Say Yes to the Death (19 page)

“Well, they'll just have to wait.” Jasper smiled. “But it's going to be bigger than a mere flower shop.” He looked at the open door again then lowered his voice. “Promise you won't breathe a word, especially not to Madge. She thinks I'm a permanent fixer already.”

“My lips are sealed,” Janet said, even pulling an imaginary zipper across them.

No one asked me to pinky swear that I wouldn't discuss Jasper's plans, thank God, so I wouldn't have to feel guilty when I made sure Malone put Jasper Pippin on his “prime suspects” list.

Jasper glanced at the clock on the wall above his head.

“Is there anything else?” he said. “I need to pick up flowers and do new arrangements for the dining room, and I'm creating a spray of lilies for a memorial service this afternoon, a dear woman who still had so much life left in her.”

Janet's chin jerked up. “You don't mean Olivia La Belle?” she asked, which was exactly what I was thinking because I had Olivia on the brain.

“God, no, not Olivia La Belle,” Jasper moaned with a pinched expression. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“You must have heard about her death,” Janet said, intrepid reporter that she was. “She was killed in her office yesterday morning.”

I sat on the edge of my chair, thinking, Yes, yes, finally! Go get him, Jan!

“Of course I heard. It's all over the news,” he replied, glancing down to pluck at lint on his mustard jacket. He mumbled something that I couldn't make out, and apparently neither could Janet.

“Any thoughts you'd care to share?” my friend pressed.

I waited for Jasper to retort something along the lines of,
Nope, I've got nothing to say about that bitch.
But instead he squared his shoulders and uttered, “The world is such a cruel place, isn't it?”

“It certainly is,” Janet said and scribbled on her notepad.

Those darned hairs at my nap prickled, and I squirmed in my chair. I cleared my throat, trying to get Jan's attention.

But she ignored me. “So the flowers you're doing for that memorial service, they aren't for Olivia?”

“Absolutely not,” Jasper replied and fussed with his cravat. “They're for Grace Louise Fairchild. She was ninety-­three and one of Belle Meade's queen bees. She survived five husbands and two children before she breathed her last. She lived here for twenty years, would you believe,” he added with a shake of his head. “She was worth a hundred Olivia La Belles, and unlike Olivia she'll actually be missed,” he remarked then checked the clock again. “Sorry, girls, but I've got to scoot. It's been nice chatting.”

He took off like a rocket.

I got up from the chair to confront Janet. “Why didn't you ask where he was yesterday morning at eight?” I asked, frustrated. “Isn't that why we came? So we could grill him about Olivia's murder?”

“I'm not the police, Andy.” Janet gave her glasses an impatient nudge. “I'm not sure he would have told us anything worthwhile besides. You asked me to find him, and I did. And if I can find him, the police can, too.
They
can ask him the tough questions.” She tucked her pen and pad in her bag, shaking her hatted head. “Call me crazy, but he doesn't seem like a cold-­blooded killer, and even if he was, he wasn't going to blurt out a confession.”

“And this observation comes from all the experience you've had interviewing real cold-­blooded killers?” I remarked and handed back her camera.

“He just isn't the type.”

“Maybe not on the surface,” I said. But I'd been around plenty of people who'd seemed entirely normal and did horrible things. “I don't trust him. I get this feeling he's hiding some big secret.”

“Yeah, he has a secret all right,” Janet said with a sigh. “Like he told us, he's got a new business venture in the works.” She looked at me with squinty eyes. “I think you've been watching too much
Castle.
You suspect everyone and read too much into everything. FYI, writers don't get to interview suspects or collect evidence unless the cops don't want anything admissible in court.”

“Thanks for the news flash,” I grumbled. Yeesh.

“Maybe you should write mysteries instead of trying to create them.”

“Hey, I didn't create this one, Olivia did!”

“But you can't leave well enough alone.”

Would Nancy Drew have turned a blind eye and let the Cake Lady rot in jail?
Hell, no!
I wanted to say but didn't get a chance.

Janet stuffed the camera into her voluminous carryall. Then she grabbed my arm. “Come on,” she said, “let's go.”

“By the way, I don't watch
Castle,
” I said with a sniff, then added in a murmur, “much.”

I didn't care that Janet thought I was tilting at windmills. Something funky was going on with Jasper Pippin, and it had to do with Olivia. Why else would he have said the words “the world is such a cruel place” in response to Janet's comment about Olivia's death? It was like a line he'd rehearsed to avoid saying what he really felt—­that he was pleased as punch that Olivia was gone or that she'd gotten what she deserved—­and it wasn't even original besides.

