“Not until I’ve saved enough pennies. I’d be heartbroken if someone else bought that old place. But I guess there’s no danger of that. Eric told me Rawling isn’t putting a lot of money into his properties these days.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait for the right neighbor then. Even if it’s someone who primes me with flowers before she pumps me for information.”
I flashed her an innocent “Moi?” look before I pulled a couple of Hershey’s Kisses from the bowl on her desk and sank into the chair next to her. “Anything interesting?”
“Well, Bixby’s still got your boyfriend cooling his heels in the interrogation room.”
“Ex-boyfriend. What do you mean, cooling his heels?”
“He left him in there alone. I’ve seen Bixby do it before. He’s trying to freak him out, make Brad more likely to talk. And I’d say it’s working. Every time I peek in on him, he’s pacing the room, talking to himself. I sure hope he has nothing to hide, because he looks like he’s about to spill everything he’s ever known. And while I doubt he could have had anything to do with the death of our visiting celebrity, I’ll lay odds he was part of the crew that disassembled Mr. Riggleman’s old Dodge and put it back together on the roof of the high school. Although I gather the statute of limitations for that little escapade has run out.”
“No comment. Did he ask for a lawyer during questioning?”
“That’s just it. Bixby hasn’t even been to see him yet. He keeps heading out the door to talk to other possible witnesses. He popped in long enough to interview the grieving widow in his office, and—oh, Audrey, you did not hear that from me.”
It took a moment to register. “Grieving widow?” Although Brad had chided me for my lack of gaydar, even I had enough to pick up on Gary’s tendencies. Eventually. “Gary Davoll was married? To a woman?”
Mrs. June shushed me, then pulled her chair closer. “Audrey, you have to keep that on the down low. I’m not even supposed to know it, and I can’t believe I let it slip out. But yes, Gary was married. And to a woman. Been married a long time, but it was all hush-hush because of the show and his reputation. Apparently nobody trusts a straight man to choose their wedding fashions. I mean, my husband, God rest his soul, couldn’t tell the difference between satin and flannel. I didn’t overhear all of the conversation, mind you, but Gary most definitely was married.”
“To whom? You saw his wife? Was she someone from the show?”
Mrs. June nodded and then whispered, “Gigi Welch.”
Chapter 6
My mind was still spinning when I arrived at the Ashbury and saw the crowd milling behind the police barrier where Ken Lafferty sternly stood “guard.” Not that any of the crowd, including Tacky Jackie, couldn’t have taken out the diminutive young rookie with a good kick to the knees. Perhaps the oppressive heat rising in waves from the asphalt surfaces was siphoning the fight right out of them.
Jackie was present with her entourage, mostly her bridesmaids from the wedding. Their protest signs stood propped into the ground while the women were all draped over the large boulders that lined the boundary of the Ashbury’s garden, like they had melted in the heat or were part of some Dali painting.
A few Ramblers mingled among the crowd, waving cheerfully when they saw a familiar face. And I did spot the stocky young fan who had taken up a bullhorn in support for Gary and Gigi at the welcoming ceremonies. Long hours in this heat had left his blond scalp sunburned, while his nose, forehead, and the tops of his ears were downright singed. He was sitting in the grass, leaning against the trunk of a tree, as if the tree were the only thing holding him up.
I texted Nick that I was outside, asked him to bring a couple of bottles of water, and made my way over to the groupie under the tree.
“My guess is that you’re tired, have a headache, and feel ready to drop.”
“It’s been a bummer day,” he said.
“You’re probably also a bit dehydrated with that sunburn.” I waved to Nick, who had stepped outside the building looking for me. “I’m Audrey Bloom, by the way, and I’ve had just enough nursing school to be dangerous. You need fluids.”
When Nick jogged up to us, I took one of the water bottles and handed it to the young man. He removed thick glasses and poured a bit of the cold water on his head and face before chugging the rest.
