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Violet Society:
DEATH AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
By
Mary O’Connor
© copyright March 2008, Mary O’Connor
Cover art by Alex DeShanks, March 2008
ISBN 973-1-60394-138-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Dedication:
As always, this book is dedicated to my own hometown hero, my husband, Tim. Thank you for all you do for me to make this dream possible. I love you.
I also want to dedicate this book to Debbie Thomas, my tearoom buddy, and to Stella, owner of the Idyll Hours Tea Room—and maker of the best desert you will ever eat—Toffee Crunch Meringue. Thanks for letting us idle away so many lunches with you, Stella!
And I can never write a book without acknowledging my writing support team—Donna Grant, Robin Popp, and Georgia Ward. Thank you, girls!
Chapter One
“Mercy me, it’s a good thing this town ain’t got any traffic or that man would stop it.”
Cassie Taylor did her best to ignore her friend Val Schaffer’s affected Southern hick ramblings, but couldn’t help lifting her gaze from the ever-growing pile of unpaid bills to look out the window and across Main Street.
He was out there again, and helpless to stop herself, she noticed the gray t-shirt stretched across the broad back, the long legs, narrow waist, and hips in faded jeans as he leaned over his work. Then her gaze moved to the sign he was placing outside his shop. It was a small post sign that stuck out of a flowerpot, just beyond the shade of the awning.
“Son of a .... The jerk just did it again!” She shoved back her chair and started for the front door of her shop, zigzagging her way between a Queen Anne chair and a walnut dining table with elegantly carved legs. Val was right behind her.
“Cassie Taylor, what are you doing?”
Cassie jerked open the shop door, causing the bell to clang noisily, and stood on her front stoop below the sign that read TAYLOR FURNISHINGS, glaring at Mr. Muscles and his shop across the street. “I think it’s time to go check out my competition and maybe have a little chat.”
She lifted a hand to gesture toward him. “See his sign? ‘Free delivery with every purchase.’” She turned and pointed to the poster she’d placed in her window the day before, Half off delivery costs. “Last week I advertised free coffee and the next day he put up a sign promoting free coffee and donuts. I mean, who does he think he is?”
She felt her pulse racing and not even the sweet scent of the wisteria winding its way over the front door could calm her. It should have been a relaxing, perfect Texas Hill Country spring morning. Now Mr. Muscles was stealing even that away from her.
“I think he’s trying to make a living, just like you,” Val suggested from beside her as she tugged on a sweater. “His stuff is nice.”
Cassie whirled on her best friend. “Oh, really? And how would you know that?”
Val had the decency to look sheepish. “I saw the merchandise yesterday when I delivered donuts for Mrs. Grady.”
“Traitor.”
Val smiled in his direction. “Mmmm, I’d like to dunk him in my coffee. Yum, yum.”
“A traitor and sexually depraved. You’re a married woman, for God’s sake, Val.”
“Hey, I’m only human. He’s easy on the eyes and very friendly. You should meet him.”
“Oh, I will. I’m going over there right now. Like I said, it’s high time I had a look at my competition.”
A commotion to her left made her pause and she looked over to see five older women crowding the small Main Street sidewalk, their hands flapping as they squawked, their outdated dresses swishing with each hurried step and their sensible shoes resounding on the sidewalk in a chaotic drumbeat. The Violet Society was in a dither, which was nothing new. Something was always buzzing in those ladies’ bonnets.
“Where’s Mr. Sanders? The tearoom is still closed!” Their unofficial leader, Mrs. Doris Whittier, shouted to everyone, and no one in particular. The Violet Society lived for their morning tea and if Mr. Sanders was late opening his restaurant ... well, Lord help him.
Cassie ignored them and stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. She had bigger fish to fry.
“Now, Cassie, don’t go saying anything stupid!”
She waved off Val, noticing Jeff Neese, the handsome police chief of Bluebonnet Creek, making his way down the sidewalk from the right. She gave him a friendly wave but ignored his frantic motions to join him. She had business to attend to before she could enjoy any of Jeff’s flirtatious chit-chat.
Mr. Muscles straightened from the pot of bright purple petunias he had placed next to the sign and turned to look at her. The flowers made a cheerful picture as they cascaded over the terra cotta container, so much so that she glanced back at her own storefront and, ignoring the wisteria-gone-wild, winced at the lack of color in her wooden whiskey barrels, still empty from last summer. Well, she’d take care of that this afternoon with a quick trip to the nursery.
“Ms. Taylor, what a nice surprise. Am I the honored recipient of a social call?”
His deep voice sent a shiver through her that she decidedly chalked up to disgust. In the two weeks since he’d opened a shop across from hers, she had yet to see him up close since she’d been unwilling to go admire his furniture. Now that she had seen him, she wondered if this might not have been such a good idea after all. Were those eyes blue or blue gray? And how did he know her name?
“It most certainly is not a social call. I want to know just what you think you’re doing.”
He grinned, the smile no doubt bone-melting to most women but served only to set her more on edge, and turned to make his way inside the shop. He held the door open for her, so she followed, passing close enough to notice that he smelled soapy clean with just the right amount of sweat to still be pleasant. Oh Lord, Val’s lustful ways must have rubbed off on her.
“If you’re referring to my sign, I think I’m trying to run a business, Ms. Taylor.”
“You’re stealing my ideas.”
“Ever heard of competition and capitalism, ma’am?”
