Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (17 page)

    
“Is this part of your official investigation?”

    
He flashed a smile. “Just curious.”

    
“I think you’ll find those files thorough and complete. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

    
“I better get on that then, hadn’t I?”

    
“Thanks for the Coke.”

    
“Anytime.” He chuckled. “Another thing I like? The way you Southerners call soda Coke, no matter what flavor it is.”

    
“Nice dog.” I gestured toward the framed picture. And with him reeling from that deathblow, I left.

CHAPTER 18

    
When I got to Flower Fantasy, Mom’s new Escalade, The Tank, was already parked out front. Though she loved her MG and all the other cars Dad had restored for her, Mom had insisted on at least one vehicle from this century.

    
“I need cargo space, Alex. I need amenities,” she had made her point. “Women need cup-holders.”

    
Dad, who loved all motorized things, had grudgingly agreed and taken the Escalade (not exactly the small, understated SUV Mom would’ve chosen for herself) in trade from a car-dealer client.

    
And funny? Lord, we laughed watching four-foot-ten-inch Amanda Carstairs climb in and out of the massive vehicle, using a maneuver banned in Olympic gymnastic competitions for being too dangerous. Of course, nobody laughed when they caught sight of her in their rear view mirror barreling down the Red Mountain Expressway or glimpsed her (gasp) parallel parking the thing.

    
Mom used the Caddy’s newfound power for all it was worth. From our perspective, she needn’t have bothered.  My mother is plenty intimidating standing in her own size four pumps, as any ticket-writing cop or back-talking daughter could tell you.

    
As for Dad, once he had gotten over his disdain for a pre-fab vehicle that stayed in perfect working order (Mom refused to let him make custom “improvements”), he enjoyed all the car’s luxuries.

    
“The bun warmer may just be the greatest automotive advance of our time,” he had conceded.

    
Lily was our other big Caddy fan, having made friends with an OnStar operator a few months previously when we were loading the vehicle for a camping trip to Mt. Cheaha. The fact that she was being unusually quiet and cooperative as we lugged backpacks, coolers and camp stoves from the house should have been our first clue that she was up to no good.  Make that quiet, cooperative and content to play in the front seat, chatting with her “imaginary” friend Miss Shelby, who could be summoned with the push of that little red button with a white cross.

    
Of course, the police had come - three of them. Thankfully, we were able to explain the situation before a SWAT team repelled from helicopters onto my parent’s front lawn.

     Margie’s workshop always dropped my blood pressure
at least ten points. Delicate floral scents and tangy citrus mingled with the darker undertones of lush greenery and moist soil. The air was cool, damp and still, as if no loud noise or sudden movement could exist produced there.

    
Inside the shop, Cassie was already giving Mom the rundown on arrangements she and Margie had put together for Monica’s installation. There were dozens of white poinsettias, their soft white leaves tinged with pale green that would march up Monica’s curving front staircase and sit in clusters around the three downstairs fireplaces. Sweetly scented nosegays of white roses, Oriental lilies, lisianthus, stock and greenery would serve as accents on side tables, tucked into niches and peeking coyly from Monica’s Royal Copenhagen white open-lace teapot. The largest arrangements featured velvety white roses, snowy cushion pompoms and sprigs of fragrant jasmine nestled around spectacular Longiflorum lilies.

    
“Madagascar jasmine?” Mom stroked a white waxy flower with a pungent scent, looking especially tiny next to the huge arrangement that would soon grace Monica’s antique Chinese entry table.

    
Cassie nodded. “Stephanotis floribunda. Cultivated specially for the Christmas market, since it usually flowers in summer. The Christmas rose, here and here, is white hellebore, known for its white or pinkish-green flowers. Legend has it that an Angel gave one to a shepherdess who had no present for the baby Jesus.”

    
“Another last-minute shopper.” I joined them behind the counter.

    
“It’s also known as the semen of Helios,” Cassie added with a mischievous smile.

    
“Mom arched an eyebrow. “We won’t mention that to Monica.”

    
“She the shy type?” Cassie asked.

    
“Definitely not, and we don’t want to encourage her.”

    
Cassie was in for a treat since she hadn’t met Monica Dupree. Artist. Sculptor. Painter. Photographer. Above all, eccentric, as you might imagine of someone whose favorite subject matter is erotica.

    
Monica had a knack for depicting objects usually viewed as hard, slick and sordid in a delicate, loving way. Consequently, subject matter once banished to shrink-wrapped magazines sold behind convenience store counters was now being deconstructed by Mountain Brook blue hairs sipping dry martinis.

    
Cassie took Mom through the rest of the lineup, mostly hyacinths, another kind of jasmine (Jasminum officianale) and narcissus.

    
“She can plant these outdoors if she has a sheltered garden or keep them in pots to flower next Christmas.”

    
“Tell Margie this all looks terrific.”

    
“You can tell her yourself. I think I hear her pulling up out back. Speak up though.”

    
The crunch of Margie’s tires on the back parking pad ground to a stop.

    
“Still not wearing her hearing aids? They make her feel old,” Mom sympathized.”

    
“Well, being half-deaf makes her cranky.”

    
“What was that, Cassie?” Margie carried a large takeout coffee, a folded newspaper, and a purse the size of a small valise through the back door.

