Floral Depravity (22 page)

“It's Murphy's Law,” Liv ranted. “Has to be. I've done everything by the book for almost nine months. I found the best obstetrician and birthing center in the whole county. I took those monster prenatal horse pills. I aced all my Lamaze classes, was poked and pricked and prodded through all those tests, and I even ate all my veggies, including broccoli. And you know what I feel about broccoli.”

“I do,” I said.

“I even gave up coffee. And then that one time I sneak off, color a little outside of the lines, and this happens. What am I going to tell Eric?”

“Any contractions?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Then let's get you back to town.”

The path wasn't wide enough for more than two to walk together at a time, so I walked with Liv. Ahead of us were Nick and my father, acting a little chummier than I cared for and talking just a little too softly for me to understand. Brad took up the rear.

“Wait a second,” Liv said. “I need to catch my breath. You're all too tall. You have a much longer stride than I do.” She leaned against a tree and several men in armor pushed past us.

“You might not want to do that,” my father said. “Lightning could hit the tree.”

She moved away as the sky flashed and the rain grew in intensity. “Audrey, I swear, next time . . .”

“I hope there's not a next time. Not like this. We have to keep going,” I said. “We'll go slower for you.”

She nodded and brushed rain out of her eyes.

The path was beginning to grow muddy, making the going more difficult. Occasionally the wind would blow sheets of cold rain, slapping them into our faces. And the tree branches were waving wildly, as if saying, “Get out of here, you idiots.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Liv said, gripping the fence when we got to Larry's.

The man wasn't in sight and people exiting were, for the most part, ignoring the honor box with a slot in the top.

“Do you think Larry would mind if we step out of the rain into the greenhouses for a bit?” Liv said. “I need a breather.”

I was considering this—surely Larry wouldn't mind—when the sky lit up again, and several spots on the ground around the greenhouse reflected its glow. Several panes of glass had already blown out and shattered on the ground.

“Not safe. It's not far to the car now.”

We struggled down the long, steep driveway. I tried to keep a slower pace for Liv, but every time the sky lit up or the thunder crashed—and the gap between the two was growing shorter—it was like something inside me stepped on the accelerator. I fumbled in my bag for the keys before we even reached the road. Fortunately, Brad and I had arrived at the camp early enough to grab a good parking spot. And soon Liv was in the passenger seat of the CR-V. Nick snatched my keys, so Brad, my father, and I climbed in the back.

Liv panted. “I guess it's as good a time as any to tell you. You know those contractions you were asking me about earlier?” And she continued that heavy breathing that I'd mistaken for exertion, but appeared to be her attempt at Lamaze.

“Just relax and buckle up.” If Liv's contractions were just starting, we'd have plenty of time to get her to the birthing center where she'd decided to have her baby.

Nick started up the engine, turned on the headlights and defogger, and flipped the windshield wipers on high speed. It would be a slow drive, but we were moving. For a little while.

We passed my cottage and had gone maybe half a mile farther when red brake lights shone ahead of us through the eerie blackness of the storm. Then traffic came to a halt altogether.

I pulled out my cell phone and wiped it off on my car upholstery. Fortunately it lit up, and I dialed the one person who would know exactly what was happening with the road: Mrs. June.

“Oh, honey! That's the worst place to—” Her sentence was interrupted by a series of crackles and pops. I'd have to remember to put my phone in a bag of rice overnight, to help dry it out. “—road is completely closed due to a downed tree.”

“But traffic is coming the other way,” I said as I squinted into the headlights of an oncoming car.

“Probably people just turning around,” she said, followed by more crackles.

“How long until it's cleared?” I asked.

“No . . . of the tree is resting on the power lines, and the highway crews won't even touch the tree until the power company . . . to tell them it's safe.”

“So we need to turn around,” I said. “That means we'd have to pick up county route—”

“Closed because of the wildfires. And according to the weather service, there's still lots of this storm left to come. We're now under a tornado watch. Nope, just upgraded to a warning. Get to shelter.”

“We can make it back to my cottage, I think.”

Nick waited for another car to pass and did a three-point turn.

“Can you get an ambulance to us?” I shouted into the phone while the rain beat down against the top of the CR-V.

But the phone crackled and went dead.

*   *   *

“I'm sorry. I'm
sorry. I'm sorry,” Liv wailed as we helped her up the front walkway.

