Floral Depravity (13 page)

“I thought you'd be over at the encampment,” I said as I yanked open the sticky door.

“Just closed up shop and came by.” He held up a textbook.
Daily Life in the Middle Ages
. “Carol said you forgot this.”

“Ah, yes. For Opie.” I set it on the table. “You didn't have to come all the way out here to bring that. Wait, did you sneak through Larry's place?”

“With his permission.” Nick pulled out a chair and sat at the table.

“Good. He's getting a little antsy with that shotgun.”

“I think he's calmed down a bit. He's now charging five dollars a head.” He stopped as he eyed the brown and black disk on my plate. “And I brought you something.” He whipped out a loaf of bread.

“Oh, I love you!”

“Kind of what I was going for.” He winked.

I went to retrieve a sharp knife and brushed more drywall dust from my cutting board. “Stay to share some with me? I think I still have some butter. Or peanut butter if you're daring to sneak in some New World food.”

“I think I can evade the anachronism police for an evening.”

I dug out plates, knives, and the peanut butter, and I even managed to find a small jar of jelly. “And wasn't there something you wanted to talk with me about?”

“That can wait.” He smeared a bit of peanut butter onto his bread. “The book was just an excuse to see you. I suspect there was something about that last conversation that threw you a little. I know you're trying to keep Liv out of it, so I wondered if you needed someone to bounce ideas off of. But first, I have something more pressing to ask you.”

He looked deeply into my eyes. “Would it be terribly impertinent if I asked to use your shower?”

“My shower?”

“I'm afraid I'm a bit rank from all that roughing it at the camp.”

“My shower?”

“You do have one, right?”

“In a manner of speaking. There's next to no pressure, though. I've mainly been using the tub. But you're welcome to it.” And I hoped I'd remembered to put away my razor.

“Let's take a look.” He made his way to the bathroom and turned on the tap, then the shower. A slow trickle made its way out of the shower head and into the old claw foot tub.

“That's a beauty of a tub,” he said, ignoring the peeling paint and the chipped mismatched tile. “Should last you for another hundred years or so. Do you have a wrench? And some vinegar?”

“I think so.” I ran to collect the tool set that Liv had given me as a housewarming gift and a dusty gallon of vinegar I had seen in the pantry when I moved in. Grandma Mae always did like her homemade pickles. I sat on the edge of the tub and handed him tools for the next twenty minutes while he took my shower apart and soaked several parts in the sink full of vinegar. Eventually the pieces started going together again, and Nick turned on the water. A full spray came this time, instead of the trickle.

I clapped my hands. I still had no roof, but at least I had a working shower. Baby steps.

“May I?” He gestured toward the tub, so I got him a towel and washcloth from the linen closet and then left him to it.

He whistled while he showered. I kind of liked that. I imagined he was enjoying removing the layer of grime from the camp, luxuriating in the warm water and the clean scent of soap bubbles. Then I moved away from the door back into the kitchen, both to give him a little privacy and because my imagination was just a little too vivid. I decided to pop some popcorn, drizzling a little of that new butter on it.

Nick came out wearing a clean tunic that must have been in his bag. “I hand-washed the other clothes and have them hanging up to dry.”

“I guess that means you're not going back tonight.”

He gestured to the setting sun. “Too late to get back before dark anyway.”

And all of a sudden things got quiet between us. Nick had very old-fashioned manners—which I simply adored—and I didn't think he was going to change that now.

“So,” he said as he found a spot on the sofa next to me and pulled the popcorn bowl between us. “Tell me about the case. Who are your lead suspects?”

“Well, as far as motive goes, I guess young Melvin Brooks is top on the list. He stands to inherit. And his new wife would get a bit of that since Melvin tore up the prenup.”

He winced. “They seem like too nice a couple.”

“I'd like to think it's not them, either. But I haven't ruled them out. Kathleen Randolph is on Bixby's radar, but I'm not sure I agree she has motive. Too much time to cool off since the divorce.”

