For Better or Hearse

by Ann Yost

  Arthur was acting very un-Arthur-like.

  “I apologize for the delay,” he said. “Stan Milson, down in the warehouse, is concerned about the cancellation of a large order.” He frowned. “I told him I’d look into it.”

  The words barely registered. Isabelle focused on her husband’s flushed face. Several thin strands of gray hair were moist with sweat. They clung to his skull. She realized she had never seen Arthur sweat. The always impeccable Windsor knot in his necktie had come undone.

  “Oh my god, Arthur,” she burst out, “you are ill.”

  He pulled a fresh, white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead.

  “No, no, dear, I was working out.”

  Isabelle glanced at the treadmill she’d bought him for Christmas. Stacks of dusty periodicals and papers rested on it.

  Arthur’s eyes followed her gaze.

  “Calisthenics,” he explained. “Not enough time to use the machine.”

  “Arthur,” she said, firmly, “you are not well. I think you should come home and take a nap.”

  “I’m fine, dear.” He was courteous, as always, but there was an unmistakable thread of steel in his voice. “And I’ve got a hundred problems to solve before closing time. What can I do for you?”

  Isabelle thought of the letter in her purse, the one she’d received this morning and, impulsively, had decided to show Arthur. Somehow she couldn’t do it. Not here. Not with Arthur in this odd, prickly mood. She sighed, inwardly. He was prickly a lot lately.

  “It’s not important.” She got to her feet. “I won’t interrupt you any longer.” She waited for him to rise to walk her to the door. Instead he lifted the phone receiver and began to dial. What on earth had happened to her husband’s impeccable manners?

  “Mrs. Harter,” he said, “could you cancel Walter Jacobson? My wife is here and I’d like to take her to lunch.”

  The words were all right. The tone was not. Guilt and remorse assailed Isabelle. Arthur carried the wobbly future of Bowman’s Biscuits on his thin shoulders. She shouldn’t have bothered him.

  “No, please don’t cancel. I’ve an appointment myself. I’ll see you tonight, dear.” She hastened toward the door without a backward glance. Moments later she slid under the wheel of her Mercedes and stared out the windshield. Something was wrong. By the time she turned up the road to Bowman Mansion she knew what it was. Arthur had been on the phone with his administrative assistant but when Isabelle passed Mrs. Harter’s desk it was still empty.

  He had faked the phone call.

  Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids as the grim truth fell into place. No wonder he hadn’t been pleased to see her. No wonder he had taken to coming to bed late or not at all. No wonder.

  Arthur was having an affair.

  With that tart Leilani Harter.

  ****

  Arthur Sneed leaned back in his desk chair and fought a major panic attack.

  “That was too close for comfort.”

  An understatement if ever he’d heard one. He struggled for breath. He was mortified. He’d followed the straight and narrow all his life and now, in his autumn years, he’d lost his way. He didn’t need a crystal ball or a séance to know what Theo Bowman would think of him.

  Especially since the injured party was Isabelle.

  Long fingers drifted across his narrow thigh and he began to quiver the way he always did when she touched him.

  “No more,” he said, without conviction. She ignored the order and slid her palm up his thigh until she reached the open zipper and the stalk of thick male flesh. He pictured her on her knees, her mouth closing around the moist tip of his erection. “Oh, God,” he whimpered. He gave himself up to another shuddering climax. He didn’t know who he was anymore but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  ****

  The morning clouds drifted and expanded until by mid-afternoon they’d created a gray canopy that resembled Trout Lake before a storm. Or Nick Bowman’s eyes. Daisy shook off the image.

  Neither Nick Bowman nor his eyes were on her radar screen any longer. She’d successfully banished him. And it hadn’t even been very hard. Soon he’d leave Mayville and she wouldn’t have to think about him again which was exactly what she wanted.

  The twigs and branches that flew past her office reminded her of a scene from the Wizard of Oz. She hadn’t realized the wind had whipped into such a fury.

  Junie appeared in Daisy’s office, her cheeks flushed from the kitchen and her ponytail askew.