I'd already heard someone say something awfully similar yesterday: Terra Smith, who'd happened to be driving a borrowed car with a TSFA sticker on its bumper.

And I didn't believe in coincidence.

Chapter 24

W
hen Janet dropped me back at my condo, it was just past ten o'clock. I didn't have much time to kill before I had to leave for Mother's house to pick her up. We were supposed to be downtown at the Market Center campus for Draco's bridal showcase at eleven, and the clock was ticking.

So I went inside just long enough to sit down at my laptop and do some belated digging into Jasper Pippin. First, I Googled TSFA and his name, and sure enough, he'd been on the board of directors of the Texas State Floral Association before his take-­down by Olivia. Next, I dug into the archives of the
PCP
and
Dallas Morning News,
finding several small articles about Jasper selling off his shop in pieces. One even called it a “fire sale,” which sounded awfully desperate. Janet had said he'd begun getting rid of his business
before
Olivia's show had aired—­and the dates of the articles confirmed it—­which made no sense.

Was there more to Jasper's story than met the eye?

Maybe Olivia hadn't destroyed his career glibly. If he'd been such a floral powerhouse, perhaps she would have found another target. Mother had mentioned Jasper's arrangements getting “fuddy-­duddy.” Had he been losing clientele well before the drama on
The Wedding Belle
had aired? What if his career was on the wane, and he'd been looking for a way out?

I couldn't help wondering if Jasper had been paid off somehow. Could the entire scenario between him and Queen Olivia have been scripted? What if his business had been in trouble already? Perhaps he'd viewed Olivia's show as his way out, his path to resurrecting a dead career?

But didn't it seem a bizarre way to save face when his reputation would suffer? Or had it truly been damaged? I'd wager that getting embarrassed by Olivia had generated an awful lot of sympathy, where simply going out of business would have branded him an out-­and-­out failure.

Which got me thinking about Terra Smith.

Had she been on her way out, too, at least where her gig with
The Wedding Belle
was concerned? Was it a fluke that she'd made her entrance on the final show of the season just as Jasper was exiting? Had Terra and Jasper banded together? Was her Planet Wedding idea the next big thing that Jasper had alluded to? What if they were going into business? Had they conspired to do away with Olivia to pave the way?

It was an interesting theory anyway, and one I mulled over plenty as I jumped in my Jeep and headed south to Highland Park.

When I reached Mother's house, I thought about pulling into her circular drive and honking. But sitting outside and laying on the horn wasn't something that sat well with Cissy (or any of her neighbors, for that matter). So I made myself park the car, get out, and ring the bell. I knew that she was alone, as Brian had taken Millie downtown to the ARGH offices bright and early.

When Mother didn't answer the door after I'd tapped my foot for at least a minute, I got worried. I pressed the bell again but the end result was the same. So I located the gold key on my ring and let myself in.

“Mother!” I hollered as I entered, and my heart pounded and my imagination wandered in a million directions. “Are you here?”

“For heaven's sake, there's no need to shout,” she admonished as she came gliding down the stairs. “Just let me grab my bag
,
and we're off.”

For Pete's sake.

I released a held breath.

“You're all gussied up,” I said, figuring that was what had taken so long, not Olivia's deranged killer holding her hostage.

“This old thing?” she remarked and did a Vanna White with her hands to indicate her ensemble. “I figured you'd be wearing jeans with holes in them, so I didn't want to overdo.”

“I decided not to go with holes today,” I said dryly.

She was wearing her favorite pink Chanel suit with black trim, a triple strand of pearls, and black heels. She looked like she was ready for New York Fashion Week. I, on the other hand, had on a pair of khaki cropped pants, my slip-­on sneakers, and a plain black T-­shirt. Well, at least we were somewhat color-­coordinated.

Mother ducked into the hall closet and emerged with a black Chanel bag. Before we'd even stepped outside, she tucked on her Jackie O sunglasses and pulled her keys from her purse.

“Whoa, put those away,” I told her and jangled my keys. “I'm driving,” I said, and she made a face.

“You want me to get into your Jeep in these heels?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not if we take the Lexus,” she replied then bit her lip. “Perhaps I should have called Fredrik and had him ready the Bentley.”

I tried not to laugh. “Didn't Fredrik retire last year?”