Most of the plants were matted down in the yard, and the blue tarp on my roof bubbled and slapped and tugged on the ropes that held it in place. That it was still there was a testament to Eric's attention to detail.

The door had swelled with the humidity, but Nick managed to force it open and he hustled Liv inside.

Before I could join them, I noticed that more headlights had followed ours as two other vehicles pulled into the driveway. I ducked into the shelter of the doorway and watched as the doors open and people climbed out. The first vehicle, a van, held a family. The two children were the same ones who'd visited the stables wanting to feed the horses. They ran to the house and I flung open the door to let them in out of the rain. Yes, I'm a softy.

They were followed by the occupants of the second vehicle, and I did a double take to see Mel and Andrea Brooks, along with the two men who had been guarding the box at the tournament.

“More's the merrier,” I said, which was one of Grandma Mae's favorite expressions. If the floorboards would hold them, they'd be welcomed in this house.

“Audrey, I need to lie down,” Liv said. She started heading toward the bedroom.

“Sorry, Liv. Tornado warning. Everybody in the basement.”

She gave me one incredulous look. “Audrey, I can't have my baby down there.”

But then hail began to pelt the windows and the power flickered. Liv swallowed hard, then grabbed the railing and started making her way slowly down the crude wood steps that led to the basement.

The whole group crept down after her into the musty cellar. Nick and Brad managed to carry my mattress downstairs, where we set it up in a corner. After I got Liv settled, I sent them back up for blankets, pillows, and towels, and then, when they were halfway up the stairs, I asked them to also bring my new toolbox. Brad looked at me funny when I'd asked for the toolbox, but Nick went straight up to get it.

“Audrey,” Liv wailed, “why do you need the toolbox? Please, tell me you're not going to cut me open with a saw.”

“Shh. It's just to keep them busy,” I said.

They were still upstairs when the lights flickered again, and then went out.

In the dark, conversation suddenly hushed. The only sounds were the creaking of the floorboards from the men upstairs and the louder, more irregular creaking of the house as it flexed and groaned in the wind.

I pulled out my cell phone. It was useless for making calls, but I could still use the light from it to look into Liv's face. “It's okay.” I also noticed that my mother had called three more times. Ugh. Then that light died, too.

“Cell phones!” I called. “Give 'em up. Flashlight app, if you have one.”

No one moved, so I said, “It's my house, and that's the price of admission. You can't call for help anyway, and Angry Birds can wait. You want to stay, I need your cell phones. I need the light.” I'd had one flashlight in the house, but I hadn't seen it since the move.

One by one, even the staunchest medievalist coughed up his contraband cell phone. I placed them around the room to give light where I needed it, then I used one to scan the motley crew now inhabiting my basement. The family was huddled in the corner, the little girl sitting on her mother's lap. Mel and Andrea stood nearby. He was giving her a consoling hug. Or vice versa. And my father stood by Liv's head.

The two guards took up residence sitting on the stairs. And the light from the cell just caught the reflection from the eyes of both cats, who were resting on the tops of the cement walls, just out of sight. They must have instinctively sought shelter down here when the wind started blowing.

The old guards had to get up when Nick and Brad came back downstairs with mounds of linens and my toolbox. But they weren't alone. Bixby and Lafferty followed them.

“I got a call that you needed help—” Bixby started.

Liv took that moment to start her panting again. Or maybe she was hyperventilating. Either way I could hardly blame her. I clicked the stopwatch on my cell to time the contraction.

Bixby stopped in his tracks. “Good grief. She's not doing what I think she's doing, is she?”

“If you mean is she in labor,” I said, “the answer is yes.”

“She can't have a baby down here,” Bixby said.

“You heard the man. I'm not having my baby down here,” Liv echoed.

“I'm open to suggestions,” I said.

Bixby raked his hand through his hair.

Liv whimpered. “Please, Audrey. Not down here. Not in front of all these people.”

“We can fix that,” Nick said. “I think there was a box of tacks in this kit.” He grabbed one of the cell phones and used the light from it to rummage through the tool kit and pulled out a small box and a hammer. Then he started hammering my new blanket to the rafters to make a curtain for her.

My father took the pillows from a frozen Brad and propped them up behind Liv.

I squeezed her hand. “Better?”

“Not much. Audrey, I'm so sorry. You were right. You were right. You were right.” When the pressure on my hand increased and she kept repeating her sentence like a mantra, I clicked the stopwatch again.

