The Demise (11 page)

“I apologize for not reading the obituary this morning before coming here. My partner told me there are no children. Is that correct?”

She pinned the same glare on him. “Yes.”

“What about close friends? Colleagues?”

“Peter had lots of friends. People adored him. It would be impossible to provide a list of all of them. The same applies for his colleagues. I wouldn’t begin to know them all.”

“Not even close friends? Everyone has at least one or two friends who are—”

“What is it you’re getting at? Are you’re asking if I know why my husband killed himself, I do not. If you’re asking if one of his friends or business acquaintances had something to do with his death, I have no idea. As I told you—”

“Were you aware of any financial problems with Lanham’s Fine Foods? Any threats to the company? Talk of a hostile takeover?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Lanham, were you and your husband having marital problems?”

Her eyes narrowed again. “No more than anyone else. Peter and I are both—
were
both—very strong-willed people. When things would come between us, we would hash it out like any other couple, kiss and make up, then move on.”

“Any recent disagreements?”

“No.”

“Any infidelities?”

Again the glare. “How
thoughtful
of you to suggest such a thing just hours before we bury my husband. Are you always so considerate of those who’ve just lost loved ones?”

He fixed a smile on his face and continued. “I understand Mr. Lanham was quite proud of his yacht. Did you usually accompany him on his boat trips?”

She stood up abruptly. “We’re done here. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“Yes, I can. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lanham.”

Milly appeared when he opened the door. Had she been listening by the door? Or had Patricia somehow summoned her?

“I’ll walk you out.”

“Thank you.”

He followed her, wondering at the formality of these people. Was it just for show? Or was this how they lived?

Milly opened the front door. “Goodbye, Mr. Bryson.”

“Thank you, Milly. Goodbye.”

As he crossed the wide front porch, he encountered a portly man coming up the steps in a rush. Matt couldn’t help noticing the obvious toupee riding precariously on the side of his sweaty head. He reminded Matt of a somewhat thinner Dom Deluise, the comedic actor his father had always loved.

“Milly! Thank goodness! I have to see Patricia at once.”

“She’s about to leave, Harley. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Probably, but I think she’ll want to see me when she hears what’s happened.”

They stepped into the house and closed the door, leaving Matt in suspense. He noticed the white panel van parked behind his car; on its side, a huge likeness of the man he’d just passed along with his business name—
Harley Creech Floral Designs
—in an elegant, swirly font. As he neared the van, he realized he was blocked in.

“Don’t you hate when that happens?”

Matt turned to find the man he’d seen in the house earlier approaching. The driver stood beside him, hands on his hips.

“Yes, I do. You don’t have any idea how long he’ll be in there, do you?”

“Harley? If Mrs. Lanham weren’t headed to town, he’d stay all morning. How else can he update all that gossip he spreads?”

Matt extended his hand. “I’m Matt Bryson, TBI.”

“Jim Underwood, but everyone calls me Underwood.” He shook Matt’s hand. “I’m the Lanham’s driver and lead gofer. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I guess it’s been pretty rough around here the last couple of days.”

Underwood ran a hand over his close-cropped silver head and beard. “That it has. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Even harder to believe that he jumped.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

Underwood looked at him, obviously sizing him up. “Because Mr. Lanham had it all together. He’s the kind that takes charge of every situation, knows exactly how it will play out.” He shook his head. “Man like that doesn’t jump. He gets pushed.”

“Any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

A commotion behind interrupted them. Patricia Lanham descended the steps with the florist at her heels. “Deal with it, Harley. I haven’t got time for this. I don’t care if you have to overnight them from Paris, just do it.”

Her eyes locked on Matt’s. “Mr. Bryson, why are you still here?”

“He’s blocked in, as you can see,” Underwood graciously intervened. “I was just about to come for your keys, Harley.”

Harley whipped his head around, almost losing his rug, his lips pursed. “I’m going! I’m going!”

As the florist gunned his van down the long driveway, Patricia ignored Matt as she walked toward the Mercedes. “Underwood, we’re late.”

He dashed to open the back door for her, and once he closed it, Matt slipped Underwood his card as he walked by him. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

Matt climbed in his car and started the engine. As the black Mercedes turned out of the drive, Patricia glanced at him briefly before sliding on a pair of sunglasses.

Now, sitting in his motel room thinking back on the whole scenario, he couldn’t help the thoughts marching through his mind. He quickly keyed them into a file on his laptop.