She glanced around the inside of his shop and had her first look at his merchandise. It was nice, as much as it killed her to admit it. His pieces were strong and sturdy, mostly of pine, slightly masculine, but she could imagine a floral pillow in one of the rockers that would make it perfect for her house. The ceilings of the store had been raised to reveal beautiful pine beams that made the place airy and open. A pleasant smelling candle burned near the cash register and soft, sultry jazz flowed from a nearby CD player. It made her feel like ... shopping. She shook her head and felt a slow, steady, throbbing begin in her skull.
“Is this stuff antique?”
“No, but it’s made from aged wood.”
She did some quick calculations. It was good-looking furniture, very stylish, obviously well-made, yet his prices seemed reasonable. She was so dead.
“Who do you buy it from?”
“I make it.”
Hand-made. Oh yeah, very dead. “You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. I have a friend who tears down old buildings and salvages the wood for me.” He stepped closer, blocking her view of the store. “You like what you see?”
He was at least a head taller and his knowing smile told her the double-entendre was intentional. His chest was wider than she first thought, his biceps well-rounded and she could feel his body heat even at the distance of a couple of feet. She side-stepped away from him. Oh, he was good, really good. Her pulse sped up and it had nothing to do with the pressure mounting in her skull, though she rubbed her temple as if it did.
“I don’t think so, Mr. ...?”
“Davis. Porter Davis. Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”
“Gee, thanks. I think I’m getting a headache. I’ll be fine.”
He walked around her and before she knew what was happening, strong hands were rubbing her neck and shoulders. “Probably tension. You really should relax. Business not going well?”
She should step away, but her feet refused to move. Instead, she seemed to melt under those magical fingers as electricity raced through her. She was entirely too aware of his touch, separated from her skin only by mere fabric. It was an odd reaction to a total stranger, one she’d never experienced before. “Business is fine. I move thousands of dollars worth of merchandise a day,” she lied. His massage felt so good, but even his soothing touch couldn’t stop the growing pain in her head.
“That’s good to hear. Me, I’m just starting out and always looking for customers, so I’ll ask again. See anything here you like?” He leaned closer to her and his low voice tickled her ear, sending shivers racing down her spine and giving his question an altogether different meaning. “Want to take advantage of that free delivery offer?”
“I suppose you’re the delivery man.”
“Nothing but the best for my customers.”
“I bet you don’t get many men in this shop.” Almost reluctantly, she forced herself to step away from his hands. “I think I’ll wait for coffee and donut hour again.” That made her think of Val’s dunking comment and she felt her cheeks heat.
“Suit yourself, but I may not do that one again for a while. I’m thinking of new ideas every day.”
“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit considering that you’re stealing my ideas.”
He smiled. “You do have some good ones, but you need to learn to kick it up a notch.”
“Well, regardless, you’re wasting your time doing a new promotion after today. No one buys anything until the weekend when the city crowd comes up.” She walked over to a hutch and admired the lines of the shelves, the practical yet elegant drawers. She was starting to feel queasy.
“Well, now, I figured out how to deal with that problem. I invited a group of buyers from Houston to come today.”
She whirled on him. He was standing close again, a little too close, and she took a step back. He grinned at her, his tanned face creasing around his mouth in a look that could only be described as rugged.
“Buyers? Who are you, Donald Trump?” The throbbing in her head grew stronger, but she resisted rubbing her temples again for fear he would give her another neck massage. If he did, she had the uneasy feeling that she would be putty in his hands.
He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll peek in your little shop, too.”
“Oh, God.” The pain was making her dizzy now. She needed out of here. She pushed against his arm to move past him, not too far gone yet to miss how solid he felt. Then she stepped back out into the cool morning with its bright, blinding sunshine and nearly stumbled down the steps.
“Ms. Taylor, are you sure you’re all right?”
She ignored him, not even touched by the sound of genuine concern in his voice, and squinted across the street. Val was running toward her, her eyes wide as they darted back toward Mr. Muscles. The Violet Society was carrying on, right in front of her shop, still raising a ruckus about Mr. Sanders and the tearoom. Jeff was doing his best to settle them down. Would those women never stop?
Val grabbed Cassie’s arm and tugged her forward. “Oh my God, Cassie, you aren’t going to believe what Jeff just told me.”
Cassie tried to focus on Val. Dear Val, with her stylish hair and her perfect cardigan set. Urban sophistication right here in the middle of Bluebonnet Creek. She paused in the middle of the street. “Let me guess. Jeff wants to marry me? Nothing new there, Val.”
Val shook her head and jerked it toward Porter Davis. “Gorgeous over there is an ex-con!”
Cassie turned and stared at him. He was standing at the front stoop of his shop, his hands fisted at his sides. His grin had dissolved into a frown, his face now dark with fury. Had he heard what Val said? Her pulse quickened. An ex-con? Funny, she never would have guessed that in a million years.
“What was he in for?”
“Murder!”
Nope, hadn’t seen that coming either. She allowed Val to drag her back to her side of the street. She was beginning to see double and didn’t know how much longer she could make it. She winced at the sound of the Violet Society screeching and squawking. Not even clutching her skull with both hands could dim the bright light, the noises and the usual town smells that suddenly seemed so nauseatingly sweet.
Then another sound threatened to send her over the edge. It was delirious screaming. Everyone grew silent and turned to watch Tina Mackey, Mr. Sanders’ waitress, running down the street, her apron flapping and her usual neat bun unraveling behind her like an old frayed rope. It was as if the town, its picturesque buildings and early spring flowers, its eccentric yet down-home population all froze for a moment in time, everything and everyone still--except Tina. Cassie felt like she was watching an old TV episode in slow motion.
Tina came to a halt before her shocked audience, her hand on her waist as she leaned forward, gasping for breath.
“Chief Neese, you need to come to the tearoom right away! Mr. Sanders is dead!”
Then Cassie felt blackness consume her.
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