Poison Flowers (13 page)

But Marya had also interviewed a few confessed murderers. They had all had a sort of devious sullenness about them, magnified by a moment-by-moment intensity that disconcerted everyone who knew them intimately. Dorry seemed different: She didn’t seem jaded by life or agitated by it. She just wasn’t…interested. She seemed as though she were fed up with it and the paltry pearls it had to offer.

So, if not Dorry, who? She leaned back in her chair and wove her fingers into a tiny blanket across her abdomen. A drifter? A random incident? Murders were rare here, Ed said, even with the town’s proximity to the much larger area of Myrtle Beach. Still, she’d seen some reprehensible characters around, gathered together outside some of the bars along the major highway between Marstown and Myrtle Beach. A drifter was a definite possibility.

A chill passed through her. How close had the killer been to her? She sat upright and studied the newspaper she’d called up from the dead files.

Lower down in one article she saw a small grainy photo of Francine Rose. She looked very young, much younger than seventeen years. Her face was waif-like, reminding Marya of a burgeoning Audrey Hepburn. Even her hairstyle, worn long but drawn into a high, thick ponytail on the back of her head, reminded her of Hepburn. She found herself being drawn to the girl by the simple sweetness of her expression.

Reading the article, she discovered the charges against Dorry had been brought by Francine’s father, Nicholas Rose. The story was ludicrous, every “fact” raised against Dorry a circumstantial one. Dorry was neglectful because she didn’t rush his daughter to the hospital at the first sign of the cancer that killed her—a low-grade fever lasting more than a week?

Anger seethed through her soul as she examined subsequent issues of the paper. How dare this imbecile do this to Dorry? His ploy may not have been evident to all, but it was clear to her with her reporter’s background. Knowing his accusations wouldn’t stick, Rose had tried to ruin Dorry’s reputation and to destroy her business. In a town as small as Marstown accusations of lesbianism and neglect could easily do that.

She studied the photos taken of Dorry at that time. They showed a woman on the edge but gritting her teeth and digging in her heels to avoid being dragged over the precipice. Admiration nibbled at the edges of Marya’s anger. She was proud of Dorry for standing strong.

Finally, after more than eighteen months of follow-up stories, in which expert medical testimony played a large part, Dorry was exonerated. A jury found her not liable in the death of Francine Rose.

“Ha!” she muttered, “I bet that scorched old Nicholas’s ass but good!”

“You talkin’ to me?” Dallas peered at her from two desks over. She was looking over the top of her reading glasses and her comical expression coaxed a smile from Marya.

“Nope, just myself. Hey, what do you know about that Dorry Wood case? The one where her ward died?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked with avid interest. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I think the whole thing was a farce,” she responded. “Imagine bringing trumped-up, impossible charges like that against her just to ruin her reputation.”

“Hmmm,” Dallas moved closer, one hand smoothing the eyeglasses sprawled on her chest. They looked like some symbiotic, alien insect that had taken her over. “A man in grief is likely to do anything, you know. I certainly can understand why Nicky brought the charges. Francie was his world. The only reason he allowed Dorry to keep her here was so she could go to school here and be safe while he and Isabel trotted all over Europe. When she got sick and died, he was a mess. Then he found out about the, well, unnatural nature of their relationship and all hell broke loose.”

Marya watched Dallas, whose hand was twirling a battered pencil like a baton. “How well did you know Nicholas?”

“Oh, he was part of our little group,” she revealed, sharing a bright smile. “We were all very close. See, Dorry, Dolly, Emily, Freddy, Nicky and I were all at Coburn High together. We graduated together and then most of us went to the same college.”

“Freddy?” Marya lifted one finger in question.

“Barnes.”

“So that was how Dorry knew Nicholas.”

“Well, yes, the families had been friends forever,” Dallas confided. “We all used to go hiking and get together for holidays, play cards, that type of thing. We were all together until Nicky went into the military and was sent to Germany for some type of special training. He met Isabel there and then we just didn’t see him anymore.”

“He dropped all his friends? Now he really sounds like a jerk.”

Dallas was taken aback. “Oh no, it wasn’t like that. He’s a good man and people do part. You know, life interferes. A big part of it is just her, that wife. She had no time for us.”