My mother's longtime driver had to be at least eighty years old. She'd used him forever to take her to parties and teas and funerals, whenever she wanted to make an impression or just didn't feel like driving herself. The Bentley pretty much sat in the garage these days, gathering dust.

Cissy wrinkled her nose. “He said I could call him if it was an emergency.”

“Well, it's not,” I remarked and caught her arm. “Come on. Time's a'wastin'.”

Reluctantly, she followed me outside and locked up behind us. She frowned as she headed toward my car even though I opened up the passenger door and held it wide for her.

“You need a boost?” I asked.

She wasn't any taller than I was—­five-­five if I stood up very straight—­and the step up was pretty steep with or without high heels.

“Should I get a footstool?” I asked when she stood and surveyed the situation.

“No,” she said and flicked her bag onto the seat. “If I could get onto an elephant's back in a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos at that circus fund-­raiser Mirabelle Braxton threw for the children's hospital, I can surely get into this rattletrap single-­handedly,” she announced. Then she hiked up her skirt a few inches and proceeded to climb her way in.

I was a little surprised she didn't just will herself inside.

“Are you okay?” I asked as she settled into the seat.

“Well, I didn't dislocate anything,” she replied.

I shook my head, walking around the hood of the car to the driver's side. I opened the door just in time to hear my mother let out an inelegant grunt as she shut the passenger door. She brushed at a piece of hair that had come unglued from her perfect 'do and gave me a look that said, “Well?”

“You ready to go see some dresses?” I asked, pulling on my seat belt.

“I will be if I survive the drive,” she said and smoothed her skirt before finding the seat belt. I heard it click before I started the engine. “So how am I supposed to act today?” she asked as I pulled away from the house. “Am I the good cop or the bad one?”

I bit the inside of my cheek and played it straight.

“You're the mother of the bride, remember?” I said, trying hard not to snicker. “So that must make you the bad cop.”

She scowled. “Very funny.”

I grinned and steered the Jeep onto Beverly Drive and away.

It took about twenty minutes to get downtown to the World Trade Center building, although I used the time to fill my mother in on what had happened that morning with Jasper Pippin. She mostly made
ah
and
um-­hmm
sounds throughout, not offering much in the way of comments, which wasn't like her. She seemed distracted, and I thought I knew why.

After I parked and we'd exited the Jeep, I walked beside her toward the glass doors beneath the portico.

“Does Stephen get back this afternoon?”

“Yes, thank heavens,” she said with a weighty sigh. “I'd hoped he'd come back sooner but he didn't want to cut out early on his chums.”

I was actually surprised to hear that. “You told him what's going on, didn't you?”

“Of course I did!” She bobbed her blond head. “But he seems to think I should let the police do their job and stay out of Millie's troubles.” She sniffed.

I felt an unfamiliar sense of solidarity. “He sounds just like Malone.”

And Janet, for that matter, I mused. My very own George (or was it Bess?) didn't seem to be nearly as into this investigation as I was. Maybe she believed the police would entertain other suspects besides Millie but I had my doubts.

“If only Stephen had been here with Millie last night,” my mother went on. “He wouldn't say that. He'd understand why she needs all the help and support she can get.”

“Amen, sister,” I said and scrambled to hold open the door.

Mother strode in before me, and I paused just inside the lofty atrium with the circular fountain bubbling ahead. My gaze immediately ascended each of the fifteen stories, taking in all the showrooms and their glass storefronts filled with color. Music swirled around us, and I smelled fresh-­roasted coffee coming from one of the ground-­floor restaurants.

“So where are we headed?” Mother asked, and I dug into my shoulder bag for the slip of paper on which Terra had jotted down Draco's suite number. “The fourteenth floor,” I said and nudged Mother toward the glass elevators.

As I pushed the up button and waited for the elevator to descend, Cissy leaned nearer to whisper, “Maybe we'll get lucky and this Dracula fellow will blurt out a confession that he killed Olivia. Do the police know if he drank her blood?”

“No, he didn't drink her blood. He's not a vampire. He's a designer,” I said, grateful for the
ping
as the elevator arrived and a pair of doors slid wide-­open. I was about to remind her that his name wasn't Dracula when she piped up again.

“Oh, even better, maybe we'll actually find you a wedding gown!” she drawled happily. She had such an eager look on her face that I knew she was way more excited by that prospect than Draco confessing to Olivia's murder.

“We're not here to buy a dress,” I said, thinking,
Not a chance in hell.

“We'll see,” Mother countered in a singsong voice and smiled.

I pressed 14, the elevator doors closed, and we went up.