effie. “What door does that key unlock?”
I briefly sketched out my plan and promised to fill her in tomorrow on what I’d found in the McDuffys’ room. She wasn’t interested in a replay. She wanted firsthand knowledge. I knew I was in trouble when she crossed her arms over her shrunken bosom and tapped her slipper stubbornly.
I tried one more time. “If the three of us traipse upstairs someone is sure to wonder what’s going on.”
Effie nodded to Robbee. “Leave him here.” She got this devious gleam in her eye. “Or perhaps you’d like me to go back to my lookout in the lobby?”
Well, hell no. I sure didn’t want that. “Fine, fine. Let’s get on with this. What’s the room number?”
Robbee said, “One floor up—609.”
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and opened the door. Peering along my balcony and those across the way, I beckoned for my dynamic duo to follow me. In the stairwell, I tried to take Effie’s arm, but she shrugged off my help. The little woman was testy, out to prove a point. I kept the lead up to the next floor and down the hall to room 609. Behind me, Robbee hummed nervously.
“Stop making that annoying sound,” I whispered as I fit the plastic key in the slot. The tiny lights flashed from red to green. Taking another deep breath, I pushed open the door, grabbed Effie’s arm, and hustled her into the room with me. Robbee was right on our heels.
Once the door was closed, I flipped on the lights. I held that gulp of oxygen until I’d focused on a normal hotel room, with normal furnishings, then the pent-up air swooshed out in a sigh of relief.
“Both of you stay here,” I said softly. “I’ll take a quick look, then we’re gone.”
Robbee had his back plastered against the door. His wideeyed gaze darted around the room. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Do you?”
“Give me a minute.”
Effie whispered, “What are you looking for, dear?”
“I’m not sure.”
This room had the same layout as mine—bath/dressing rooms on my left, bedroom straight ahead. I noted that the closet door was ajar, but the open suitcase on the bed drew me forward.
I knew better than to manhandle the garments in the suitcase, but I shifted them ever so slightly to see what was underneath. The dusty cuff of a pair of Vincent’s trousers gave me pause. I dug deeper and discovered what I took to be a blouse of Mabel’s with a splotch of something yellow—mustard?—on the front. That stained blouse was neatly folded with three others—all fleshly laundered. Vincent’s dirty pants were mixed in with his clean clothes.
Why put the soiled clothes in with the clean clothes? Only a real slob would do that, and that was hardly my impression of the McDuffys. But if the contents of this room had been tossed in a frantic effort to locate something incriminating, perhaps the killer might have second thoughts in leaving it obviously searched. Would that person have taken the time to fold each garment back into the suitcase, inadvertently mixing the dirty clothes with the clean? A glance in the room by a maid wouldn’t have raised any alarms if everything were neat and tidy.
“Look on the armoire,” said Robbee quietly.
I did as directed and saw a framed picture of pressed flowers. In this picture, Stephanie had abandoned Monet’s impressionist style to construct a visual image of this hotel with Haversham Hall and the conservatory dome in the distance. Snippets of leaves, minute twigs, fragile blossoms, delicate seeds, and an inventive mind had blended nature’s bounty into a marvel. In the foreground was a replica of the tour bus that was no bigger than a postage stamp. I studied it closely and saw itsy-bitsy people waiting in line to get on board.
Mesmerized, I picked the picture up. Stephanie must have used tweezers to set each particle into place. Since Robbee had already told me who’d been on the tour, I was able to put a name to the figures. Like a caricaturist, Stephanie had parodied each. A rounded shape made by a watermelon seed made me wonder if it represented the artist. I nodded when I saw that behind her was a figure sporting a diminutive ponytail fashioned from what looked like dried corn silks.
Corn? I smirked. Maybe Stephanie hadn’t been so infatuated with Robbee that she couldn’t see him for what he was. Red petals represented Miriam’s hair. Zach’s muscles were minuscule pods. Tyrone wore a crown of iridescent feathers. Peacock, I decided. I assumed the shape behind Tyrone was Bernice, who was linked to our esteemed president by a chain made of prickly sand burrs. Darren’s head was out of proportion to the rest of his body. I interpreted it to mean that he was egotistical and full of himself.
Stephanie must have liked Gellie. She’d portrayed the equally heavy woman with grace. Her flowing gown was made of golden sunflower petals. Looking closely I saw Gellie was holding a cluster of tiny green leaves. The last cartoon I guessed to be Alvin. His pale skin had been fabricated from the husk of an onion, and he seemed to be urging everyone toward the tour bus.