The sharp edge to her voice set off alarms in Marya, especially after the earlier sweetness of her tone. “What do you mean?”

“Isabel. All of us knew why he went with her. She just swept Nicky off his feet, that’s all. She’s so polished, so…European…and her family has gobs of money. We really couldn’t blame him. Then they had Francie and he fell head over heels in love with his little girl.”

Marya studied Dallas, noting a curious, bright cast to her eyes. Sadness filled her. Clearly, Dallas lived vicariously through other people. “And you, Dorry and Emily never even married,” she prompted softly, her eyes shifting toward Emily’s office.

“Well, not because Emily and I are like Dorry,” Dallas responded, her mouth pursed primly. “It’s just Marstown and the pickings are pretty slim, let me tell you…” She smiled wanly and Marya saw the Dallas she had known the past few weeks. “Well, back to it. The social news waits for no one,” Dallas chirped, settling her eyeglass insect back on the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah,” Marya agreed, turning her attention back to the computer. She raised one querying eyebrow at the display monitor. Dallas, Emily, Fred, Dorry and Nicholas, barbeque buddies right here in good old Marstown. Well, well, well.

Driving home that evening, fatigued from pulling double duty as well as doing her own private research, Marya pushed back at the fear that threatened to encroach. The beautiful home that had once seemed so secure and serene, had been forever scarred by Denton’s murder. Police tape, loosely encircling the trees, gleamed in the soft moonlight, twisting in the ocean wind.

Pulling her car into the parking area, she switched off the engine and lights and sat silent a long time. Waves, white and sparkling in the dusk, slapped with teasing play against the ruddy shoreline.

She was tired, so very, very tired. So much had happened so fast—moving to Schuyler Point, working hard to get up to speed at the paper, resuming classes, finding Denton’s body. She leaned back in the driver’s seat, laying her head to one side. The ocean was beautiful, lit by a narrowing corona of light. Marya loved this time of day. So quiet, so still, as if everything were saying a final goodnight. How she would have enjoyed Kim by her side—the old Kim, not the person she had become before the split. She shook her head. She was not delusional; she knew that was not possible. And anyway, overall, this solitude fit nicely. She sank into it.

After some time she stirred herself, sensing that she’d fall asleep if she stayed put. Her legs carried her to the porch with reluctance; she trod each step laboriously, ascending slowly.

“About time you got here, murderer. I knew you’d return sooner or later.”

Marya recoiled and stared up at Dorry. The master was sitting just to the right of the front door on a weathered wooden bench built into the porch. She was leaning against the wall, one heel propped on the edge of the seat. She had yet to look at Marya. Her face, which was turned seaward, looked desolate, but the sarcasm in her voice pushed away any tender feelings the view might have fostered in Marya.

“What do you mean, murderer?” she asked sharply. “I’m not responsible for Denton’s murder. I’m the one who called the police, remember?”

Dorry turned a face full of shadows toward her. She shifted position, revealing the bottle of whiskey tucked between her heavy thighs. “Too damn smart, aren’t you? Calling the police to direct the blame to someone else. Well, you screwed up, Miss Reporter,” she spat the title like a bitter tonic. “Because that someone else was me.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Marya said in a neutral tone.

Dorry gave a harsh chuckle, the sound touching Marya in some deep yet intangible way. She lifted the bottle and drank deeply, the bottle glinting in the last light of the day reflecting off the ocean waves.

“Yeah, guess so,” she agreed, wiping her mouth with her palm.

“Great,” Marya said with a sigh. “That’s all I need after the past couple days I’ve had—a drunk on my porch.”

“My porch, don’t you mean? I happen to own this property.”

She was surprised by Dorry’s petulance. “Yes, yes, I realize that but, hey, I pay rent…”

“And that gives you the right to murder my family here—because you pay rent!? Oh no,
that
wasn’t in the contract we signed.”

“Look, it’s been my experience that you can’t reason with a drunk, so I’m not even going to try,” Marya stated with a negating wave of one hand. “I’m going in to go to bed. You stay on out here all night if you wish. It
is
your property.”

That said, she strode across the porch and stepped inside. She returned a moment later, her face such a mask of fury that her own skin felt alien. “How could you? I can’t believe you are capable of such a horrible act!”

