African Violet Club Mystery Collection Read online

  “It’s fuzzy, Mommy.” He looked up at his mother with wide brown eyes.

  “Don’t touch the plants, Jimmy.” She turned to Lilliana and handed her the dollar. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Lilliana replied, while gritting her teeth and being grateful he hadn’t touched the True Blue. She took the dollar bill and put it in an envelope.

  The woman headed in the direction of the education table with Jimmy tugging on the bag with the leaf inside, trying to take it out of her hand. Lilliana silently wished the potting people luck with keeping Jimmy out of the tub of soil.

  It looked as if the entire village of Rainbow Ranch had turned out to see the show. Not that that was surprising. In a town of five hundred souls, not counting the approximately eighty residents of the retirement community, not much happened for entertainment.

  Even Theodore Pulaski, owner of Pulaski’s Gourmet Grocery, had shown up. Older than most of the retirement home’s residents, Mr. Pulaski was still spry and active in his ninth decade. Lilliana might have lost her appetite for regular meals, but Pulaski’s Gourmet Grocery carried an excellent assortment of chocolates right next to the cash register, and Lilliana had felt obligated to sample one of every variety. In fact, she was considering doing a second sampling, just to be sure of which kind she liked best.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wentworth,” Pulaski said as he stepped up to her table. Dressed in a gray plaid western-style shirt, he stood a few inches taller than Lilliana’s own 5’10”. Just tall enough for her to look up at him. “Mighty nice flowers you’ve got here.”

  Lilliana found herself blushing. How ridiculous! “Who’s minding the store today, Mr. Pulaski?”

  “I decided to close, in honor of the event, you know.” He slowly looked around the room. “And, judging from how crowded it is in here, it doesn’t look like anyone would be at the store anyway.”

  “I think you’re right.” Not sure what to say, but not wanting Mr. Pulaski to leave her table quickly, Lilliana asked, “Are you interested in African violets?”

  “I like all things from nature. I’ve never paid attention to African violets, though. Pretty little plants, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are. Would you like to grow one of your own?” She wasn’t sure whether she was more interested in the money from a sale or in offering to mentor the grocer in how to grow one.

  Pulaski looked surprised, as if he hadn’t considered the idea before. “You know, Martha was the one who took care of the houseplants. After she passed, I could never keep them alive. One by one, they all shriveled up on me. I think I have a black thumb.”

  “Oh, nonsense. It’s just a matter of the right amount of water and light. I could help you with that.”

  His bushy eyebrows raised slightly, then lowered. “Well, I might just give it a try then. Only I’d better start with something that already has a head start. Is that one for sale?” He pointed at one of the two Ionanthas on the table.

  Lilliana breathed out a breath in relief. She’d been afraid he’d ask for the True Blue, and she hadn’t wanted to turn him down. The Ionantha was a species plant, often called the original African violet because it grew natively in, of course, Africa. Not at all rare. A smile spread across her face. “Yes, it is. Only, since I’m having that one judged, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow evening to pick it up. Or I could bring it to the store on Monday.”

  “I’ll be happy to come back for it tomorrow. How much do I owe you?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  LILLIANA’S pulse rate doubled as the two judges who had come out from Tucson, the Rainbow Ranch club not having anyone qualified for judging yet, approached her table. She took one last look at her plants and resisted reaching out to turn a pot just a little. The action might signal to the judges she was trying to hide some imperfection, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She recognized Joan MacLeod, a petite woman whose most noticeable physical trait was her dark auburn hair, cut in a short style with bangs, the ends of her hair spiking out around her chin. The man beside her wasn’t familiar.

  “Hello, Lilliana,” Joan said. “Have you met Jim Thompson?” Her gaze flicked toward the man before coming back to Lilliana.

