Janet and I were both quiet as she pulled the VW onto the grounds of Belle Meade. Once we’d turned off Forest Lane, the car rolled past tall privacy fencing anchored by two stone pillars topped by huge carriage lanterns. Janet slowed down as we thumped over speed bumps toward a security guard’s booth.
“Hey, there, I’m Janet Graham from the Park Cities Press. I should be on the visitor’s list. I spoke with Madge yesterday,” she said after rolling down her window to check in with the white-haired guard.
I thought I recognized him from when I’d visited Belle Meade with Cissy about a year ago. Wasn’t his name Bob or Sam? I couldn’t recall which, and he didn’t give me a second glance as he looked into the car and waved us past.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Janet remarked, steering the car beneath the overhang of tall, gnarled oaks toward a plantation-style house with pillars straight out of Gone with the Wind. “I hope I stick around to tack on at least fifty more years of mileage. If I do, I want to move into this place. They have every amenity you can think of,” she said. “It’s like Disneyland for real grown-ups.”
“You should probably make your reservation now,” I told her. “I think the waiting list is something like ten years.”
“I’ll check it out while we’re here, see if they have a spot I can reserve in another half a century,” she said and smiled.
I didn’t know if Janet really wanted to book a villa at Belle Meade when she reached Golden Girlhood, but if she did, good for her.
Personally, I hoped that Malone and I could live out our old age in a house we bought together, somewhere quiet on a bit of acreage so we didn’t have neighbors too close. I think being in a condo for so long had burned me out on living in what amounted to a human ant colony.
“When I go,” Janet said out of the blue, “I hope they have to pry my knotty old hands off my keyboard.”
“I want to fade out with my bony claws clutching a paintbrush,” I told her, adding, “and if I’m really lucky, with Brian stiff as a board in front of the TV, watching hockey across the room.”
“Yep,” Jan replied, “that sounds perfect for you two lovebirds. None of that mushy holding hands stuff when you croak in tandem.”
“Okay, so I’ll clutch my paintbrush one-handed and hold Malone’s hand with the other while he stares at hockey on the forty-two-inch screen across the room,” I said, laughing, before I realized what we were talking about. “Listen to us! We’re positively morbid. It’s Olivia’s fault, for making us think about life and death.”
Janet shrugged. “If you can’t joke about what scares you most, what’s the point?”
“Yeah, what’s the point,” I repeated as Janet pulled the VW into a visitor’s spot in front of Belle Meade’s pillared façade. She shut off the engine and twisted around to grab her big bag from the backseat.
“We’re supposed to stop by the management office and then head to Activity Room 3 where Jasper’s holding his class.”
So I dutifully followed on Janet’s combat boot heels, entering the main building of Belle Meade with its oiled wood and crystal chandeliers. I trailed her into the management office, where she introduced me to Madge Malloy, the woman who’d taken over after my friend Annabelle’s departure. I didn’t speak except to smile and say, “Nice to meet you.”
Janet seemed to have the patter down perfectly, telling Madge she’d send her courtesy copies once the piece on Jasper’s floral-arranging class appeared in the PCP. Then Madge dropped us off at Activity Room 3. Although we were ten minutes early for class, the chairs were filled with chattering women who gave us the once-over as we walked in. And I didn’t think it was just because we were the only ones who appeared to be under sixty. The crowd of bespectacled eyes homed in on Janet and her bee-inspired ensemble.
“Nice topper,” one of them said, admiring Janet’s cloche hat. She was an elegant-looking woman with her gray hair pulled back into a ponytail and a paisley scarf around her neck. “My mother left me a few Caroline Reboux originals that I should dust off. They’re still in their boxes.”
“Wow, Caroline Reboux in boxes,” Janet said breathlessly, and I half expected her to jump in the woman’s lap and wriggle like an excited puppy. “That’s vintage gold.”
“Real treasures never age,” the woman replied with a smile.
Janet smiled back.
“Okay, now that you’ve made a new friend, can we sit down?” I whispered, nudging her toward the only pair of unoccupied chairs in the back. “Guess you’ll have to grill Jasper after class, huh?”