“It won't be long,” I said.

“But first babies are supposed to take forever. Hours or days, they told me.”

“Not all of them. And not this one.”

“But we never even decided on names yet,” she whined. “I need to talk to Eric.”

“Okay, fine.” I picked up the driest of all the cell phones and dialed Liv's husband. “If this phone works, you can talk with him, but I need to check you.”

She nodded.

“Hey, Audrey,” Eric said when he picked up. “I hope you're safe in this storm.”

“We're safe. Liv wants to talk to you.” I handed her the phone and shooed everyone else out of Liv's curtained area. I picked up the stack of towels and took one last look over the castaways in my basement.

The two guards were keeping their vigil on the stairs. I caught a snippet of their conversation. “. . . a lot stronger in the Middle Ages. No big deal.”

“Plop,” the other said, “and then back to work. None of this namby-pamby coddling.”

I gave him a dirty look, but I doubted he could see me in the dark.

Meanwhile, the young boy had overheard him. “Plop,” he said, obviously enjoying the sound of the word, because he then repeated it about twenty-seven more times, giggling each time he said it.

The mother was singing a lullaby to her daughter. Mel and Andrea were caught frozen in that same embrace. And Lafferty was in a wide-eyed panic. Not knowing where he should put his hands or feet, he fidgeted and paced. Bixby was standing, calmly searching on his cell phone.

“I got it,” he said. “How to deliver a baby. It's on Wikipedia. Want me to read it to you?”

“Sure,” I said. “Nice and loud.” And then I closed the curtain leaving Liv and me alone.

*   *   *

Liv had been
farther along than even I had imagined. So an hour later, accompanied by a lot of yelling on both their parts, Baby Girl Meyer was wrapped in a clean towel and lying in her mother's arms.

I picked up the phone that Liv had let drop onto the mattress so she could concentrate on her daughter. “Eric? Did you hear that? It's a girl. Not only healthy but beautiful, like her mom. I'll send you a picture.”

Okay, I might have been stretching the truth a little there. Her eyes were swollen, her head was lopsided, and she was completely bald.

No, I was right the first time. She was beautiful.

The power remained off in the morning, but I managed to pull Mrs. June's propane grill into my yard and boil the tea kettle on the side burner to make a cup of instant coffee. I left a few mugs, spoons, powdered creamer, sugar, and the coffee jar there for anyone else as they woke up.

We'd moved upstairs when the storm abated, all exhausted from the sleepless night, but I couldn't say we'd become a chummy group. It became obvious that Mel and Andrea were clinging to each other not only out of love or fear of the storm, but also as a way to avoid Nick, probably mindful of future litigation. I managed to put my cell into a bag of rice, hoping it would dry out and function again, but I was too tired to worry about it. Eventually I found an empty corner and caught a couple hours of sleep.

The old house was now filled with the various sounds of sleep: sniffing, snoring, and rustling of blankets as someone turned to find a more comfortable sleeping position.

Only baby Violet—as Liv had named her last night—had her blue eyes open as she lay next to her mother. In the wee hours of the morning Liv had grown nostalgic in the basement, a place where we'd often escaped to on some of the hottest afternoons of the summer. There'd been an old table down there, and we'd color or do jigsaw puzzles. Once we'd convinced Grandma Mae that we could paint a mural, and we'd started painting a garden on the concrete wall, using only old, leftover house paint from her shed.

Last night, in the dim light of the cell phones, Liv had run her finger along the outline of one of the flowers she had painted. “I do understand why you wanted this place,” she said. “I hope my little one can be just as happy as I remember us being here with Grandma Mae. Is there a flower for remembering?”

“Violets can stand for
remembrance
. Or
you occupy my thoughts
.”

Liv immediately tried the name “Violet” out on the baby. I hoped she wouldn't change her mind before the official birth certificate could be filed, because I was already thinking about her as Violet.

I picked up the baby as I headed out to the porch, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, to allow the new mother a little more sleep.

I swaddled Violet more tightly in her towel and laid her in my lap with her head cradled near my knees. In the light of dawn her eyes were even bluer than I could see in the dim basement. And I did her discredit when I'd said she was bald, because very fine blond hair crowned her head.

“Well, good morning, Violet. Yes,
you occupy my thoughts
, but that's only purple violets.”

She made a noise.