“What divorce?”

“Kathleen Randolph was also once married to Barry Brooks.”

“But that would make Andrea and Mel . . .”

“Not blood related. Just awkward at the family reunions.”

“I daresay. Anyone else?”

“Well, of course the current Mrs. Brooks wasn't here at the time, so she's out of the running—unless she got sick of him and hired someone to get rid of him while she had an alibi. But my money's on Raylene Quinn,” I added. “I had a nice chat with her today, too.”

He reached for a fistful of popcorn. “Do tell.”

“She'd certainly have the knowhow. Besides being a trained biochemist and who knows what else, she's the camp herbalist. She'd also have the opportunity to get close to Brooks anytime she wanted. And she's got motive in spades. I'm pretty sure she was involved with Brooks.”

“I honestly don't know how he managed that. I guess I'm not the best judge, but was he really all that attractive? Unless they're after his money.”

“He was no Cary Grant or even George Clooney, if that's what you mean. He may have had a little more going for him than just his money. He had an awfully good line.”

Nick raised his eyebrows.

“Seems Brooks was telling people he was CIA.”

Nick coughed on a mouthful of popcorn. I ran to get him a glass of water. He was rubbing tears out of his eyes when I got back.

He sipped. “CIA? I don't suppose there's any truth to it.”

“I haven't a clue,” I said. “How can you check if someone was in the CIA? I mean, I don't expect there's a master list on Google somewhere. Maybe Bixby can find out.”

“So you think the lure of being involved with some kind of James Bond type was his ticket to getting women?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but Brooks might have also used those inferences in other more lucrative ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just a half-formed idea,” I said. “But think about it. The CIA is intimidating. No one wants to be on their bad side. So all Brooks needed to do was drop a few hints about what might happen if people stood in his way . . .”

“And everyone bends over backwards doing what he wants without asking too many questions.” Nick shook his head. “He could have been manipulating employees, competitors. Someone he'd had under his thumb for a lot of years might have wanted out.”

I couldn't help the quick inhalation. My father was one of those people feeling the pinch of Brooks's largest digit.

“What?” Nick said. “You think of something?”

I waved it off. “Worth considering.”

“And how does the good father fit into all of this?”

“The . . .”

“The friar. Father Richard.”

I closed my eyes. There was no way this wasn't going to become public knowledge at some point in the investigation, so it was better if Nick heard it from me. “He's my father.”

“The father is . . .”

“My father. Confusing enough yet?”

“Your
father
father? But his name's not . . .” The black kitten hopped into Nick's lap and nosed his water glass. Nick wiped a few spilled drops of water from the front of his tunic, set his glass on the side table, and stroked the kitten behind her ears.

“He had it changed.”

“I see.” Nick slid a little closer to me and put an arm around my shoulder.

“He's apparently now a bounty hunter. From Texas.”

“A bounty hunter. Here on business?”

“He didn't say. He did say that he didn't know I was going to be there, and he didn't know Brooks was going to be there. But I did learn that he used to work for Brooks Pharmaceuticals.”

Nick tightened his grip on my shoulder. “That's some coincidence.”

“He also admitted that he left town because he was accused of embezzling a large amount of money.”

“But he didn't.” I wasn't sure if this was a question or a statement.

“I'd like to think he didn't,” I said. “He claimed that Brooks fixed it so that nobody would press charges as long as my dad left home. Ambiguous bad and scary things might happen if he didn't. Mentioned that whole CIA business.”

“Oh, Audrey. I'm sorry.” Nick pulled me even closer and kissed the top of my head. I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes.

“At least now I know why he left.”

“But not why he came back. And not whether he could have had anything to do with the murder of Barry Brooks.”

I shook my head. “I don't want to believe it, but especially if Brooks framed my dad and ran him out of town, my father has more motive than anybody. And I really don't know him anymore. Just vague memories.”

The kitten nosed Nick's chin, then rested against him like a newborn baby. I guess we were having a group hug.

