For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (16 page)

“It does suggest a certain lack of balance.”

“What does Pinkleman have to say about Gary?”

“There were a few times he was perturbed with Gary for snarky remarks he made to Gigi.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. Gigi was the queen of snark. He barely said a word back. At least on the show.”

“That’s what the other fans said. They really took Pinkleman to task for it. He stood his ground. Said a perfect gentleman would never contradict a lady publicly like that.”

“What do you think?”

“If I disagreed with a lady, I probably would have chosen a less public venue than an Internet message board.”

“No.” I chuckled. “Although that’s good to know. But I was curious about what you thought of Pinkleman’s state of mind. What does your gut tell you?”

“Well, the response online got pretty heated. A flame war, I think they call it. At one point, the other fan left the board, saying Pinkleman was a sad, lonely human being—that all he had in his life was the message board.”

“That can’t have gone over well.”

“I believe Pinkleman’s words were, ‘I hope someone peels you like a potato, crinkle cuts your sorry hide, and dips you in hot oil.’”

“Unbalanced,” I said.

“And when someone’s that far gone, you can never tell what they’re capable of.”

*   *   *

Back at the Rose in Bloom, stems and leaves were flying. I walked in as Opie and Melanie were in the middle of an animated discussion.

“Something small,” Opie said. “And it doesn’t need to be where anyone can see it.”

“If nobody sees it, what’s the point?” Melanie picked up her completed arrangement and carried it back to the cooler.

“What are we talking about?” I asked.

“Tattoos,” Opie said. “Melanie’s thinking about getting one.”

“I was thinking about a small rose,” Melanie said. “But not sure it’s worth it if I put it somewhere nobody is going to see anyway.”

“But you know it’s there,” Opie said. “A little secret you can hide from the rest of the world. It’s strangely liberating.”

“It looks strangely painful.” Melanie cleared the stem cuttings from her work space. “And what if ten years from now I decide I don’t want one?”

I left them to their debate and joined Liv and Amber Lee.

“The prodigal has returned,” Liv said.

“Sorry I’m a little late. Nick called me this morning and asked me to rush over to the Ashbury.”

“Did it have to do with the wedding, the flowers, your love life, or the murder investigation?”

“The wedding and possibly the murder investigation. Someone destroyed the wedding dresses. Doused them with what looked like blood.”

Amber Lee swung her head from concentrating on the flowers she was working on. “That’s a little Stephen King, isn’t it?”

“More than a little,” I said. “With a dash of
The Godfather
. Henry Easton sure took it hard. They had to call in paramedics. Until we figured out it was only ketchup.”

“Are they going to cancel the show?” Liv asked.

“No. No sign of that.”

We worked in relative silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the satisfying clipping noises of pruning shears and the
scritch
ing of Darnell’s broom as he swept up the growing mounds of foliage on the floor.

“Are we ready for another tape?” Amber Lee asked.

“We’re almost rounding the final stretch.” Liv pulled out another videotape and popped it into the VCR.

Soon the melodramatic news theme was playing and Gary appeared on the screen. This time he was exposing a clerk who had bilked thousands of dollars from a local volunteer fire department.

“He’s playing with her,” Shelby said, as the interview began.

Liv paused the tape.

“Playing with her?” I asked.

Shelby nodded. “We saw it on a few other interviews. Gary will ask a few innocuous questions, put the interviewee at ease, and then
pow!
he goes in for the kill. You should have seen him with the Balkan baby mill.”

“What on earth is a baby mill?” I asked.

“Great story,” Shelby said.

Liv shuddered. “Terrible story.”

“But great how he exposed it,” Shelby added.

“Some sleazeball nonprofit group,” Amber Lee said. “They were luring young, unwed, pregnant Balkan women to the U.S. with promises of good-paying jobs and help raising their babies.”

Liv huffed. “Unwed, undereducated, and desperate.”

“I take it the jobs weren’t here when they got here,” I said.

Amber Lee shook her head. “They helped the girls apply for
visitor
visas. The girls then delivered their babies in the U.S., making the children automatic U.S. citizens. ‘Fourteenth amendment babies,’ Gary called them.”

“Section One”—Opie cleared her throat—“and I quote, ‘All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.’”