“The McDuffys brought this picture with them for a reason,” I said. “Something about it must have been a clue to them as to who they were looking for. I wonder if Stephanie talked about each figure as she created it, naming them, and relating personal details?”
“May I see it, dear?”
I handed the frame to Effie. She brought her nose to within four inches of the glass, examining each particle. Twice she chuckled. Once she sucked in her breath, as if amazed or surprised.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Just an impression, dear. Stephanie could have been a psychologist. She’s captured the essence of each of our colleagues’ personalities. While I find names fascinating, this young woman has delved deeper into the psyche of each individual. And if I understand the facts correctly, she did this analysis in a single afternoon?”
When I nodded, Effie sighed softly. “T
hat in itself is impressive, while at the same time it’s also upsetting.”
“How’s that?” asked Robbee, peeking over Effie’s shoulder. “It’s just a picture. I don’t see why you’d call it upsetting.”
“I understand what Effie means,” I said quietly. “If Stephanie could pinpoint each person’s character so accurately, then how was she ‘led astray’?”
Effie beamed at me. “That’s right, dear. It would seem that Stephanie had intellect and intuitiveness, but she must have had an Achilles’ heel. She was vulnerable in some area of her life, and if we’re to figure this out, we have to make that discovery.”
Softly, I put my thoughts into words. “It was her weight. Gellie, too. Both women were desperate to have a normal life. In the Topiary Cotillion, Gellie told me that ‘our extra pounds tethered us to this earth.’ Lavelle had described Stephanie’s mood when she returned from Branson as being ‘higher than a kite’ because she’d met a man. I let the cliché slip past me, accepting Lavelle’s explanation because I didn’t know Stephanie personally. However, I knew Gellie very well. She wasn’t herself in the lobby, and when she danced in the Topiary Cotillion, she was out of control. She was—higher than a kite.”
Effie studied me. “Do you think they were taking drugs?”
“It makes sense. The McDuffys said in their note that Stephanie had changed. Being hooked on drugs alters a person’s personality and their life. Stephanie watched for the mail. I thought she was a lovesick woman, but what if she’d been waiting for her next drug delivery? Gellie’s behavior was extreme. She laughed and smiled, yet there were moments of despair when she gave in to tears.” My voice was grim. “But it was her actions before she died that should’ve alerted me.”
Wearily, I leaned my head against the armoire. A drug abuser’s family is often the last to recognize that there’s a problem. I wasn’t Gellie’s family, but I was her friend.
My lips curled at the word. This person called “Friend” had doled out illegal drugs, preyed on women after their trust was won, and murdered innocent people. All in the guise of being a friend.
We weren’t dealing with an ordinary weed in my garden design. This species was as vile and noxious as poison ivy and just as invasive.
Chapter Eighteen
“Bretta?” said Robbee.
His tone jerked me out of my thoughts. “Okay. Let’s go before we get caught.”
“Too late for that, dear,” said Effie. She nodded to the closet door that was standing open. “We have company.”
I followed her gaze and saw Bailey step into the room. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. Damp circles under his arms indicated that he was more than hot under the collar.
My heart was clattering like a four-cylinder engine in a fullsized truck. I was scared, but I tried to hide it under a false sense of bravado. “It must have been uncomfortable in there,” I said, nodding to the closet. “Good thing you don’t have a phobia like … let me see. Was that your second wife or was it the third?”
Bailey took a step toward me. “Woman, you are in serious trouble.”
“I don’t see why. We have a key. Robbee, show him.” Like a puppet his arm snapped up displaying the piece of plastic. “See,” I said. “No unlawful entry. Ruby, at the front desk, agreed it might be a good idea if we checked on the McDuffys. As I’m sure you’re aware, no one here at the hotel has been informed that the couple won’t be coming back.”
“But you knew. This room is part of an ongoing investigation.”
Robbee spun to the door, clawing at the latch. Bailey was at his side in two strides and put a hand on the wooden panel. “No one is going anywhere,” he said. “If you don’t think I have the authority or ‘just cause’ to haul your interfering hides off to jail, then keep right on talking.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t get a word out. Satisfied, Bailey nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Just for the record, I’m Special Agent Bailey Monroe.” He reached into his pocket and displayed his badge.
“See, dear, I was right. Your Mr. Bailey is law enforcement.” Effie smiled coyly up at Bailey. “Your name has an Old French origin. I’d say from the moment of conception, you were destined to be a policeman. I assume your father is, also?”
Bailey blinked. “Pop was an elementary school teacher.”
Effie’s face crumpled with disappointment. Bailey stared at her. He stared at me. From the way his expression changed, he’d reached the conclusion that I was the obvious target for his frustration. “You, Ms. Solomon, have dibbled and dabbled in my investigation. I want your cooperation, but I also want you to butt out for your own safety and mine.”