  “I think the cauldron cookies will work for the handfast,” she announced. “If I mix all the food coloring together I get something pretty close to black.”

  “Sounds good. Nadine called a few minutes ago to ask you to stop over at the Biscuit on your way home. She wants your opinion on some choices for Saturday’s event.” Daisy glanced out the window and watched another branch sail by. “You’d better go now before the storm breaks.”

  “Tres bien. You’ll stay at Caro’s?”

  Daisy shook her head. “I need to feed Larry. We’ll be okay at the cabin.”

  A sudden crash made both women jump.

  “Mon Dieu! What was that?”

  “Probably a loose shingle. I’ll get the ladder out and check tomorrow.”

  After Junie left she walked through the house to secure all the doors and windows. She’d reached the back door, purse in hand, when the phone rang.

  Dang.

  “Happily Ever After,” she said. “This is Daisy.”

  “Debbie Popple here. I need a favor from you.”

  Debbie, a curvaceous, forty-something divorcee who owned her own real estate company had brokered the deal between Daisy and the late Randolph Bowman’s estate. She was tall, buxom and confident, and her hair, a few shades darker than Daisy’s, was styled by a salon in the Detroit suburbs. Most local women, including Daisy, patronized the only salon in town, Hair by Denise, on Main Street.

  “I’ll cut to the chase.” Debbie’s voice was as crisp as a ginger snap. “I want you to set me up with Nick Bowman.”

  Daisy blinked. “Set you up? I don’t think he’s in the market for a house.” Except Daisy’s house; the Gray Lady.

  “This isn’t about real estate,” Debbie said, impatiently, “this is personal. I want you to introduce us.”

  “Personal? You mean you want to date Nick Bowman?”

  “Naturally I want to date him. Everyone wants to date him. He’s rich, eligible and he’s smokin’ hot.”

  Thunder crashed overhead and she jumped.

  “Uh, Debbie, what’ve you heard about the weather?”

  “Tornado warnings until ten for the tri-county area. A funnel cloud’s been sighted near Livonia. Stay inside until further notice. You should turn on your TV.” Debbie rattled off the information like a professional weathercaster and the words struck fear into Daisy’s heart. Larry was alone. He would be frightened.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “What about Nick?”

  Good grief.

  “Why don’t you call him? I’m sure he’d be glad to meet you.”

  Debbie dismissed the idea. “Too obvious. You’ve got access and you know what we say in the real estate biz, location, location, location. I know he spent the night out at your cabin.”

  Daisy grimaced. That had to be a record even for Mayville’s efficient grapevine.

  “Relax, Daisy. Your halo is safe. Everyone knows you never misbehave and, in any case, you’re not his type.”

  Daisy couldn’t argue with that. “Right.”

  “So, can you fix me up?”

  A shutter banged against the house and Daisy jumped. She had to get home.

  “I’ll mention it if I see him.” It was a safe enough promise. She never intended to see Nick Bowman again.

  “Don’t just mention it, hon. Sell it. Sell me. Tell him I’ve got lots of experience and an excellent technique. Believe me, it’s true.”

  Thunder crashed and ligh
tning slashed the sky outside the windows. Inside, the air conditioner stopped humming and the lights went out. The storm charged into high gear like a two-year-old’s tantrum.

  “Look, Debbie, I’ve got to go.” Without waiting for the other woman’s response she disconnected the phone. The Gray Lady’s ancient electrical system demanded careful handling and Daisy knew she had to flip the breaker switch to avoid a power surge when electricity was restored. The problem was, the fuse box was in the cellar. The dank, dark, scary cellar. Dang.

  She located the heavy-duty portable flashlight under the kitchen sink and made her way down two flights of stairs. Daisy prided herself on her practicality but the storm, the dark and the cellar made her feel like a gothic heroine. She half-expected a bat to tangle in her hair or a vampire to rise from one of the coffins. She shivered.