  Lilliana extended her hand. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  The young man, who reminded her of a college professor, looked down his nose at the proffered hand as if debating whether he might catch something unmentionable from touching it, then slowly raised his hand to meet hers. After barely brushing fingers with Lilliana, he mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Joan shuffled the papers from the clipboard she held and eventually pulled out three sheets and put them at the top of the stack. She clipped them in place and said, “You have entries in three categories: Standard, Species, and New Hybrid. Is that correct?”

  Lilliana nodded. “Before you begin—“ she swallowed hard “—I want to mention that I believe Bette Tesselink may have violated the rules.”

  “Oh?” The college professor sniffed.

  Lilliana looked in his direction. No sympathy there. She concentrated on Joan. “You may have noticed that Mrs. Tesselink is showing a plant identical to my True Blue violet.” She pointed, unnecessarily, at the plant in the middle of her table. “This is a hybrid I created totally on my own from violets in my collection. I believe that she, um, took a leaf from this plant at one of our club meetings and is claiming it as her own.”

  “Do you have evidence of when you created this particular hybrid? Or when this alleged theft took place?” Joan asked, not unsympathetically.

  Lilliana thought back to the log she kept on all her plants—the dates repotted, fertilized, which shelf and type of light it was growing under—that was down the hall in her apartment. “Not with me,” she began, “but I could get my log for you.”

  “I don’t think we have time to wait.” Thompson glanced in the direction of the entrance, where Russell Ellison, the owner of the Rainbow Ranch Retirement Community, was coming in, along with a reporter from a Tucson television station. A man carrying a camera on his shoulder followed behind.

  Lilliana opened her mouth to speak, but realized she wasn’t going to win this debate at the moment, and the last thing she wanted to do was draw the attention of the television reporter. She could just imagine everyone in town pointing fingers at their TV screens as she argued that her plant had been stolen. She’d forever be known as the crabby old lady from the African violet show.

  As the judges worked down the checklists and whispered between themselves while examining her entries, Lilliana was drawn to the exchange between Ellison and the reporter.

  Ellison, a middle-aged man with a mustache and goatee, perhaps in compensation for the lack of hair on his head, raised his arms expansively, taking in the whole room. “As you can see, Biff, Rainbow Ranch Retirement Community has many events and activities for its residents. We believe seniors have plenty of life left in them and assure that every resident has activities that will keep them interested and happy. This show is just the first of many similar events we have planned for the coming year.”

  Lilliana couldn’t believe her ears. When the committee from the African Violet Club, of which she was chair, had approached him about holding the show on the premises, he’d been adamant about not having it. He objected to the extra work involved for the staff, the potential liability of having the general public onsite, and a million other things. It had taken many reassurances, and the purchase of liability insurance for the event by the club, to convince him to allow it to take place at all. Now he was taking credit for organizing the show.

  “The show continues through tomorrow, and we hope lots of people will make the easy drive from Benson and Tucson to check it out. While they’re here, we’d be happy to give them a tour of our facilities and tell them about all the opportunities and amenities at Rainbow Ranch for both active adults and those requiring more personalized care.” Ellison turned an ingratiating
smile toward the camera.

  Ah, that explained it. Ellison was hoping to capitalize on their work and sell his retirement home to more people. As best Lilliana could recall, there were at least ten apartments and several casitas still vacant. Not too far northeast of Benson, Rainbow Ranch had to be a good seventy miles from Tucson. While Benson had a small hospital, Ellison had underestimated the desire of the elderly to be closer to the world class facilities in Tucson. Thus the vacancies.

  “Thank you, Lilliana. Your entries this year are very nice.” Joan turned and headed toward the judges’ table at the end of the room between the two rows of show plant exhibitors. Thompson followed her.

  Lilliana had almost forgotten about the judging while watching Ellison’s antics with the reporter. She had worked so hard to develop her hybrid and was hoping for a ribbon. To be honest, she wanted the blue ribbon, first prize, but she would understand if Frank took that one for his crimson beauty. She’d be happy as long as the winner wasn’t Bette Tesselink. She could only hope the judges would realize she had told the truth about Bette.

