Death in the Daylilies, An (LOL)4 Mystery

By Mary Beth Magee

“Mary Beth Magee has created an engaging cast of characters in this delightful cozy mystery debut. You don’t need a green thumb to enjoy the plot twists and turns in Death in the Daylilies.”
— Cindy Sample, National Best-selling Author of Dying for a Date, Dying for a Dance and Dying for a Daiquiri.

They call themselves (LOL)4 —Little Old Ladies, Laughing Out Loud, Living Our Lives with Lots Of Love: three senior citizens with big hearts and a passion for flowers who find themselves in the middle of murder when they stumble on a dead body in a bed of daylilies. Can these ladies help the police solve the crime before they become someone’s garden mulch?

If the killer gets to them before the police get to the killer, they may be LOLD — Little Old Ladies Dead!

Join them in this cozy inspirational mystery as they try to find the culprit behind Death in the Daylilies, An (LOL)4 Mystery

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Beth Magee
• Release date: May 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311174727

Mary Beth Magee

Mary Beth Magee has been a born-again Christian for more than 50 years. Her faith leads her to explore God’s world around her and write about it.She first saw her name in print as a juvenile book reviewer her hometown paper in New Orleans and hasn’t stopped writing since. Her checkered past includes stints as a telephone operator, substitute school teacher, cosmetic salesperson, home health aide, government contractor, kitchen help in a deli, real estate salesperson, office manager and corporate trainer. She holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Psychology, focusing on adult learning.Her professional affiliations include Inspire Christian Writers, Picayune Writers Group, Sisters in Crime and the Mississippi Writers Guild.Over the years, her writings have included news and feature articles for print and online publications, book and movie reviews, training materials, greeting cards, short fiction, poetry, and church bulletins. Most recently, her work has appeared in anthologies from Publishing Syndicate and Inspire Press.

Book preview

She crouched beside the bed of pale peach flowers, and fingered the plant label that stood in the middle of the plants. A glance right, then left, confirmed she was still alone, except for a pair of butterflies waltzing in the air. No one was watching her as she carried out her stealthy mission.

The digital recorder in the pocket of her gardening smock saved her quiet observations about the plants. Her suspicions solidified into fact as she added information on yet another anomaly to her audio file.

Better safe than sorry, she thought, and pulled out the little recorder. She replayed her last entry to confirm she had gotten everything she needed for this particular bed then slipped the recorder back in her pocket. Time to check out the next one.

The flowerpot struck the back of her head just as she started to rise. Off-balance and stunned, she staggered a step and fell forward into the bed of daylilies. One of the ear buds she was wearing fell out, dislodged by the impact of her collapse. It lay near her head on the woody mulch of the flower bed, tethered by the wire that wound its way to her pocket.

She lay unmoving among the broken blossoms and stems, impaled on the plant label stake she had broken with her fall. Her dark hair spread across the mulch in a fan around her head and shoulders, littered with shards of terra cotta and clumps of potting soil. A gentle breeze ruffled the ends of her hair and the hem of her smock. A single peach daylily blossom spattered with blood bobbed above her body, a sentry on grieving guard duty.

Chapter One

I reached over with my fork and speared a steak fry from my older sister’s lunch plate as we finished lunch at In The Balance Diner. Hope Appleton shook her head and chuckled as I took a huge bite from the fry before throwing her a who, me? grin of innocence.

You know you’re welcome to them, Mers. You don’t have to steal them. Hope shook her head in resignation at my goofiness.

The first rule of dining with friends states unequivocally that food tastes at least 25 percent better when snitched from someone else’s plate, I announced. And the second rule says it loses 50 percent of the calories. Which is why I always talk you into ordering something I want.

Yes, and you’ve been doing it since you were eight. Don’t you think fifty-five years is long enough? Hope retorted with a chuckle.

I threw her a big silly smile, grateful to see her showing signs of enjoyment.

I’m glad you thought of this, Susannah. It’s been a lovely day so far. Hope’s voice grew wistful. In the months since she’d lost her husband, she had spent far too much time pacing the rooms of her home and avoiding social contact other than going to church. Only my return to Cypress Point and adding my invitations to Susannah’s had teased her to step out of her grief-fueled malaise.

Told you so, I whispered, as much to myself as to the others. I had talked Hope out of cancelling the outing twice in the last week. To hear her admit she was enjoying something was a huge reward and made my efforts seem worthwhile. I said a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart.