“That's right. Now, blue violets stand for
faithfulness
, but you don't need to worry about that quite yet. Sweet violets stand for
modesty
. I don't know whether they meant no short skirts or the absence of pride, but I'm sure your mommy will work on both of those with you. White violets stand for
innocence
. When you get married someday—a long time from now—I'd love to make you a bouquet of white violets to match your pretty white dress. And yellow violets mean
rural happiness
, so you're going to have to spend lots of time out here with your . . . I guess we would be cousins of some sort.” I wasn't sure if Violet would be my first cousin once removed or my second cousin. “But that's too confusing. So you can call me Aunt Audrey.”

She made another little sound.

“It's like she's talking back to you.” Bixby swung open the screen door. “Oh, where'd you get the coffee?”

I pointed to the grill and moments later he came back with a cup and sat next to me on the porch steps. “You did an amazing job,” he said. “Not the coffee, by the way.” He grimaced. “You must have learned how to do that in nursing school.”

I shook my head. “Maternity and Pediatrics is a senior course. I never quite made it that far. Besides, Liv did most of the work.”

He took another sip of his coffee and winced. “Still, if the Ramble Police Department ever has to deliver a baby, I might deputize you myself.”

I smiled at him and we sat there in companionable, or perhaps just undercaffeinated, silence for a few minutes.

“We're down to the wire in this case again,” he said. “Tomorrow everybody packs up and goes home.”

“Any guesses?” I asked.

“Lots of guesses. But I can't go arresting someone on guesses. What about you, Deputy? By the way, good job getting that Grant kid to open up about that FDA investigation.”

“Not sure that it helps us much.”

“If Brooks got wind of it, there might have been a confrontation.”

I shook my head. “It doesn't work with the method. If there was a confrontation, then you'd expect to see evidence of a fight. A more violent cause of death.”

“Then someone was planning this for some time.” He set his coffee down on the porch.

I shook my head. “Then why the monkshood? The killer was working with what he could find. I think whatever inspired him or her to kill Brooks had to have happened at the camp.”

Violet made a noise.

“See?” I said. “She agrees.” I put my hand over her ears. “But this conversation is not for little ears.”

“What about Chandler Hines?” Bixby said.

“His only motive that I can come up with would be that Brooks ticked him off by playing the big shot. And by undermining his craft by purchasing imported armor. I suppose he'd have some way of cooking the monkshood in that forge of his, but does it really seem like a method he'd choose? And since he doesn't seem like the kind who would stop and smell the flowers, does he even know what monkshood looks like?”

“Eli Strickland.”

I exhaled. “He has motive, but claimed he didn't know that Barry Brooks was the same one who'd been diluting the drugs he'd purchased—which he then diluted again.”

“Or so he claimed,” Bixby said.

“And since he runs a food stall, he'd have plenty of opportunity to cook up the roots right there and then slip them onto Brooks's plate. Or trencher. Or whatever they used. And I suppose as a former druggist, he might know poisonous plants. And I was attacked when I was poking around his stall. If he wasn't in jail at the time, my money would be on him.”

“He might have an accomplice we don't know about. I sent his pots, knives, and cutting board to the state lab just in case. I almost hope it's him. If it is, at least he's locked up—thanks to your father— although if the lab doesn't turn up anything, I don't know if we could find enough evidence to charge him for the murder.”

“And since he kept cooking and selling food using the same equipment, it's highly unlikely they'll find anything. But speaking of my father . . .”

“Audrey, I wasn't going to bring him up.”

“And I appreciate that. But I know he's got to be pretty high on the list. He had motive.”

“But think about your other criteria.”

“I know he's not much of a camper, so I wouldn't expect he knows much about the local flora.”

“And?”

“And he didn't really have any way of cooking.”

“Feel better?” he asked with a smile.

I exhaled. “Yeah. I don't want to think it was him, but I don't want to eliminate him, either.”

“There might be hope for you yet, Deputy. What about Raylene Quinn?”

“If we're going to talk about her,” I said, “we might as well talk about Kathleen Randolph, Dottie Brooks, and Kayla Leonard at the same time.”

Bixby raised a toast with his coffee mug. “To his wives and lovers, may they never meet? Brooks sure gave a lot of women really good motives.”

“Raylene probably had the best motive,” I said. “And as to means, she's got all kinds of degrees, and she's the camp herbalist, meaning she has a knowledge of plants. I'll bet she could have cooked the monkshood, too. She has an area where she makes up her tonics. She'd have some kind of equipment.”