“So the kids were citizens,” I said.

“But the mothers weren’t,” Darnell added.

“Everything seemed on the up-and-up for the girls,” Amber Lee said, “until the visitor visas expired and the girls were facing deportation. The nonprofit then pressured the young women to give up their babies for adoption. ‘Why take them back to the Balkans? Don’t you want your child to grow up as a U.S. citizen?’”

“Most surrendered their rights,” Liv said. “Records were spotty and had a habit of disappearing, and the nonprofits closed and reopened in different places under different names. Could be dozens of children. Might be hundreds.”

“And Gary stopped this?” My admiration for the man was growing.

“With the help of an unnamed whistle-blower,” Liv said. “One of the mothers. He showed only her silhouette on the screen and used a translator, but it must have been scary for her. Gary kept going after the organization. Took down more than one corrupt official who was taking bribes to speed along the paperwork.”

“Ruthless,” Amber Lee said. “Definitely not the same sweet, flamboyant dude on
Fix My Wedding
.”

Liv pressed play again.

Before heading into the shop Thursday morning, I stopped at the municipal building that housed the police headquarters.

Mrs. June shook her head. “They took that Pinkleman kid right back to the county detention center. He must like it there.”

“Any idea what they are holding him on?”

She shuffled some papers around on her desk, then glanced around the empty room, her tell that this was information she wasn’t necessarily supposed to share. Not that she wouldn’t—at least to me. “Right now, only a destruction of property charge, but that doesn’t mean there’s not more coming.”

“Like the murder?”

Mrs. June scrunched her face. “That, I can’t say. There’s not much to tie Pinkleman to Gary’s murder. Not evidence, at least. A couple of chicken eggshells at his campsite. And the bird. And the chief’s fit to be tied thinking about how he’s going to take that to the DA.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d at least have to provide evidence that the eggs came from the Ashbury’s chicken, and that’s a lot of lab time to prosecute a hungry camper for stealing a couple of eggs—which is all Pinkleman admits to.”

“He was camping in the woods?”

“Apparently. Although nothing more elaborate than a sleeping bag and a small campfire. There’s a burn restriction in the whole county because of the drought, so he’s lucky the entire hillside didn’t go up. I guess Bixby could charge him on that, but I’m not sure I want to remind him.”

I tilted my head. I didn’t really have to ask. Once Mrs. June gets started, she doesn’t stop until she’s said all she’s going to say.

“Pinkleman just seems like such a sad, lonely person. He’s a young guy. He should be out having fun, learning how to make his way in the world. From the way he talks, the show was his whole life, and now it seems like that’s being taken away from him. I figure a few nights in jail might do the kid some good. Shake him back to reality a little.”

I bit my lip, thinking of the threat that he, as Gigi’s Guy, made to the last person who said something similar. “He seems to be carried away with Gigi in particular. Maybe even romantically.”

“And you think that could give him motive to kill Gary? That he really thought he might have a chance with her? She’s old enough to be his mother. Not that she’s not a knockout in her forties. But is he that delusional, to think that he could eliminate mean old Gary and she’d rush into his arms?”

“It doesn’t take much motive for an unbalanced person. Maybe it’s simpler. What if he thought Gary was mistreating, or even outshining, Gigi?”

Mrs. June’s eyes grew larger. “Or if he somehow found out about the secret marriage . . . But that was before word got out.”

“Yes, but if he was camping in the woods behind the Ashbury, he might have seen Gary and Gigi go into their RV the night before Gary was killed. I know Pinkleman said he slept in his car that night, but we only have his word on that.”

*   *   *

I leaned against a stool in the back room of the Rose in Bloom and looked at the checklist Liv had created to keep track of the arrangements. “Oh, wow. We’re almost done with the reception flowers.”

Normally we would not have made them this far ahead, but with the size of the order, it was a necessity. Since we were working with unopened and barely opened flowers, we might have to make some last-minute adjustments—maybe swap out a bloom or two that was too far along, or manually open some that were not far enough—but it was better than waiting until the last minute.

“Maybe I’ll start the pew-end arrangements,” I said.

“Just make one or two,” Liv said, “and I can get the girls to start working on them.”