Dorry stared at her a long time, her mind apparently having trouble deciphering her words.

“What’s the matter?” Marya said finally. “Too drunk to remember? I knew you were cold, I knew you were calloused, and I almost understand why, but I didn’t think you were heartless enough to kill innocent creatures just to get a point across.”

Dorry rose on unsteady legs and scowled in irritation. “What are you blathering on about? Kill what creatures?”

Marya searched for signs of subterfuge and could find none in Dorry’s disturbed countenance. “The birds. In the house. You didn’t do it?”

Dorry’s anger was mounting as was her impatience. “Girl, please talk some sense. What birds? Let me see.”

Marya stepped aside so Dorry could enter. Inside, Dorry emitted a low whistle of sorrow. “Damn,” she said.

Three parakeets had been killed and hung with twine from the chandelier above the dining room table. Their bright colors of yellow and green contrasted painfully with the dead matte of their eyes and pale, parted beaks. They seemed to be watching them with eyes already set on whatever heaven birds could see. Marya’s heart hurt every time she looked at the wings partially denuded in their struggle for life.

“Poor darlings,” Dorry muttered as she moved to untie them. “We’ve got to bury them…”

“No!” Marya shook her head wearily. “It’s evidence. We need to call the police. They can search for fingerprints.”

She dreaded the thought of dealing with Inspector March again, but it was unavoidable.

“Oh right, lots of fingerprints on a feather,” Dorry sneered. “What good will calling the police do?”

“Well, it proves someone else is involved besides the two of us, for beginners. It looks way too much like covering up something if we just bury them.”

Dorry placed her arms akimbo, hands on her hips. “Yeah? How? Covering up what? And who else is involved? You’ve been accusing me of doing it.”

“If you didn’t do it, and I sure as hell didn’t, there has to be someone else involved.”

“So says you. I’m taking the poor things down. This is a sacrilege to all that’s holy, that’s what this is.”

She fished a pocketknife from her trouser pocket and began cutting the birds loose. “Imagine someone doing away with them. Heartless butcher.”

The angry way she was slashing at the twine alarmed Marya. This woman’s temper was fierce. What could she do when thoroughly aroused to anger? The first bird began to fall. Marya reached to catch it just as Dorry did. Their hands clasped together accidentally, precipitating an awkward moment. More troubling than that, however, was the lurch of desire that suddenly jolted Marya.

Images of Dorry swimming, embedded indelibly in her mind, chose this moment to come to the forefront. With a sharp, indrawn breath, she shut her eyes, allowing the inescapable sensations to swamp her. When she opened them, Dorry was there, close, and she was watching her.

An eternity passed as they gazed at one another, their hands together still. Unbelievably, she saw Dorry’s eyes change, become tender, and the blue more dense—filled with a kind of easy passion that she had never seen on anyone before. Her face changed too, losing the tense lines of barrier that Marya was so familiar with. The Dorry that was revealed was younger, more playful and infinitely more lovable.

The moment lasted only a moment, however. Dorry turned away, jerking her hands aside and leaving Marya with only the cool limpness of the dead bird in her hands. Its head drooped to one side, mirroring the deflation she was feeling. A feeling that she now had to swallow and deal with.

In silence, Dorry cut down the other birds, catching each with quick economical movements. They moved in uneasy silence, Dorry wrapping the tiny carcasses in paper towels and Marya untying the twine from the light fixture. Marya could tell that Dorry was as aware of the attraction as she was. But she worried. Was Dorry’s attraction true, as true as hers?

She shot a sideways glance Dorry’s way as she wrapped the tiny bodies, trying to gauge her mood. Her face was grim. Marya’s heart fell. Dorry still hated her and would, no matter the circumstance. The tenderness she’d glimpsed was a fluke, something no doubt caused by the whiskey Dorry had consumed. Marya sighed. It was just as well. Getting involved with Dorry was much more complication than she needed right now.

“I’ll get a shovel,” she said, hoping the sadness evident in her voice would be attributed to the birds’ deaths. “We’ll bury them in the trees.”

Dorry nodded, staring down at the lifeless bodies. “Good idea,” she said, a curious hitch in her voice.