Hothouse Orchid

25

Teddy stopped at the Vero Beach Book Center and went inside. He needed a book more absorbing than a second reading of Winston Churchill to take his mind off Adele Mason, now lying in the sandy Florida soil.

He was impressed. It was a very large bookstore, with everything he could have asked for in reading matter. He bought a New York Times and, after half an hour’s browsing, a new biography of Andrew Jackson. A review of the book had stirred his interest, and he didn’t know a lot about Jackson’s period of American history. When he walked up to the counter to pay for his purchases, he was surprised to find Lauren Cade ahead of him in line.

She bought a novel, and when she turned was equally surprised to see him. “Hello, Mr. Smithson,” she said.

“Good morning, Ms. Cade.” He laid his purchases on the counter, along with some cash.

“I saw you at the funeral,” she said, “and again at the burial. Why did you stand so far back?”

“For the same reason you did,” Teddy replied.

“And what would that be?”

“To see if I could spot the killer in the crowd.”

She smiled. “Well, you never know. It was worth the effort, I think.”

Teddy took his purchases and walked with her to the parking lot. “Did you spot him?”

“No,” she said. “Did you?”

“I’m afraid my instincts misled me,” Teddy said.

“How so?”

“I saw a man who struck me as a possible suspect, but he turned out to be a police officer-the chief, in fact.”

Lauren looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t explain it; I just didn’t like the look of him, and when Detective Weathers introduced him to me outside the church, I liked him even less.”

“That’s very interesting,” she said.

“You suspect him, too?”

“I shouldn’t talk about it,” she replied.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I suppose you consider me a suspect as well.”

“Off the record, I don’t,” she said. “Everything you told us turned out to be true when we checked. Much of it was confirmed by Ms. Mason’s diary.”

“Are there any suspects besides this Bruno character?”

“No,” she said, “and I can’t concentrate too much on him, because I have personal issues with him that might cloud my judgment.”

Teddy didn’t ask what they were. “Ms. Cade, as long as I’m not a suspect, is there any reason why you and I couldn’t have dinner this evening?” He looked at his watch. “It’s past six, and I don’t mind dining a little early.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “There’s a very good restaurant called Carmel’s just over there,” she said, pointing across the parking lot.

They had no trouble getting a table so early, and soon they had drinks and were perusing the menu. Teddy wondered how old she was: midthirties, he guessed. He also wondered how she felt about older men.

“Mr. Smithson…” she began.

“Please, call me Jack.”

“And I’m Lauren. How old are you?”

He smiled. “I’m sixty.”

“I had thought a bit younger,” she said.

“I think of myself as younger. And you?”

“I’m thirty-eight,” she said. “And I think of myself as older.”

“That’s odd,” Teddy observed.

“I suppose it is,” she agreed.

“Have you had a hard life?”

“Not particularly,” she said. “I’ve had some rough moments.”

“So have we all, some rougher than those of others. How did you come to be a state police officer?”

“I came from a family who had little, and I joined the army as a means of getting a college education. I majored in criminology, and I applied for Officer Candidacy School with an eye toward the military police. I served for fourteen years, then left and applied to the Florida State Police.”

“Were you disappointed in the army as a career?”

“On the contrary, I liked it and thought I would do the full thirty years.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say I was disappointed in some of the officers I served with.”

Teddy felt he shouldn’t question her too closely about that. If she wanted to talk about it she would. “My life was more mundane,” he said. “I did an apprenticeship as a machinist after high school, and then started inventing gadgets, mostly kitchen stuff. Somewhat to my surprise I was able to make a good living at it. I married, and she died four years ago of ovarian cancer. No kids.”

“I didn’t marry,” Lauren said. “The only men I met were army officers, and they always seemed to be either just timeservers or too ambitious to be promoted.”

They talked on over their dinners and shared a bottle of wine. When they were done, he walked her back to her car.

“Am I too old for you?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Then may we have dinner again?”

“I’d like that.”

“Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“That’s good for me. I should warn you that sometimes I get called to work on short notice.”

“I’m flexible. May I cook for you at my house?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“I know where to find you,” she said, getting into her car. She handed him a card. “That’s how you can reach me, should something come up.”

He wrote down his own number and gave it to her. “Nothing will come up,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”

“Until tomorrow evening, then,” she said, starting her car.

He closed her door and walked back to his own car. This had been an unexpected but very pleasant surprise, he thought. And he was curious about her past relationship with James Bruno.

He went home and fired up his computer. He didn’t need to go into the Agency mainframe; there was enough on Bruno through Google. He read about the man’s trial for rape and even found a photograph of Lauren, who looked much younger at the time.

And another surprise: Holly Barker was in the photo, too.