“Thank you. You might be right. I feel better already.” He reached out his hand, which I shook. “Dennis Pinkleman. Cleveland, Ohio. If you’re on the fan boards, I go by the screen name Gigi’s Guy.”
“Um, sorry. Fan of the show, but I’ve never been on the boards. You’re a big fan of Gigi, then?”
“Gary and Gigi, both. But yeah, they always seemed so nice on TV. But Gigi . . . it’s like she really gets it. There’s just this connection. She even answers her e-mails.”
I smiled and nodded. I doubted she even knew he existed.
“I came down here because I thought it would be fun to see Gary and Gigi live. The fan boards don’t often find out the locations. The network tries to keep it hush-hush. But this one leaked out. And since Ramble was in driving distance, I hopped in my car. Only I never thought . . .” He sank his face into his palms, then screamed and jerked his hands away from his leathery cheeks. That had to hurt.
“Look, Dennis, you would probably feel better if you were inside with some air conditioning.” Although evening was approaching, the air was still warm and sticky. “Do you have a room somewhere?”
“No. I drove overnight and was going to catch a nap in my car before I headed back home. Only now . . . now I can’t leave.”
“Did someone tell you to stick around?” Maybe Bixby considered this big lug as a possible suspect. The obsessed fan angle?
“How can I leave until I know? I’m waiting to see if they make some kind of official announcement about Gary. I keep watching that door. Sooner or later they have to come and tell us something.”
“Uh, Dennis, you do know he’s dead, right?”
Dennis closed his eyes, resting his head against the tree. Tears snaked down his flushed cheeks. “I keep hoping that it’s a bad rumor, like somebody put it on Twitter and people kept retweeting it without checking to see if it was true. Is that too much to ask? That it be just a bad rumor?” He looked up with sad, puppy-dog eyes. “I know it’s silly. I can’t believe this is happening.”
Nick squatted next to Dennis and handed him the second bottle of water. “Audrey’s right. Maybe you should go someplace cool.”
“But they have to tell something to the fans,” Dennis said. “We’ve been out here all day. They owe us that much. Gigi should come out here. She and Gary seemed so close on the show. She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. We’re all mourning. We can be there for her.”
And Dennis had no idea how close Gary and Gigi really were. But I doubted seeking comfort from crazed fans was high on her priority list.
“Hey, how come he gets water?” a female voice demanded, just behind me.
I knew that voice. I whipped around to face Tacky Jackie. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with sunburn. I’d say anger, but that was just my guess based on an hour, minus commercials, of watching her fly off the handle while turning that precise shade. I’ll have to admit, it was more fun to see on TV than in person.
“Seriously, because he’s a fan, he gets water? What about the rest of us dying out here in the hot sun?”
“Will you cut it out, Jackie?” Dennis scrambled to his feet. “A great tragedy happened here today, a fine man was struck down in his prime, and now it’s suddenly all about you.” He took a step toward her. “I take that back. It’s not sudden. It’s always been all about you, hasn’t it?”
“Do I deserve that?” she asked, and her bridesmaids pushed themselves off their rock perches to stand behind her. “All I did was ask about water. Water is one of the necessities of life, you
know.”
I took an unconscious step back.
“Look, ladies, if it’s water you want, I can get you some,” Nick stammered.
Jackie shook her head. “It’s not the water. It’s the principle of the thing.” She turned back to Dennis. “And here you are, the faithful fan.” Tacky Jackie, or maybe I should say Wacky Jackie, since she was definitely giving off that vibe, drew close enough to Dennis that when she spoke, her spit hit him in the face. “You think the show is going to give you water, a place to stay, or even some official announcement? They couldn’t care less about you, just like they couldn’t care less about me. And I was on their silly program.”
Her face melted into a sneer. “They don’t care about weddings. They don’t care about fans. And I doubt they even care that much about Gary. You know what they care about? The bottom line, ratings, and advertising dollars. And if I had to guess, I’d say Gigi and that producer are in there right now trying to figure out how his death will affect their pocketbooks and shooting schedule. Well, you know what? I’m glad he’s dead.”
