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“Yeah, I remember that,” Blythe added. “Momma said he won something like a hundred grand, too. That’s a lot of money for a flower.”
If Angie thought she’d had a hand in the creation of Allen’s roses, maybe she thought part of that prize was hers. People had killed for less. And Angie wasn’t exactly a patient woman, or a rich one. She could’ve needed the money. Allen White was one of the richest men in town, living in his great beast of a house. He didn’t need anything. He could’ve easily handed over the money.
I paced the room, the letter still in my hand. “This looks really bad for Angie, but I’m not sure it’s enough.” My feet stopped moving and I looked up at Raven and Blythe. “I’m not sure it’ll be enough to take the heat off of Grammy Jo.”
“What do you mean?” Raven asked, jumping off her chair and taking the letter from my hand. “It says right here that she’s been threatening him.”
“Yes, but how?” I ran a hand over my hair. All this running around had left it tangled. “She could’ve been threatening him with a lawsuit, not with death. It doesn’t mean that she was fixing to kill him.”
Blythe took the letter next. “Yes, but we know they were arguing. Don’t you think the police would take a hard look at that? Grammy doesn’t even have a motive.”
I nodded, willing my brain to work faster. “Yes, but we need someone to corroborate the story. We need someone who can describe how bad things had gotten between Allen and Angie. We need a witness. Then, the police will know for sure they’ve got the wrong person in their sights.”
My mind reeled through the scene of the murder again. The crushed rose petals, the body splayed across the ground, the police officers laying a sheet over Mr. White. Then, it came to me: our witness. “Laura Blight! She was Allen’s housekeeper. If anyone knows anything, she does.”
Blythe danced on her tiptoes and swung her arms wide. “Right! And she can confirm the contents of the letter. Maybe she’s even witnessed things getting violent between the two of them. It’s worth a shot.”
A crowd of people walked past my door in nineteenth century apparel. I peeked my head out the doorway to observe my coworkers making their way to the fake bonfire, yelling at Michelle Dackery who already clung to her fiery post. Butch Hall stood among the dozen or so visitors, his back to me.
I couldn’t help but think of my Grammy Jo and how much she needed this witness. If no one stepped forward to provide new evidence regarding Allen White’s murder, my grandmother might become another victim of this town. Except in this modern day witch hunt, it wasn’t so easy to run from a town full of angry people on the hunt for blood.
Chapter 11
Early the next morning, the three of us arrived at Allen White’s home. Word had it that Laura Blight was still taking care of the mansion, making it spotless for his funeral, which would be held whenever the police decided to release the body.
As I stared up at the brick building, a shudder went through me. She had to be crazy to want to be alone in that big old house. With Allen gone, it was as empty as a tomb. If it wasn’t for Grammy Jo, I don’t think I would’ve stepped a foot inside it.
“Oh, look,” Blythe paused by the garden. Pieces of the crime scene tape still clung to a few of the thorny rose bushes, drifting on the light summer breeze coming from the east. “The roses are still blooming. I’ll bet Grammy Jo would love one last stem.”
Before I could protest, she’d hopped down the grass pathway and straight onto the trampled patch of grass where Allen’s body had lain only days ago.
“Ew,” Raven spat. She tried to chase after our cousin, but her stilettos sunk in the grass. “Get out of there. That’s unsanitary.”
“Just one clipping.” Blythe pulled a tiny pair of scissors from her oversized handbook and snipped the most beautiful bloom in the bunch. Pulling a little hardbound book from the purse, she put the rose inside and snapped it shut. “There, it’ll dry that way and never die. Grammy Jo will always have one of her roses.”
Blythe was looking too proud of herself for me to mention how morbid that sounded. After this week, I’d feel better if I never had to look at another rose for the rest of my life. Maybe Grammy felt differently.
We climbed the stone stairs to the mansion’s front door and pressed the doorbell. A chime went off inside, followed by the shuffling of something across the floor. Moments later, the door creaked open and Laura Blight peeked her head out. Her large doe eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. She wore a plain white blouse and a stiffly pressed black skirt – the same uniform I’d seen her wearing the day of Allen’s death. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than us.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi, Laura.” Blythe stepped forward. We’d agreed she would have the best excuse to get us inside and chatting. “I’m supposed to be doing the organization for Mr. White’s funeral. May we come inside? I’ve got some questions I think you can help me out with.”
Laura blinked twice, and then nodded, swinging the door open. We walked inside the foyer, our shoes clicking on the wooden floors. Blythe had been right; a giant wooden staircase curved around the room and upward where a gold and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.
“Ohhhh…this is gorgeous, Laura.” Blythe was dancing around the room, running her hands over the woodwork. “You’re so lucky you get to work here. I would just drool over this house every day.”
Again, Laura blinked at us but said nothing. Her tightly curled brown hair had been pulled back into a perfect bun. It left her face looking bare and pale, no doubt a product of the emotional stress obvious in her eyes.
“What do you need to know for the funeral?” Laura wrung her hands together in front of her skirt. “I’m not sure what I can help with.”
“You’re helping plenty, Laura,” Blythe said in a soothing tone. “I needed to get an idea of the layout of the home for the memorial. This really helps.”
For as wacky as Blythe could be sometimes, she really knew how to calm a fidgety housekeeper. Laura nodded and dabbed at her nose with a tissue, her shoulders relaxing. Time for my job.
“I don’t suppose you were here when Allen died?” I asked, casually looking at one of the landscape paintings hanging on the wall. A herd of buffalo grazed in the background while Native American hunters crept through the tall grass. I was never very good at landscapes. Portraits were more my thing. “Do you know what happened?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her jump. She stumbled on her words, stuttering a reply. “Nnn…nnn….no. I was sick that morning with a headache. I didn’t get here until Mr. White was already…” She pointed toward the garden, unable to get the words out.