  While waiting for their decision, she bent over to straighten the display of leaves to give herself something to do. And felt her pants slipping down again. She stuck a thumb in the waistband to pull them up and wished she had worn a belt.

  The room was still full of visitors. Lilliana hadn’t realized there were quite so many people in the small town of Rainbow Ranch. Or maybe people had come out from Benson to see what was going on. From what she could see through the windows at the end of the room, it was a beautiful day for a drive. Clear blue skies, cloudless, the way they would be until the summer monsoons, with a bright sun warming the desert air to a temperature in the low seventies by the afternoon. Perhaps the snowbirds, refugees from Minnesota winters, had been drawn out as well on this glorious March day.

  Lilliana turned her head toward the squeaking sound approaching her table and saw Mary Boyle pushing her walker down the row.

  “Would you like to get some lunch?” Mary asked. Mary’s graying hair, which had started the day in a short, curly style, had escaped the bonds of hairspray, with several strands sticking out at odd angles.

  Lilliana glanced toward the judges’ table.

  Mary, noticing the direction of her gaze, said, “Don’t you worry. I already checked. The judges won’t be announcing the winners until after one. They’re serving a lovely buffet out on the patio.”

  She really wasn’t hungry, but the hopeful look on Mary’s face begged for company.

  “You go on,” Leonard chimed in. “I’ll keep an eye on things for you. Then you can watch my table while I grab some food later.”

  “All right,” Lilliana said as she came out from behind the display table. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  Mary turned her walker around and started pushing it toward the exit. Lilliana followed with mincing steps, containing her usually long stride to match Mary’s shorter one.

  When they reached the patio, Lilliana confirmed she had been right about the weather. Although the chill of winter lingered in the light breeze, the air was very pleasant when the wind went still.

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  With the show and sale occupying the dining room—one of Russell Ellison’s objections to having it—the facility had been forced to find an alternate venue in which to serve meals. The poolside patio was perfect for lunch, but it would be too cool in the evening to be comfortable. If Lilliana remembered correctly, dinner would be delivered on trays to the individual apartments. A buffet breakfast would be set up in the lobby tomorrow morning.

  “Let’s take a look at what our choices are.” Mary directed her walker toward the buffet tables set up on one side, where a line was already forming. Of the dozen round tables on the patio, half were filled with diners. Although only slightly past noon, it appeared as if most of the residents had already eaten. A large contingent seemed to be of the early-to-bed-early-to-rise faction, and meals were often the highlight of their day.

  As they got to the start of the food tables, Mary reached for a tray and then hesitated as she realized there was no way for her to carry it while pushing her walker. Noticing Mary’s dilemma, Lilliana said, “Why don’t you tell me what you’d like, and I’ll put it on a plate on my tray for you.”

  “Thank you, Lilliana. I always forget I can’t do some of the things I used to.” A wave of sadness crossed Mary’s face and settled in her eyes before she banished it and continued, “But there are always good people like you to help me when I need it.”

  Lilliana wasn’t sure what to say to that. She didn’t feel particularly good. It was common decency to help another human being. She felt fortunate to be healthy and agile. Of course, she worked at that, but that didn’t necessarily guarantee a person wouldn’t develop problems as they aged.

  She thought back to the house in Tucson she’d shared with Charles for a decade. If it hadn’t been for the stroke, they’d be there still. But afterwards he was never quite the same. He certainly couldn’t keep up with the yard work or the little repairs around the house. Moving to Rainbow Ranch, where all that was taken care of, along with weekly housekeeping services and twenty-four hour medical care, had seemed like the right thing to do.

  “What about some of the chicken salad?” she asked Mary.

  Once their plates were filled, Lilliana looked around for a table. None were empty, but she saw one where Frank sat with Nancy Gardner. She headed in their direction.

  “Mind if we join you?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” Nancy said. “I was just telling Frank how nice it was to be eating outside today. All we needed to make it perfect would be to have our friends join us.”