That last statement was enough to turn Dennis from a sunburned, weepy teddy bear into a ravenous grizzly. “You take that back.” He grasped Jackie’s shoulders, like he was trying to shake some sense into her, and then her bridesmaids rushed to her aid, beating on him with their signs and purses, trying to scratch him with their manicured nails.
I was glad I’d taken the step back. Nick reached for my hand, and we put a little more distance between us and the fracas.
A whistle blew, and Ken Lafferty’s distorted voice came over a bullhorn, demanding they “cease and desist.” Why he didn’t just tell them to stop, I don’t know.
Two bridesmaids pinned Dennis to the ground while Jackie kicked dust at his face with her flip-flopped feet.
And then torrents of water seemed to come from nowhere, from everywhere. A stream blasted the right side of my face and trickled down my arm. Nick found my hand again, and led me even farther from the conflict.
Ken Lafferty was standing on the hood of the police car, a high-pressure fire hose in his hand. I guess he’d figured out a way to handle crowd control after all.
A burst of a siren sounded as another of Ramble’s three police cars rolled up. Bixby climbed out of the passenger seat, took off his mirrored sunglasses, and stared at the situation. He gave one gesture to Lafferty, a quick slash at the neck, and soon the water slowed to a trickle.
Bixby grimaced at his rookie. “When you learned crowd control at the academy, tell me something, boy—was your textbook published during the Civil Rights movement?”
The water had left Dennis and the three women sprawled on the ground, arms and legs tangled in a heap like spaghetti. It seemed to take the fight out of them, though.
After a quick, quiet chat with Lafferty, Bixby parted the crowd and demanded that Dennis come with him.
“But that’s not fair,” I said. “You don’t even know what happened.”
Bixby didn’t answer me. He escorted the man through the crowd and deposited him in the back of the police car. He said a few words to his officer at the wheel. If I can read lips, he said, “Taxi moo gestation.” Apparently I can’t read lips.
As the car containing Dennis Pinkleman drove off slowly back toward police headquarters, Bixby darted into the Ashbury.
I turned to Nick with a sigh. “That man never listens. At least not to me.”
“If it’s any consolation, Audrey, at least the police department is cooler than it is out here.”
“And watch,” Jackie spat, hair matted to her head and water still rolling down her face. “They’ll probably even give him dinner.” She gaped as the police car rolled down the street, then she reached up to wring out her hair. “Ouch!” She rubbed her arm. “It’s police brutality. Did I hear you say you were a nurse?”
“Not really. Former nursing student.” Apparently little got by Jackie.
She held her fingers out to me, wincing as she flexed them, my invitation to supply free medical care. Nothing seemed broken. “Maybe some ice would be a good idea. And then have a doctor look at it if it gets worse.”
“I’ll get you some ice.” Nick headed back into the Ashbury.
“How is he getting in that place, anyhow?” she asked. “They won’t even let us near there.”
“He’s catering for the cast and crew.”
“He seems nice. Your boyfriend?” Jackie asked.
“Sort of.”
“You should do something about that ‘sort of.’ Never good to let that kind get too far away. And I saw you go in yesterday morning.”
“I’m the florist.”
“Florist.” She rolled her eyes with some disdain. “I hated my flowers. Did you see my flowers?”
“I . . .” I was ready to defend my unknown fellow florist, but I couldn’t remember if I had seen her flowers. And here I’d justified watching the show to get ideas for work. I was so distracted by Jackie’s other antics, that I never even noticed them. “I can’t say I remember them.”
“Sunflowers, hypericum berries, and yellow peppers. Vegetables. Can you believe they put vegetables in my bouquet?”
An unusual combination. But the colors sounded harmonious and the meanings were mostly positive. The small sunflowers represented adoration. Some say the hypericum berries foretold protection and good health. But peppers?