“Is there something I should be doing instead?”

Liv and Amber Lee shared a glance.

“You’ve obviously discussed this,” I said.

Liv set down her knife and came to stand beside me, putting her arm around my shoulder. “We’ve talked about this, and we think we have a handle on the flowers.”

“What do you mean, you have a handle on them? You don’t need me?”

Liv shook her head.

“What am I supposed to do? Go home and take a nap? Did I do something wrong?” Could Liv have been upset over my lateness?

“No, no, honey.” Amber Lee rushed over. “We thought you might be more helpful over at the Ashbury.”

“How? We have this huge wedding—”

“Which won’t take place if someone out there has his way.”

“And I’m supposed to stop him?”

“Yes. Well, no,” Amber Lee said. “Bixby should stop him and throw his sorry butt in jail. But you could be there to help him. It’s practically your civic responsibility.”

“I doubt Bixby is going to think so,” I said.

“What’s he going to do about it?” Amber Lee said. “You have every right to be at the inn, since you’re working with the flowers.”

“And didn’t Grandma Mae always teach us we needed to fulfill our civic responsibilities?” Liv said.

“I think she was talking about voting and not littering in public parks.” I reached for my apron. “I might be just as curious as the next person, but—”

“But nothing.” Amber Lee tugged my apron from my hands and hung it back on the peg. “You’ll be no good to us here if all you’re doing is wondering about what’s going on at the inn.”

“And I know I’d feel safer if you were there keeping an eye on things,” Liv said, rubbing her rounded belly. “It’s not like we want you to go in guns blazing. Just watch, listen, and then tell Bixby if you figure something out.”

“Like Bixby’s going to listen to me.”

“Bixby might not be tickled that you’re involved,” Liv said. “But I think he knows you well enough by now to pay attention to anything you have to say.”

“I don’t think he’s happy about it, but I’d say he’s learning to respect you,” Amber Lee said.

I replayed my earlier confrontation with him at the Ashbury. Maybe there was some merit to the claim. “But I don’t want to leave you in the lurch here.”

“No,” Liv said. “Right now, we’re on schedule, and we’ll need you tonight. But if you want to take a few hours and poke around some more, it would help us all more in the long run.”

“Help us?”

“Eric was looking over that contract. If the wedding doesn’t take place, we don’t get our final payment. When we signed the contract, it made sense. But that was before we ordered all these flowers. If that wedding is canceled, we’re going to have to eat the cost of all that added stock.”

“And even if we had a sale,” Amber Lee said, “there’s not near enough folk in town to buy all these flowers.”

*   *   *

So, with everyone else busy at the flower shop working on our largest order ever, I was back at the Ashbury, drinking coffee and trying to make sense of Tacky Jackie’s latest protest slogan, which streamed in whenever someone opened a door. Eventually I decided it was “Tell the truth. Stop the lies.
Fix My Wedding
, I despise.” I was also fighting off the temptation to indulge in another scone.

Jenny was manning the table, setting out cups and artfully stacking pastries—not that Nick’s baked goods needed much staging to look appealing. Nick was nowhere to be seen. I suspected that when Jenny and her mother reopened the old restaurant, she’d be sorely missed.

And I was also watching Henry Easton as he sat at a table, his eyes reflecting the colors from his laptop while he barked orders into his cell phone. “Five is too late. I need it by two, even if you have to drive it here yourself.” He poked the off button with his finger, then gripped his phone as if he wanted to throw it.

I swallowed my last sip of coffee and brushed a few scone crumbs from my shirt. (I never said I won the battle against temptation.)

“The bad thing about technology,” I said as I made my way to his table, “is that it’s taken away the pure joy of slamming down a telephone.”

“You got that right,” he said. “It’s a bad habit to lose my temper like that, but it’s highly effective at times. I should be able to get the dresses in plenty of time for alterations.”

“So no delays in the filming?”

“Just some shuffling around a bit. One of the dresses Gary was going to use is unavailable, but I found an alternate.”

He turned the laptop in my direction and pointed at a lacy high-necked monstrosity with Morticia Addams sleeves that practically touched the ground. “What do you think of
t
hat
?”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s . . . ?”