  Friends? Lilliana had barely met Nancy. She wasn’t a member of the club nor on the softball team Lilliana was trying to organize. She seemed to remember her from the one early morning tai chi class she’d gone to. One because posing on the grass around the gazebo like some oriental geisha wasn’t her cup of tea. She much preferred a brisk walk.

  Lilliana put the two plates of food, napkins, and utensils on the table, then looked for a place to put the used tray. Ah, they’d set up another table with plastic bins for dirty plates and trays not too far from where the group was sitting. By the time she returned to the table, Mary had seated herself next to Nancy and was digging into her plate piled high with potato salad, pickles, and a buttered roll along with the chicken salad. Lilliana split her own roll with her knife and proceeded to fill it with the scoop of chicken salad she’d taken.

  “See, I told you.” Nancy was pointing a finger at Lilliana’s plate.

  Lilliana scrutinized her dish, wondering what Nancy thought was wrong.

  Frank responded, “You can’t judge by Lilliana. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat dessert.”

  She looked from Frank to Nancy and back again, her brow furrowed with confusion.

  Seeing her expression, Frank said, “Nancy was telling me she doesn’t think they serve very good desserts here. Nancy bakes some interesting recipes.” He accented the word interesting, and Lilliana wondered exactly what he meant by it.

  Nancy provided some enlightenment. “If they’d serve my peach pie seasoned with chili powder, I’m sure lots of people would take dessert. Everything here is so bland.”

  Peach pie with chili? Lilliana wasn’t sure she’d eat that combination. Ever.

  “Well, lots of folks here are on bland diets,” Mary said, echoing what Lilliana had been thinking. “What with ulcers and different medications, they have to be careful with what they serve. Otherwise, people might get sick.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t get sick from my pie,” Nancy insisted. “I’m going to bake one tomorrow. I’ll bring it down here so everyone can sample it. Then you’ll see.”

  Lilliana made a mental note to skip dessert again tomorrow.

  Frank tactfully changed the subject. “I saw you talking to the judg
es. I suggested they might want to disqualify Bette Tesselink.”

  “I said something similar, but they didn’t seem to believe me.” Lilliana stopped and remembered the judges’ comment. “I might just go back to my apartment and get my log to show them after I finish eating.”

  “I had mine.” Frank looked glum. “They said that wasn’t good enough. It’s my word against Bette’s. I suppose it would be the same with yours.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Lilliana said. ‘Did they even question Bette?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Frank said. “She turned on the charm, telling Jim Thompson how she’d read about his prize collection in the Arizona Daily Star and saying she’d like to talk to him privately about his techniques. Obviously buttering him up, hoping it would sway his opinion.”

  Lilliana sighed. “Well, hopefully Joan will see through her. She’s been judging shows for a long time, and I’m sure she’s run into Bette’s kind of shenanigans before.”

  Frank looked up at the sky as if imploring a higher power. “We can only hope.”

  Lilliana sneaked a glance at her watch. It was five after one. “Shouldn’t we be getting back? I don’t want to miss the announcement of the awards.”

  Frank took his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “You’re right.”

  Mary gazed regretfully at the potato salad remaining on her plate, then pulled a plastic sandwich bag from her purse. She spooned the remainder into the bag, zipped it up, and put the bag back where it had come from before rising from her chair. Lilliana gathered the plates and utensils to put on the clearing table on their way out. It was hard for her to match Mary’s slow progress. Everything in her wanted to run back to the show room and get the results. Her heart was tripping rapidly as she imagined walking up to accept the blue ribbon.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SOMEONE had set up a microphone in front of the judges’ table and, not unexpectedly, Russell Ellison was positioned very close to it. He looked over his shoulder toward the judges as he straightened his tie. Joan McLeod and Jim Thompson had their heads bent together, almost touching, as they whispered to one another and tapped their pencils on the clip-boarded sheets in front of them. In a moment of decision, Joan assertively wrote something next to three of the entries, then raised her head and nodded at Ellison.