“Yeah, Madge said he’d give me a few minutes,” Janet responded and tugged open her bag. She withdrew a point-and-shoot camera, which she passed over to me. “Hold this, would you?” Then she got out a tiny notebook and pen. “Yes, I still take notes longhand,” she said when I gave her a look.
Jasper hadn’t shown yet, though there was a rectangular table set in the front of the room. Its surface was covered with buckets containing greenery and an assortment of peonies. There were as many vases as women present so I figured that, once Jasper gave some instruction, he let his students have at it.
Soon enough the sound of footsteps could be heard tapping on the tiled hallway and the women seemed to sit up straighter. Their chatter stopped.
And into the room swept the same thin, smartly dressed man I’d glimpsed in a few of The Wedding Belle episodes. He had on pin-striped black trousers, a mustard-colored jacket, and a patterned black-and-gold cravat.
I nudged Janet and whispered, “I see he got the memo that it was Dress Like a Bee Day.”
“Shh,” she hushed me with a finger to her lips.
“It’s another beautiful morning at Belle Meade, isn’t it, girls?” he said to the room at large, and the group replied in unison, “Hello, Jasper.”
“Hello, hello,” he replied, winking, and he smoothed a hand over his shiny pate.
He may have been a card-carrying member of AARP himself, but he looked fit and agile, moving behind the table to gesture at all the goodies gathered atop it.
“We’re doing peonies today, as I’m sure you can see, because nothing says ‘spring’ like a peony! We’ll just stick to three blooms each and do very simple arrangements that’ll look perfect on your dresser or vanity. First, let’s pick out some hardy greenery,” he said, and all the ladies leaned forward to watch him select his foliage.
Then he plucked a small sharp knife from the table and began to pare off unwanted leaves, describing what he was doing every step. He used the knife again to trim the stems of his peonies before he selected a small silver-footed vase.
While he talked and worked, the ladies would occasionally pepper him with questions like, “Oh, Jasper, tell us that story again about how you did flowers for Richard Burton to give to Elizabeth Taylor when she was filming nearby,” or, “We want to hear the one about Audrey Hepburn . . . Sophia Loren . . . Gregory Peck.”
So Jasper Pippin entertained them with tales of working with glamorous movie stars back in the day, and Janet busily scribbled notes while I studied the man, wondering if he’d been angry enough about losing his business to attack Olivia.
“I like to strip the leaves off the main buds and put the plumpest blossom in the middle. See?” he explained as he worked his magic with several vases filled with peonies. When he’d finished, the ladies cooed over his artistry. Jasper declared, “Okay, girls, enough of me! Now it’s all about you. So come on up here, pick out your greens and your peonies, grab a pair of scissors, and make something pretty to take back to your boudoirs.”
As Jasper’s rapt audience got up out of their chairs and ambled toward the front of the room, Janet leaned over and said, “So he’s the only one who gets a knife?”
“He’s good with it, too, isn’t he?” I remarked, and I squinted toward Mr. Pippin, trying to imagine him confronting Olivia in her office, snatching up the Tiffany cake knife and stabbing her in the throat before she knew what hit her. “He could have done it,” I said, “if he caught Olivia by surprise.”
Jasper’s smile slipped as he glanced toward us. He brushed a stray leaf from the sleeve of his jacket. Then he tugged at his cuffs. My mother would have called him a dandy.
“I don’t know, Andy,” Janet whispered back. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be okay with getting blood on his clothes.”
I sighed. Yes, so it appeared that Jasper was rather meticulous. I’m sure a lot of killers were. It probably just made them a lot harder to catch.
We had to wait another half an hour before the class wrapped up and all the twittering ladies had left with their peony arrangements in hand.
It was only then that Janet stood and approached Belle Meade’s resident floral technician. “Mr. Pippin, hello, I’m Janet Graham from the Park Cities Press,” she said, extending her hand. “Did Madge tell you I was coming by?”
“She did, although I’m not sure I like the idea of talking to the media.” Jasper didn’t take her hand. He made a point of sticking his into his pocket. “Do you plan to take photographs?” he asked, jerking his chin my way.