You can put almost anything into a bouquet, and I’d had my share of strange requests. Still, I can’t say that I’d ever come across the meaning of peppers, even though I’d seen meanings for walnuts, lemons, and watermelon (which not so ironically symbolized bulkiness). Although I doubt many bouquets contained watermelon, except maybe those from Edible Arrangements.
“I don’t know, Jackie. I’ve heard of worse bouquets.”
“So you do know who I am. You know what they did to me.”
I glanced back to the Ashbury. Where was Nick with that ice?
“I’m sure things aren’t always what they appear on camera,” I said. “And my brief experience with Gary leads me to believe he wasn’t always as nice as he seemed.”
“Well, you got that right. They messed up everything. I thought I was going to have my dream wedding. I’ve had it planned ever since I was six, you know. Like some fairy princess story. I was going to wear a sparkly white dress with a huge train. And a glittering tiara. And there’d be music. Violins and cellos. A whole orchestra. And everyone would stand when I walked down that aisle, and say, ‘There never was a lovelier bride.’ There’d be a horse-drawn carriage waiting when we came out. White horses. With footmen and everything. And large white feathers. On the horses, not the footmen.
“That’s what they promised me. A fairy-tale wedding. And instead, they turned me into a laughingstock. Brian won’t even talk to me. My divorce just became final. No fairy-tale wedding. No Prince Charming.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, I don’t care who hears it,” she said. “Gary Davoll ruined my life and my reputation, and I’m glad he’s dead. I guess now everyone is going to treat him like he’s some kind of hero. I’ll bet they even do a tribute program. What do you want to wager that the shot of me trying to deck him with the champagne bottle will be part of it? I’m surprised they haven’t hauled me in as a suspect.”
Only because Bixby never watched the show.
“Jackie, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you come here? What were you hoping to accomplish?”
“Well, I . . . I want . . .” She straightened her posture and tugged at her wet shirt so it wasn’t clinging against her skin. “I need to get past this. To put the show and everything that happened behind me and begin again. That Jackie you saw on TV wasn’t me. I’m really a very private person.”
“Jackie, a photo?” a woman called.
Jackie turned to the camera and smiled.
I hated to tell her that the person who snapped her picture wasn’t from the media. Mrs. DeYoung teaches second grade at the elementary school and probably wanted the photo for her scrapbook. And it also seemed to me that someone who wanted to be left alone would have been home, trying to mend her marriage and not traveling the country carrying signs. But maybe that’s just me.
I glanced back toward the Ashbury to Nick, who was lugging out a big insulated beverage cooler. After a quick confab with Lafferty, Nick lowered the cooler onto the trunk of the police cruiser. “Lemonade,” he announced to the crowd. “Courtesy of Fix My Wedding.”
Soon people queued up to fill the little paper cups from the side of the dispenser.
Nick then trotted over with an ice bag he’d balanced on top of the cooler. “Sorry it took so long. I thought the lemonade might help the spirits of the crowd out here.”
Jackie took the ice pack and applied it to her hand. “So it’s not really from the show after all.”
“Well, sort of. They paid for it. They just didn’t finish drinking it,” Nick said with a wink.
“Good man.” Jackie tapped my arm. “Remember what I said.”
Those nearby who had been sitting on the grass started to rise.
“Someone’s coming,” Jackie said.
A gleaming black limo rolled down Main Street and approached the inn. The front window descended. The driver spoke briefly with Ken Lafferty, then Ken moved the barrier out of the way and let the vehicle pass. But at the same time, the tinted back window lowered and a dapper gray-haired man leaned out and waved royally to the crowd—the whole Princess Di wave that’s no more than a swivel of an upraised hand, the kind they train royals to do.
Jackie tried to jump to see above the heads of the people in front of her. “Who is it?” she cried, almost frantically. “Can you see who it is?”
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls Page 7