Patricia Lanham:  ice cold, calculated, used to getting her way, no love lost between her and the deceased. Possible motivation: get rid of her cheating husband once and for all? End the humiliation? Check on Peter Lanham’s life insurance . . .

Matt leaned back in his chair and tapped a pen against the table. It seemed too easy, pegging her as the murderer—
if
this was a case of murder. Spouses are always considered suspects; even in the most unlikely cases, they must be ruled out first. If she had pushed him—whether physically or otherwise—wouldn’t she make some pretense to act like a grieving widow? Try to convince everyone that she couldn’t possibly have killed her husband?

Then again, Matt already knew she’d snuck over to Donella’s the night after Peter’s body was found. Julie felt sure something was amiss when the new widow suddenly turned up at the home of his assistant.

Julie.

Part of him wished she’d kept that cute button nose of hers out of his business. The other part, echoing her speech to him that first night at Denton’s, acknowledged what a tremendous asset she could be, having grown up in this peculiar little town. She knew the backgrounds on everyone in town, and then some. But tonight he needed some space and time away from her. To jump back in with questions and theories would once again lure her into the vortex of his investigation like a moth to a flame.

He took another long sip of his drink then tossed the empty can toward the trash can and missed. He checked his cell phone, but no calls or messages showed since the last time he’d checked ten minutes ago.

His thoughts bounced here and there before focusing on someone else in town who knew a lot about everything that transpired in Braxton. He glanced at the clock and realized how late it was. But Matt had a pretty good hunch that the town florist was hard at work getting ready for tomorrow’s funeral.

Maybe it was time for a little chat with Mr. Harley Creech.

Chapter 13

“Lordy, lordy, how will this ever be ready in time? How will I
ever
make it? How?!”

“Excuse me?”

Harley Creech jumped half a foot off the ground, both hands flying to his chest. “Who the—what are you
doing
sneaking up on me like that?”

Matt tried not to laugh. “I’m really sorry,” he offered, hands raised in apology. “I knocked, but nobody answered. And I could hear voices and music inside, so when I found the door unlocked, I just came on in.”

Harley leaned back against his work table, clutching it on both sides as if hanging on for dear life. “Son, I don’t know who you are, but you had better have a darn good reason for scaring the bejeebies out of me like that.”

Matt dug his card out of his pocket and handed it to the flustered florist. “Matt Bryson, TBI.”

“TBI—what’s that? You some kind of tuberculosis Nazi looking for diseased souls?” Harley wiped his forehead with the hem of his bib apron then reached over to turn down the classical music filling the shop.

Matt laughed. “That’s a good one. But no, I’m not a TB Nazi. I’m an agent for Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. No tuberculosis to speak of.”

“Ohhhhh, I get it.” He stared at the card for a second then snapped his attention back on Matt. “Oh my lord, my lord—you’re in town because of Peter Lanham’s death, aren’t you?” His tone had changed completely, more conspiratorial. “I knew it! I knew it. Peter didn’t jump, did he? He was PUSHED!”

“No, now Mr. Creech—”

“Oh son, please call me Harley. You call me Mr. Creech and I’ll think my daddy has risen from the grave like Lazarus of old.”

“Okay,
Harley.” Matt couldn’t help his barely-contained laughter, but the guy didn’t seem offended. In fact, he seemed to enjoy having an audience. “We don’t know yet if Mr. Lanham was pushed, which is why we’re conducting a thorough investigation.”

Harley looked over his half-glasses at Matt. “Uh huhhh. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Is that a problem?”

Matt could almost see the options ping-ponging back and forth in Harley’s head. 
Do I tell him? Or do I not?
Finally, he motioned Matt toward a bar stool at the other end of the messy worktable covered with flowers and greenery. “Might as well talk now as later, though I’ve got to work while we chat. I’m racing that clock on the wall behind you. My normally dependable assistant is out sick with pneumonia, and there’s not a soul in town who can help me get these done. Everybody and their dog has ordered flowers for tomorrow’s memorial, and to make matters worse, my supplier was not able to find the calla lilies Patricia wanted for the casket spray. I told her to stick with roses or glads, but would Her Majesty listen to a word I say? Never! ‘Overnight them from Paris,’ she says. Like I can snap my fingers and they’ll suddenly appear in time?” Harley trimmed the thorns off another white rose. “If you ask me, that’s what happens when people live their whole lives expecting everyone else to jump at their every whim.” Harley peered over his glasses again. “Where did you say you’re from?”