    
Favoring a dogwood, she wore a black, white and charcoal grey caftan that flowed beneath a head encircled by whisper thin curls that might fly away in the slightest wind. She was younger that my mother but looked older, wiser and preternaturally serene.

    
“I said drinking half-decaf makes me crazy,” Cassie enunciated with exaggerated care.

    
“Wouldn’t touch the stuff myself. A little steamed milk starts my day.” Margie presented her oversized cup as Exhibit A. “Well, girls, what do you think? Do the arrangements suit, or should we turn them into mulch?”

    
“They’re gorgeous. Perfect,” Mom gushed.

    
“And the lilies are breathtaking,” I added.

    
“Breakfast? No, you girls go ahead. I already ate.”  Margie tucked her purse under the counter and didn’t see Cassie’s rolled eyes.

    
“We’re taking a few of the smaller arrangements to Monica’s now,” Mom said. “The others will be delivered when?”

    
Margie nodded. “Should be there in about half an hour. You can take some of the smaller arrangements now if you’re heading over.”

    
Oh, brother.

    
“See what I mean?” Cassie said, as we stowed the nosegays in the back of the Caddy. “It’s like that all day.”

    
“And she won’t even try the hearing aids?” Mom asked.

    
“For a day or two, but she’s into high-fiber health foods and says chewing with her hearing aids makes her crazy. Sounds like quarters in the dryer or something.”

    
“They have volume controls, don’t they?” I asked.

    
“That’s what I said. To which she replied, ‘So do you dear, speak up!’”

    
“This is the last of them,” Margie spoke suddenly right behind us, then smiled when we all started. “See, all that caffeine makes y’all jumpy.”

    
Cassie closed the tailgate. “I’ll be over to help you guys set up in about twenty minutes along with the truck.”

    
“Sounds good,” Mom spoke very clearly. “Thanks again, Margie. You never disappoint.”

    
So how did the investigating go after that? Let’s just say it didn’t.

    
I filled Mom in about Charles Moriarty and the illegal gambling ring on our way over. Then our big plan for checking in with Angela had to be scrapped as we explored every variation on the white theme Monica and my mom could dream up.

    
My sketches and ideas were well received, but became a jumping off point. As an artist, Monica’s eye for color and composition rivaled Mom’s, and the two of them whipped themselves into a design frenzy, feeding off each other’s creative energy. Every excited cry of “what if we tried” or ”wouldn’t it be lovely,” meant more toting, hanging, draping, or pinning for Cassie and me.

    
Not that Cassie minded. She was enchanted by everything about Monica.

    
First there was the artist herself, whose lifespan was impossible to determine. Monica’s white hair was cut short, a mere downy glow on her brown scalp. Age had taken all structure from her facial bones, giving her back the amorphous softness of a newborn, but her skin was as creased and translucent as crumpled rice paper. On the other hand, her eyes were piercing and incisive, her body sleek and ramrod straight from a strict swimming regimen.

    
Monica’s home provided intrigue as well - sparsely furnished with little to distract from her artwork that consisted of stark nudes, charcoal genitalia and sculpted I-don’t-know-what’s. Cassie was mesmerized.

    
“Lordy,” she said of photos spread upon Monica’s dining room table.

    
Peering over her shoulder, I saw a nude man casting quite a shadow on a plain white wall.

    
“You like?” Monica’s laser eyes were upon me.

    
“Very nice.” My Southern good manners came to my rescue.

    
“I can’t decide.” She cocked her head. “The composition’s nice, and of course, he’s fabulous. Still, I don’t know. Should I have them framed, or just throw them away?”

    
“Framed.” I felt my knees weaken.

    
“Or at least mounted,” Cassie suggested.

    
Mom shot her a look.

    
Once the installation was underway, I knew I’d be cutting short all the pre-date prep I had planned.

    
Noon - no exfoliating, no sunless tanning.

    
Two o’clock - no softly curling updo, no experimentation with new eyeliner.

    
By four, it was no new pedicure and no stopping for conditioner. Retrieving the old bottle from the trashcan and swishing water in it would have to do.

    
By five-thirty, I had resigned myself to being late.

    
In the shower at six, I rubbed water from my eyes, so I could hear better.

    
Funny the way people get their senses all mixed up. My friend Jeanette Ernhardt does the same thing. Always afraid her car is burning oil, she’ll turn down the radio, sniff and ask, “Do you smell that?”

    
Eyes dry now, I could clearly hear knocking on my front door.

     Dana.

     Early.

    
Damn.

    
I found a towel and dripped my way to the door. On the other side, I found not Dana, but Jacob.

    
Well, well.

CHAPTER 19

    
Jacob and I had been going out for almost two years. Casually at first then building steam over the last year. Our relationship had come to a head four weeks ago during what will hereafter be known, at least in my mind, as Incident at Crybaby Gorge (it’s not on any map, don’t even look).

    
Actually it was in Little River Canyon, a camping trip on which, hopped up on S’mores and insect repellant fumes, I had hinted to Jacob that I might be,
might be
thinking of marriage at some point. “To you, of course,” I had clarified, seeing his blank expression.

    
This news had been received with the nervous high humor of an IRS audit, and things went downhill fast.

    
For years I had skipped over those magazine articles that told what to do when your man won’t commit. Consequently, I knew a million ways to remove unwanted body hair (not that I have any), but was clueless as to how to deal with our present situation. So, I broke things off. Maybe not for good, but for good enough.