“I should get my camera,” I said as the kitten sighed and snuggled against him.

“What? And destroy my macho reputation in Ramble?” Nick stroked her shiny black coat. “I think now I understand why you haven't named her.”

“I just haven't thought of the right one. There's time enough for that.”

Nick looked skeptical.

“Okay, Sigmund. Why haven't I named the cat?”

Nick paused, the humor gone out of his face. He pulled me closer. “Just understand: not everyone leaves.”

*   *   *

Bang, bang, bang!

I awoke with a start, jumped up, and was chagrinned to find a stream of drool from my mouth to Nick's tunic. I quickly wiped it while he was stirring.

His comment about why I hadn't named the kitten had cut a little too close and had opened the floodgates. I'd practically cried myself to sleep on Nick's shoulder. Okay, there may have been some cuddling and a few passionate kisses involved.

I glanced at the mantel clock over the crumbling not-to-code fireplace. Three a.m. Who was banging on my front door?

While I was frozen in place by a shot of adrenaline not accompanied by coherent thought, Nick went to the door as the banging started up again.

When he pulled it open, Bixby was standing on my doorstep. He looked at Nick in his damp tunic, then at me, then a silly grin crept across his face. “I hope I haven't disturbed anything. I saw the light on.”

“No,” I said. “We were just . . . no.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Come in.”

Nick stepped back, allowing Bixby to enter, causing all kinds of racket on the squeaky floorboards. When he found a quiet spot, the chief gave Nick's bare legs a long look.

“Maybe I should see if my pants are dry,” Nick said, and headed back to the bathroom, squeaking the floorboards all the way.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wondering just how bedraggled I looked. “At this time of night.” I caught a glimpse in the mirror and discovered the crisscross imprint of Nick's tunic tie embedded into my cheek. There really is no way of carrying on a conversation with your hand draped casually covering half of your face, but I gave it a shot.

“I've been thinking about this case,” he said with that silly grin still on his face. “Just driving around. Like I said, I saw your light. Look, I'd appreciate if you don't hide things from me. You should have told me about Richard Wilson.”

So he came clean after all. “I'm sorry, Chief. I'm sure you can understand why I . . .” Soon everyone would know.

“I think I do,” he said. “And it's partly my fault because I didn't include you in the investigation. I suppose it's only natural for you to go off on your own and try to prove something. That's why I've decided you're probably safer fully briefed.”

“Fully briefed.”

“We might have saved some time if you'd informed me that Wilson was a bounty hunter.” Bixby shook his head. “In all my years on the force, I've never met one—not in real life. He's not like they make them out on television. All the leather, tattoos, and hair.” Bixby snorted. “Wilson looks more like an accountant or something. Maybe that helps him. Takes people by surprise. Now, I still don't want him participating in the investigation.”

“Of course not . . .”

“But since he's been there from the beginning, and he must have had some training . . . or at least experience in the field . . .”

“I suppose.”

“Then we can eliminate him from the suspect pool and maybe even glean some insight of people's behavior just prior to the events in question.”

“But I was there, too, remember. Just prior to the . . . events in question.”

“Audrey, it's no time to quibble over such things. I meant a trained observer. And I just said that I would make sure to brief you regularly on what we discover. I hope I can count on you to do the same?”

Would that include informing Bixby of Wilson's real identity? And that he once worked for Brooks Pharmaceuticals? And that he had a clear motive for the murder of Barry Brooks?

Come to think of it, I now had a motive for the murder. Should I voluntarily recuse myself? But that was ridiculous. I knew I didn't have anything to do with it, so why should I?

I think my jaw was hanging down, but fortunately Bixby attributed lack of protest to agreement to his arrangement.

“So tomorrow, you come with Lafferty and me to the encampment. We can talk about anything else you learned on the way. Don't get me wrong, Audrey. I still think Foley was an idiot for deputizing you, but I'd rather have you safe where I can see you. Besides, you never know what you might stumble into. You seem to have a talent for that.”