“Texas. Born and raised.”

“That explains the accent.”

“Says the Tennessean to the Texan.”

“Point taken,” Harley chortled as he fussed expertly with the placement of the roses. “What brought you to Tennessee?”

“A job.”

“Texas was plum out?”

“Not the kind I wanted. Harley, I get the impression most folks around here don’t particularly care much for Patricia Lanham. Why is that?”

He stopped again, nailing Matt with another quirky glare over his glasses. “Have you met the woman?”

“Oh, indeed I have. This morning, remember?”

“Well, sure you were
there
, but that doesn’t mean squat. Patricia only sees who she wants to see.”

Matt toyed with a roll of green florist tape. “I’m fairly confident she didn’t want to see me, but she did.”

“Don’t assume any such thing. If I had to guess, I’d say she was probably sizing you up even more than you were checking her out.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, that is totally so.” Harley stepped into the cooler and emerged with an armful of more white roses and asparagus fern stems. “All I’m saying is, take nothing for granted where Patricia Lanham is concerned.”

“Good to know. You seem to know everyone in town—”

“Understatement of the millennium,” he murmured sarcastically.

Matt smiled. “So tell me, is there anyone in Braxton you’d consider capable of murder?”

Harley continued snipping, wiring, and arranging the flowers. “You mean other than me?”

Matt’s hands stopped in midair, the roll of tape still spinning around his forefinger.

“I’m just kidding! Good heavens, son, you need to lighten up.”

“Whoa . . . you had me going for a minute there.”

“Not that we don’t
all
have thoughts like that now and then. People who bug you day in and day out. You know the type. But someone who’d actually push the town’s only millionaire off that water tower? No way. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. If there was some ‘evildoer’ in our midst, I promise I’d know it. But you’ve got to broaden your horizons, Agent Bryson. Peter Lanham is—
was
as much a fixture in Nashville as he was here in Braxton. Only difference, it’s a bigger pool with a lot of other millionaires swimming around. Know what I’m saying?”

“Absolutely,” Matt said. “And we plan to include Nashville in our investigation.”

“We? Oh, that’s right. I heard about Son of Sam with his shaved head and his bossy pants.”

“He’s direct, that’s for sure. But for the record, my partner Sam is no relation to
David
Berkowitz, the actual Son of Sam.”

“David. Sam. Whatever. I heard he’s a ring-tail tooter, your partner.”

Matt smiled. “Haven’t heard that expression since I left Texas. But getting back to the subject. You mentioned Nashville. It’s a big city. Anyone in particular you think might have had it in for Lanham?”

“Not specifically, no. But then I’m sure you know about the girls.”

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Harley, tell me something. If Lanham’s philandering was so well known, any chance some spurned lover might have been out for blood?”

“None that I can think of.” Harley set his snippers down and reached for a large Mason jar filled with ice and water. He pressed it against his forehead then downed several gulps. “But here’s a thought. I can give you a list of most of those girls, and I can also tell you which of them were married, and which of them had boyfriends while they were sleeping with Lanham. I’m thinking those guys ought to be considered. If everybody in town knew my wife was having an affair with Lanham, I’d kill her. In a heartbeat.”

“You married, Harley?”

“Not currently. But that’s a story for another day.” He wiped his hands on his apron and perched back on his stool. “Listen, I’d love to sit and chat, but right now—”

“—you’re racing that clock on that wall.” Matt was already on his feet.

“I am. This casket blanket has to look positively stunning—
sans
calla lilies—or Patricia’s liable to yank it off right smack-dab in the middle of the flippin’ funeral.”

Matt laughed as he rounded the table. “Surely not?”

“She’s done worse, trust me.”

Matt shook his hand. “Thanks for your time, Harley. I’ll take you up on the offer for another chat sometime.”

“Works for me. Just give me a holler after all the drama dies down. Hey, lock that door behind you, all right?”

“Will do.” As he closed the door behind him and stepped out on the sidewalk, Matt heard the soaring melody of an orchestra climbing toward a crescendo accompanied by Luciano Pavarotti. Or was it Placido Domingo? Looking back through the windowpane, he smiled at the sight of the town florist singing along as he worked.