trying to get a tour of the place from a guy in my garden club. Says he works there. His name’s Worthington.”
“Worthington? The butler?” Aloe guy.
“He’s a butler? I thought he might be a gardener or something.”
“Do you know much about him?” I asked.
“Only that he lives on the estate in his own private cottage and that he likes to garden. He talks about plants and soil but little else. Should I try to find out more?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, how weird would it be if the butler did it? But I wonder what he might know about Derek’s death since he works with the Rawlings every day.”
“I’m on it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She winked.
I picked up a peach rose discarded because its long stem had broken, then gathered a few more flowers and arranged them into an old-fashioned nosegay bouquet. The thought of going to the police department and possibly facing Bixby intimidated me a bit. But I had an ally there, one who might be able to smooth my way and supply me with a little extra information, and one who was very fond of nosegay bouquets.
• • •
“For me, Audrey?” Mrs. June cradled the small bouquet, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled, a look of sheer ecstasy filling her wrinkled face. “Sure beats smelling sweaty cops all day.” She opened her drawer, pulled out a glass bud vase, poured part of her bottled water into it, and set the flowers inside, placing them right next to the nameplate on her desk, which read “June Hoffman, receptionist.”
Mrs. June had been Grandma Mae’s next-door neighbor. Our grandmother had tried to coax us to address her as Miss June—as is the old Southern custom. But Mrs. June wouldn’t hear of it, claiming it made her sound too much like a centerfold model.
Mrs. June had also received a number of our childhood bouquets. And she’d reward us by telling us stories about the police department—tales of vagrants and counterfeiters and bootleggers that I now wondered if she didn’t get from old Jimmy Cagney movies and not real life. And stories that I doubted Grandma Mae knew about.
Now nearing the typical age of retirement, Mrs. June had outlasted several changes of administration at the Ramble Police Department. She was a rotund, jowly woman with poufy hair she kept dyed a rich “decadent mocha” (I’d seen the box), though it no longer appeared natural. A small pair of readers perched on the edge of her nose, and, like always, she’d dressed up her sweater with a chunky costume necklace and matching clip earrings that made her lobes droop low.
I leaned over and gave her a hug, sniffing in her familiar aroma consisting of a blend of the same perfume she’d worn ever since we met her, now mingled with Bengay. “How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there, kiddo, hanging in there. And thank you so much for the flowers.” Her arthritic fingers stroked the rose. “But I do suspect you’re here about Jenny.”
I reached into her candy dish and pulled out a Hershey’s Kiss. “I brought some things she asked me for and was hoping to visit with her . . . after you and I have a minute to catch up.” I flashed her a smile and sank into her visitor’s chair.
Mrs. June removed her readers and let them fall on the cord that hung around her neck.
“I can make sure Jenny gets her things, but I’m afraid the visit is not going to happen.”
“Isn’t she allowed visitors?” I asked. “Surely Bixby can’t stop people from—”
Mrs. June held up a hand and looked around the room before continuing.
The Ramble Police Department had an eclectic mix of furniture and fixtures. Not being a town given to extravagance, things were replaced when completely worn-out or obsolete, meaning the building was furnished with reminders of many eras. A wall-mounted pencil sharpener that looked like it dated from the early part of the previous century. Battered mustard yellow and avocado desks that
“Worthington? The butler?” Aloe guy.
“He’s a butler? I thought he might be a gardener or something.”
“Do you know much about him?” I asked.
“Only that he lives on the estate in his own private cottage and that he likes to garden. He talks about plants and soil but little else. Should I try to find out more?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, how weird would it be if the butler did it? But I wonder what he might know about Derek’s death since he works with the Rawlings every day.”
“I’m on it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She winked.
I picked up a peach rose discarded because its long stem had broken, then gathered a few more flowers and arranged them into an old-fashioned nosegay bouquet. The thought of going to the police department and possibly facing Bixby intimidated me a bit. But I had an ally there, one who might be able to smooth my way and supply me with a little extra information, and one who was very fond of nosegay bouquets.
• • •
“For me, Audrey?” Mrs. June cradled the small bouquet, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled, a look of sheer ecstasy filling her wrinkled face. “Sure beats smelling sweaty cops all day.” She opened her drawer, pulled out a glass bud vase, poured part of her bottled water into it, and set the flowers inside, placing them right next to the nameplate on her desk, which read “June Hoffman, receptionist.”
Mrs. June had been Grandma Mae’s next-door neighbor. Our grandmother had tried to coax us to address her as Miss June—as is the old Southern custom. But Mrs. June wouldn’t hear of it, claiming it made her sound too much like a centerfold model.
Mrs. June had also received a number of our childhood bouquets. And she’d reward us by telling us stories about the police department—tales of vagrants and counterfeiters and bootleggers that I now wondered if she didn’t get from old Jimmy Cagney movies and not real life. And stories that I doubted Grandma Mae knew about.
Now nearing the typical age of retirement, Mrs. June had outlasted several changes of administration at the Ramble Police Department. She was a rotund, jowly woman with poufy hair she kept dyed a rich “decadent mocha” (I’d seen the box), though it no longer appeared natural. A small pair of readers perched on the edge of her nose, and, like always, she’d dressed up her sweater with a chunky costume necklace and matching clip earrings that made her lobes droop low.
I leaned over and gave her a hug, sniffing in her familiar aroma consisting of a blend of the same perfume she’d worn ever since we met her, now mingled with Bengay. “How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there, kiddo, hanging in there. And thank you so much for the flowers.” Her arthritic fingers stroked the rose. “But I do suspect you’re here about Jenny.”
I reached into her candy dish and pulled out a Hershey’s Kiss. “I brought some things she asked me for and was hoping to visit with her . . . after you and I have a minute to catch up.” I flashed her a smile and sank into her visitor’s chair.
Mrs. June removed her readers and let them fall on the cord that hung around her neck.
“I can make sure Jenny gets her things, but I’m afraid the visit is not going to happen.”
“Isn’t she allowed visitors?” I asked. “Surely Bixby can’t stop people from—”
Mrs. June held up a hand and looked around the room before continuing.
The Ramble Police Department had an eclectic mix of furniture and fixtures. Not being a town given to extravagance, things were replaced when completely worn-out or obsolete, meaning the building was furnished with reminders of many eras. A wall-mounted pencil sharpener that looked like it dated from the early part of the previous century. Battered mustard yellow and avocado desks that
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