“How in the world have I caused you any problems?”
“Let’s begin with your reason for being in here. What were you looking for?”
“Nothing specific,” I admitted. “I’ve never met the McDuffys, but they trusted me with the envelope. I never met Stephanie, their daughter who passed away last month, but her death has set off a chain of events that has drawn me in.”
“Such as?” prompted Bailey.
I averted my gaze to the carpet. Bailey had every right to hear the facts, but did he have the right to my speculations? And what if I told him what I was thinking? What if I was way off base? Or worse. What if he laughed at me?
“Will you answer one question?” I asked.
“I have to hear it first.”
“What agency are you with?”
“I’m DEA—Drug Enforcement Agency.”
A combination of fatigue, stress, and being right about something that was so wrong made my knees buckle. I pitched against the armoire, jarring Stephanie’s picture. When it toppled, I grabbed the wooden frame to keep it from hitting the floor.
I glanced at Bailey. “Stephanie and Gellie were both taking something. You were already investigating that when the McDuffys were murdered. You’re here to find the pusher—the distributor?”
“Have I found her?” asked Bailey smoothly.
At first I didn’t grasp his meaning. When his words finally sunk in, I clenched my jaw. We stared at each other, and after a moment I relaxed enough to ask, “Do you always wear Old Spice cologne or was that part of your cover?”
Bailey almost smiled—almost—but not quite. “When I’m on a case I use every advantage I can get. Once I informed Sheriff Hancock that I needed personal information about you and those close to you, he came through. You have a keen mind, Bretta, but that’s inherent in a shrewd criminal. It’s always the least suspected that proves to be the hardest to catch.”
“My God, Bailey, when you accused me of being a suspect in the McDuffys’ murder, I thought you were baiting me so I’d blurt out information. Now you’re accusing me of being the mastermind of a drug ring? I’m not Sid’s favorite person, but he would never tell you that I have criminal tendencies.”
Bailey replied, “Khat.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
He reeled off a bunch of words. “Khat. K-h-a-t. African salad. Catha edulis. Cat. Chat. Quat. Abyssinian tea. African tea. Take your pick.”
“Tea?” I repeated.
“Uh-oh,” said Robbee, looking at me in disbelief. “You were right to suspect the tea.”
Bailey swung his gaze to Robbee. “What are you talking about?”
“Bretta had made the connection that both Gellie and Stephanie drank tea. Gellie even carried her own tea bags.”
Bailey turned to me. “Our tip-off came a few days ago when the crop that’s been under surveillance was harvested and sent off to Missouri. That’s where I come in, and that’s where you came in, too. That freight came directly to this hotel with your name attached to it.”
I heard everything he said, but the word “harvested” rang in my ears. Drugs brought to mind powder such as cocaine or heroin. When Bailey had mentioned tea, I’d thought dried material, but we hadn’t received anything in a preserved state. Everything had been fresh
and newly cut—harvested from the grower and sent to us.
I pictured the flowers in the basement, but knew of none that would be of interest to a drug dealer. The assortment of blossoms was among any florist’s inventory. All were familiar—except for the shipment from California. It was those shiny green leaves with the bronze tips and the woody stems that had interested Bailey—green leaves for grazing like a cow.
I said, “An unscheduled delivery arrived from California the night of the introductory dinner. In the box was the shiny foliage you spotted in the cooler—the greens you requested to go with the cut flowers you needed for the bogus butterfly display.” I looked at Bailey. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
He had “staring and not answering my questions” down to a fine art.
“My name was on the packing label because I’m coordinator of the contest. If you’ll look at all the boxes that were delivered, I’m sure you’ll see my name on each one.”
“Who had control over what was sent?”
“Everything we’re using is donated. I don’t have any say. The suppliers put together what they want, and in exchange, I give them an advertising plug during the actual contest.”
“How many suppliers?”
“There are three fresh flowers.” I gave him the business names.
“I’ve checked them,” said Bailey.
“The other suppliers are glassware, floral mechanics—wire, ribbon, foam, baskets—that sort of thing.”
“What if you wanted something specific, how do you go about getting it?”
“Call them and ask. Each has his own source, but I have no idea who it is. I give my order, and somewhere in the world those flowers are available, if I’m willing to pay the price.”
Goose bumps pricked my skin. I was saying word for word what Tyrone had said to us at the introductory dinner. Robbee had made the connection, too. We stared at each other. “Tyrone?” I said softly. “Is he involved in this?”
Lilies That Fester Page 17