  She moved across the dirt floor as quickly as possible. Sweat dampened the back of her blouse and her legs quivered. She flipped the main electrical switch then made a beeline for the stairs and daylight but she stumbled and the flashlight beam threw wide. Daisy’s stomach twisted as she stared at the black candle on top of a coffin.

  More than anything she wanted to take the wooden steps two at a time. She reminded herself this was her house, her business. Her future. Her sisters’ future. She couldn’t run. She forced herself to touch the strange candle. Her throat constricted with fear. She was certain no one had been down here all day.

  Except that someone had.

  The wax was still warm.

  Her heart crashed against her ribs. She shone the light on the object and discovered there was more to fear than the black candle. The dish in which it sat was filled with carcasses. She peered at the bodies of the dead butterflies and bit back a cry.

  Was it a statement by the stalker or a protest? She’d banned Nick from the Gray Lady. Was this childish but eerie display his revenge?

  Her fear receded replaced by anger. She’d get to the bottom of this and when she identified the author of this harassment she intended to go after him with everything at her disposal.

  She would permit no one to harass her family.

  No one.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick slumped in the driver’s seat of the Malibu. He’d parked on Michigan Avenue behind the Gray Lady. On a clear day he’d have a great view of the back of the house through a static veil of green. Today’s storm-blackened sky and the dancing leaves reduced the visibility to nearly zero.

  He’d lived in this town for more than twenty years and didn’t need a weathercaster to tell him these were ideal conditions for tornadoes. For once, that was a good thing. Nick intended to turn the rotten weather to his advantage. No one would be out tonight. No one would know if he broke into the old mortuary. He’d have hours to explore the damn cellar. All night. All he had to do was wait for Miss Daisy Budd to leave for the day. With any luck, he’d have completed his mission by dawn and by late morning, he could be on a flight out of town.

  With any luck. Nick snorted. Lately, luck had deserted him.

  He squinted through the rain-spattered windshield and his heart jerked when he saw her. A gust of wind whipped at her hair and her skirt. She clutched that oversized straw purse to her chest but there was nothing to protect her from the bucketing rain. Her soaked blouse clung to her chest and he caught a glimpse of high, well-formed breasts. Nick’s body tightened with need. He ignored it.

  He’d figured out right away that Daisy Budd wasn’t for him and, as she’d made clear last night, he wasn’t for her.

  She managed to get into the Jeep. Nick pulled away from the curb. He’d figured he’d follow her to her sister’s house just to make sure the coast was clear. He did not intend to be interrupted tonight.

  The little red vehicle took a right on Pine then another on Main. The torrent had already flooded the street which was bereft of both cars and pedestrians. Daisy’s tires created deep furrows of water as she made her way to the right hand turn on Third Street, the one that led to her sister’s house on Fillmore.

  Only she didn’t turn on Third. Nick frowned. Where the devil was she headed? In another two blocks they’d be at the end of Main where she would have no choice but to turn right to drive up to the Bowman Mansion or left to hook up with the interstate that led to the lake. He cursed as the left hand blinker flirted with him through the rain. Surely she wasn’t heading to the cabin. The small wooden structure covered in tin and surrounded by trees and water provided poor shelter in a storm. A tornado or a rogue bolt of lightning could reduce the place to a house of sticks.

  Was the woman insane?

  He pictured the warm hazel eyes and the answer came to him.

  This wasn’t about sanity. This was about the damned cat.

  He sat at the crossroads and watched her lights wink in the distance. His cell rang and he picked it up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, Nick. This is Isabelle. Could you come to dinner tonight?”

  Under no circumstances. He had an agenda that did not include family.

  “Thank you. I have other plans.”

  He heard a little sob and couldn’t believe his ears. He’d never known Isabelle to cry.

  “Aunt Isabelle? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Nick. I can’t talk about it over the phone.” She sobbed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “All right,” he soothed. “I’m on Main Street. I’ll be there in three minutes.”

  He parked in the circular drive in front of the mansion and sprinted up the covered front porch steps. The wind screamed across the blackened sky. Worry about Daisy ripped at him. He shook it off.