It took a second before I remembered I was holding Jan’s camera.
Apparently, Janet had forgotten, too. She glanced at me and nodded. “Oh, yes, Andy’s helping me today,” she said, “but we don’t have to shoot you if you’re shy.”
I didn’t get the idea that Jasper Pippin was a wallflower, but he didn’t look happy when I raised the camera. Instead, he waved it off.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” He screwed up his face. “I don’t want to be too firmly associated with my stint here. Perhaps you can photograph the arrangements instead.”
“You make it sound as though you’re leaving,” Janet said.
Jasper smiled. “Nothing is forever, is it?”
“Hmm, I guess not.” Janet pointed to the flowers on the table and said, “Take a few shots of the peonies, Kendricks.”
“You’re Andy Kendricks?” Jasper repeated, giving me a look. “Are you related to Cissy Blevins Kendricks?”
I glanced at Janet before I answered, “Sort of. I’m her daughter.”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms, tapping a finger to his chin. “You’re the one who didn’t debut and caused such a stir. I was doing the flowers for the White Glove Society’s deb ball that year. They were very upset.”
“Um, yes, that was me.” Great. A dozen years later and I was still infamous for being the debutante dropout.
“So you ended up taking pictures for the Park Cities Press? Ah, well, c’est la vie,” Jasper said with a sigh, which I took to imply, I guess that’s what happens to trust fund babies who run away from their debut.
Janet clamped her mouth closed. Knowing her, she probably wanted to retort, And what’s so bad about working for the Park Cities Press?
“Um, I’ll just take pictures of the flowers since that’s why I’m here, right?” I said, and Janet nodded.
“Wait, let me arrange them,” Jasper said and went to the table to place the three vases he’d done in a fashionable stagger.
I stood and turned on the camera. There weren’t too many ways I could make vases of peonies interesting so I’d only clicked off a few shots before Janet tapped my arm.
“That should do, Andy, thanks.”
I settled down into a chair in the front row to watch and listen.
Janet started with an easy lob. “What kind of response have you received to your classes at Belle Meade?”
“It’s been inspiring,” Jasper said, and his cheeks flushed. “The ladies seem to love it, and I enjoy teaching them what I’ve learned from my years in the business.”
“You owned a shop in the Bishop Arts District for nearly thirty years,” Janet said. “Do you miss it?”
“I miss the area, yes,” Jasper replied, biting his lip. “It was such a great atmosphere. And I miss the customers, some of whom I’d known since I first opened my doors. Losing them was like a small death.” He shrugged and dusted off his sleeves. “But like Lazarus, I’ve come back to life.”
Janet cocked her head. “Do you have something up your sleeve you’d like to discuss?”
Where else would Jasper go if not Belle Meade? I wondered. I had a feeling he’d had few offers for employment after the smack-down on Olivia’s show.
“My time at Belle Meade has been lovely and a wonderful opportunity to regroup,” he said without giving anything away. “It was fortunate for me that they asked me to share my talents when I needed somewhere to go after—”
Olivia’s hatchet job, I nearly shouted out to fill in the blank.
“After you sold off your shop,” Janet said instead. “I’m sure that can’t have been easy.”
Jasper glanced toward the doorway then leaned nearer Janet. He fairly trembled with excitement, like he had a secret he just couldn’t hold in. “Off the record—Miss Graham—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t quote me on this, but I will be moving on soon.”
“What’s up?” Janet pressed him. “Do you have plans to open a new shop?”
He put a finger to his lips, tapping and thinking before he replied, “I’m not at liberty to share details just yet. But it won’t be long. So leave your card, and I’ll call you the moment I can toot my horn. Then you can do a proper interview.”
Janet glanced at me, and I shrugged.
What was Jasper up to? Had he been biding his time until Olivia was dead, and now that she was, he had some great opportunity knocking on his door?
“Here you go,” Janet said, pulling a business card from her bag and handing it over to him. “Can’t you give me a hint?” she asked. “My readers would love to know what you’re up to. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to hear you’ll have a happy ending to your story after all.”
“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.