“She did. She voluntarily surrendered those to be tested. I should hear back from our friendly state lab any month now.”

“If she just gave them to you, she's pretty sure they're clean,” I said. “Other than that, she's the perfect suspect.”

“On paper,” Bixby said. “Although I think there's something to your supposition that she might have chosen another time or method.”

“Unless something happened at the camp. Something we don't know about, and she decided to do it here.”

Bixby nodded. “Now, Dottie Brooks wasn't in town at the time, and her alibi checks out.”

“But, and I hate to suggest this, she and Kathleen Randolph were awfully chummy awfully fast. What if they knew each other before? What if they teamed up? Dottie had a greater motive, so she stayed away. Meanwhile Kathleen would be there for her daughter's wedding.” I scrunched up my face. “Who would do that at their own daughter's wedding?”

Bixby shrugged. “So Kayla Leonard, then.”

“I don't know. She seemed happy with her little arrangement. It's not like she wanted Brooks to leave his wife—or even his other lover—for her. I'm not sure she has motive at all.”

“And the male employees,” Bixby said.

“Dean White was living high off the hog as Brooks's CFO. I can't see him wanting to mess with that. And Kenneth Grant—”

“The FDA verified his story, by the way. Thanks again for sending him my way. But somehow I think we're missing something.”

“An unsub?” I asked, thinking of the empty card Liv had pinned to her murder wall.

Bixby shuddered. “Just say unknown subject. ‘Unsub' makes my skin crawl. But yes, there's always the possibility that the killer is someone not on our radar.”

“Thanks for not including Nick on your suspect list.”

“Can't see what his motive would be,” Bixby said, “unless Brooks had come on to you.”

I shook my head. “Nope, just Opie, Melanie, and Carol. And that dairy maid. And probably every other woman in this place.”

Bixby drained the rest of his coffee. “There's something we're missing. Are you going back today?”

I nodded.

“Then keep your eyes peeled, Deputy.”

A car pulled in the driveway next door.

“The road must be open,” Bixby said, standing up. “About time.”

I watched as Mrs. June and Amber Lee climbed out of Mrs. June's car, then they both stepped around the puddles on their way across the lawn.

“Aw, it's worth wet socks,” Amber Lee said and jogged the rest of the way.

Soon Violet was meeting a couple of women who would probably prove to be pretty important in her life.

Finding my lap free, I stood up.

Amber Lee bounced Baby Vi against her shoulder and was rewarded with a burp. “Isn't she precious!”

“I'm next,” Mrs. June said, holding out her arms to receive the baby.

“Shouldn't you be getting ready to head to the office?” Bixby said.

“Not on your life,” Mrs. June said. “In case you missed it, I was holding down the fort at the office all night. And I expect double time. I came to see this baby and my bed.”

“Oh,” Amber Lee said, “Opie sent back the book she borrowed. Said she wanted to get it back to Carol before she went home. She wanted you to check out a page. She—”

Eric's truck gunned down the street, coming to a stop in front of the cottage. He bounded out, leaving the door open. “Where is she?”

He was halfway up the steps when he stopped, turned around, and went to Mrs. June, who was still holding baby Vi.

“Is that?” He stopped and stared, then wiped his eyes before Mrs. June placed the baby in his arms against his clean flannel shirt.

Eric stared down at his daughter, and her bright blues seemed to stare right back at him. He blinked back more tears. “Where's . . .” He stopped when his voice grew hoarse. “Where's Liv?”

“Asleep. In the bedroom.”

Without breaking eye contact with Vi, he climbed the steps and went into the house.

I couldn't hold back a tear.

Even Bixby sounded choked up. “Trust me, that's the way it is with fathers and daughters,” he said, looking after them almost wistfully.

Suddenly the lump in my throat felt like a volleyball. “So,” I told Bixby, “how about we head back to camp?”

*   *   *

When we got
to Larry's, the ground was speckled with glass fragments, and a goat was happily grazing in his flower beds.

Larry was aiming his shotgun at the goat.

“No, wait!” I cried.

“Don't you dare shoot that goat,” Bixby said.

“Look, that critter won't budge. I've tried warning shots. I've tried dragging it by the collar. I have a right to protect my property.”

Bixby took two steps toward the goat, and the goat stared him down. “Lafferty,” he finally said, waving the younger officer over. “Get that goat out of here.”