  For once Finch was not at his post. Instead, Isabelle met him at the door and took him into her small parlor. He inhaled her familiar scent of gardenias and, at her insistence, dropped into one of the spindly French chairs. She sat opposite then reached out to him and he covered her cold hands with his warm ones,

  “What is it?”

  She sniffed. “We’re having grilled wild tuna served on a bed of soba noodles.”

  Nick shook his head. Aunt Isabelle might be in the middle of a crisis but she’d still managed to order a gourmet meal.

  “I meant what is it that’s worrying you.”

  “I know.” She withdrew her hands, sniffed, fumbled in the purse on the desk and withdrew an envelope. She handed it over and he scanned it.

  “An invoice for fifty thousand dollars from someone named Spuds Langston,” he said, half to himself, before he caught the name on the bill. His eyes shot to his aunt’s face. “What could Buzz have bought for half a grand?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Isabelle replied. “All I know is that we can’t possibly put our hands on that kind of money. Not right now.”

  Nick stared at the statement. It said, “For services rendered.”

  “Have you shown it to Arthur?”

  Tears welled up in Isabelle’s faded blue eyes. They slipped down her pale cheeks.

  “I tried.” She sniffed. “I went to the office today and, oh, Nick, this is simply beyond the pale. It seems Arthur is, well, carrying on with Leilani Harter.”

  Nick stared at her. He could not imagine Arthur carrying on. Not even with his wife. Never with Leilani Harter, a respected wife, mother and grandmother.

  “Aunt, Mrs. Harter taught Buzz and me in Sunday school.”

  “I know.” Her face crumpled. “That makes it even worse!”

  “It isn’t possible.”

  Isabelle covered her eyes with her hands.

  “When I stepped into his office he didn’t rise.”

  He looked at her, blankly.

  “The man has impeccable manners. He always rises when a lady enters the room. And that’s not all. His clothes were disheveled and he was sweaty and flushed.” She let out a little moan. “His tie was undone.”

  “Maybe he was overheated.”

  “He said he’d been exercising but he hadn’t. The treadmill I bought him was covered with paper
s.” She let out a little sob. “And that isn’t even the worst of it. He lied, Nick. He pretended to be on the phone with her in order to get rid of me.”

  “What makes you think it was a lie?”

  His aunt’s lined face looked ten years older than it had only days earlier.

  “He couldn’t have been talking to her on the phone. She wasn’t at her desk.”

  “Maybe he’d called her cell.”

  Isabelle appeared to consider that.

  “No, no, I don’t think so. They were discussing his calendar.”

  “Well there’s got to be some other explanation. Ask Arthur.”

  “I can’t,” she moaned. “I just can’t.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “I’ve known Arthur Sneed all my life, Aunt Isabelle. He is the soul of courtesy and honor. Pops trusted him. You know that.”

  “But why was he so… moist?”

  Nick groped for a comforting answer.

  “Push-ups?”

  She sniffed. “He did mention calisthenics.”

  They were interrupted when the door to the small parlor opened and Nick’s sister-in-law appeared. He was surprised she hadn’t knocked. She looked surprised to see him.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I have a few questions from Harmony Lime about the upcoming Wiccan festivities.”

  Nick knew his aunt would be gracious to the intruder. For once he didn’t mind the interruption. He was out of suggestions to explain what Isabelle saw as Arthur’s suspicious behavior.

  “Please come in, Alice,” Isabelle said. “How can I help you?”

  Nick half-listened to some nonsense about elderberries and newt’s eyes while he fretted about Daisy. Damn the woman! If a tornado hit the lake she’d find herself in hell. Or Kansas. He cut off his sister-in-law as he got to his feet.

  “I’ll speak with you later,” he said to his aunt and escaped into the foyer before she could press him to stay for grilled tuna. Almost immediately long fingers with black nails wrapped around his arm. Nick ground his teeth and forced a smile.

  “Judith.”

  Tonight his stepmother wore a black gown studded with silver suns and moons. Wardrobe, he remembered, had frequently figured in Judith Bowman’s spiritual choices.