“Vintage,” he said, with a note of pride. “From the seventies. Bell sleeves. Get it?”

I smiled and nodded. If Suzy flipped over foxglove, I could imagine what she’d think of sleeves she could trip over.

“But it will need some alterations to make it current, and I still need Nevena to sew the bells on the other dress. You don’t happen to speak Bulgarian, do you?”

“Sorry.”

“No matter. I was always good at charades. And I have a few people in mind if she doesn’t work out. But I suppose I should give her a chance. She seems to do beautiful work.”

“She appears rather upset at Gary’s death, don’t you think?”

“I noticed that. I tried to tell her to take a few hours off. Clear her head. But that was when her work was almost done. Now . . .” He sighed. “Now we have to do it all over again.”

“The experience of finding those dresses must have been very traumatic.”

“Oh, honey, that took two years off my life. The first thought that popped into my head was that they were going to cancel the show for sure. The next was that something happened to Gigi.”

Nice to know he had his priorities in order. “Gigi?”

“Well, she did get that first threatening note. And now I’ve been targeted.”

“You think this latest threat was directed at you personally? That someone might have wanted you to pull out of the show?”

“Honey, if they killed me, I’d come back as a zombie to do this gig. Of course, they’d have to film me in soft focus.” He chuckled.

“So it’s actually advantageous for you that Gary is dead.”

“Yes, I suppose it . . . No. Now, wait a minute. You’re not suggesting that I had motive to kill Gary.”

“You did just step into a job that you seem pretty excited to get.”

“Well, I am excited. I’m sure you would be, too, if they had reality shows about flower arranging, or whatever else you do, and you got high billing. But, sweetheart, I didn’t have to kill Gary to get this job.”

“No?”

“No. He called me weeks ago to let me know he was thinking about not renewing his contract. He told me he didn’t want to let Gigi down, and would I consider stepping in and taking his place on the show? Said he’d back me to the network. Would I? I almost wet myself.”

“Did Gary say why he wasn’t going to renew?”

“I asked him. Why step down when you’re on the top? He said he had a sure way back into professional journalism. Claimed it was the chance of a lifetime. Then he talked as if what he did on the show . . . as if fashion wasn’t important. I guess that should have been my first clue.”

“That someone was going to kill him?”

“No. That he was straight.”

*   *   *

When Henry rushed off to work on the dresses, or rather dump his work on Nevena, I scanned the room. Gwyneth the intern was leaning over a table looking at a screen the sound guy was showing her, exposing her considerable assets in a way that would have been blurred out on daytime TV. Maybe even cable. One thing’s for sure: she never got Grandma Mae’s lecture on the proper wearing and fitting of foundation garments.

She was another of the crew that I couldn’t account for during the time Gary was killed. So when she headed toward the door, I rushed up to her.

“Gwyneth, I believe?” I said, then introduced myself. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

“Well, I’ve wanted to talk to you, too, and explain.”

“Explain?”

“I feel terrible about everything, and now that I know, I wish I hadn’t done it.”

Was she confessing? “Done what, exactly?”

“Somebody told me that you and Brad . . . Well, I suppose you must have heard me flirting with him and somehow gotten the wrong idea. Trust me, Brad’s a very nice guy, but it was all innocent. I’m no threat to you.”

“Well, thank you, Gwyneth. I didn’t think you were.” I scribbled a mental note to ask Brad about this “harmless flirting.” Then crossed it off my mental to-do list. If Brad and I were over, it was really none of my business.

“Besides,” I said, “Brad and I broke up quite a while ago.”

She clapped a hand to her considerable chest, which started a mound of mammary tissue jiggling in a complex wave pattern. “I’m so relieved.”

“But you’re not really interested in Brad, are you?”

She looked around the room, then gestured me to a far table. She kicked off her impractical heels as she sat, and I took a chair next to her so we wouldn’t have to shout across the eight-foot diameter.

“You see, it’s like this,” she said. “This is my second internship—my second and last chance to get some real hands-on experience in the film business before I graduate. I thought I’d lucked out on a primo assignment last year. Sounded like a great opportunity. Man, that was a wasted summer.”

I tilted my head and waited. In my experience, people always shared their stories of wasted summers.