Susannah Bowles smiled at Hope’s words, as well. My sister’s friend lost her own husband four years before; she understood what Hope was going through now. Her eyes sparkled as she seemed to give a mental cheer that Hope was beginning the long climb out of depression and back toward normalcy. The two of us would assist Hope on her climb.

Have you liked any garden in particular so far, Mercy? she asked.

This whole garden tour is a little overwhelming to me, I replied. There’s so much to see and learn. And they’re all beautiful, but in different ways. I loved the first one, the widowed lady – Evans, I think it was. She was so gracious and her flowers are amazing. I enjoyed hearing her talk about them as though they were family."

In a way, they are, said Hope. Charlotte Evans lost her husband and children in an automobile accident years ago. So she tends those daylilies like the grandchildren she never had. It’s sort of tragic.

Yes, Charlotte has experienced a lot of pain in her life, but she’s still a lovely lady, added Susannah. I’m partial to her gardens, too. She doesn’t grow them for commercial purposes. She’s donated plants to landscape public buildings and parks, and she’s always giving them away to people just for the joy of sharing them. Her love for the daylilies seems to help them flourish. She’s bred a couple of prizewinning cultivars and she’s always encouraging other growers. What did you think of Jonathan Wiggins’ place?

It was fine. If my flat response seemed atypical, neither of them mentioned it. I tried to brighten my attitude as I gestured toward the papers on the edge of the table. I read in one of these brochures that daylilies are very easy to grow. Is that true?

Easy to grow, but a little tricky to breed for new varieties, from what I’ve learned, answered Susannah. "That’s what makes the Tour so great. Some of the best breeders in the South live right here in and around Cypress Point. We can see the new varieties growers are developing and know what we can look forward to on the market.

Think of the beauties we saw at Charlotte’s place as well as Jonathan’s garden, and PlumBlooming Gardens and Phoebe Stockman’s. These folks are breeding the next stars of the daylily world. Just the name Evans, Plummer or Wiggins in the name of a new daylily gives it a boost up in the market. One day, Phoebe will be at the same level with her gift for plants.

She took the last bite of her chicken-fried steak and signaled the waitress for our check. The limited-menu restaurant made splitting the bill easy, since the lunch specials all cost the same. As we laid our cash on the table, Hope whispered Here comes Walter Scales, and a man I learned was the owner approached us.

Well, Hope, I see you brought friends. I haven’t seen you in quite a while. From all I’d heard, Walter Scales hid a tough core behind his jovial exterior. Glad to see you out and about. His act didn’t seem to impress Hope, but her innate politeness allowed her to respond with grace.

Walter, I think you know Susannah Bowles. And this is my little sister Mercy who moved back home recently. You may not remember her. She’s been gone quite some time. Mercy, this is Walter Scales. He purchased the Gresham family’s diner several years ago and renamed it In The Balance. Hope masked her discomfort with polite chatter, but I caught the undertone of disapproval. Her longtime friendship with the Gresham family resulted in a deep loyalty to them.

Ladies, it’s nice to have you with us today. I hope you’ve enjoyed your lunch. Out shopping?

No, these two are educating me about daylilies with the Cypress Point Daylily Driving Tour. I’m afraid I don’t know beans about daylilies. I tried to deflect his attention with babble in an effort to relieve Hope’s tension. My standard response to stress comes in the form of babbling, so I didn’t have to put forth any great effort.

’Beans about daylilies,’ that’s a good one, haha. he said, and his artificial laughter grated on my ears. What a phony. No wonder Hope didn’t seem to care for him very much. He spotted what looked like a party of businessmen at another table and displayed the bad manners to show his greater interest in the other party.

We’d better get back on the road, announced Susannah, who sounded grateful for the excuse to escape. More flowers to see, you know. We’re heading over to Delilah Bergeron’s garden next.

Scales suddenly lost interest in the other party and turned back to us, an angry glint in his eyes. He leaned over our table like a boulder threatening a highway.

Why are you going over to her place? he growled, hackles rising like a dog challenged over a bone.

We’re on a daylily tour, Walter. We’re going to see her daylilies, replied Susannah, her schoolteacher patience standing her in good stead.

Let the stinking things rot in the ground. That woman stole my property from me. She ruined my plans for the subdivision when she came in and outbid me for the property. I’m still hoping she fails and has to sell it to me, preferably at a loss.

Walter, that isn’t a very Christian attitude! Hope’s uncharacteristic disapproval oozed from her.

It’s all she deserves, he snorted as he turned and stalked away.

Let’s get out of here before he decides to come back, suggested Hope. We gathered our purses and papers and hurried toward the exit. Once outside, we piled into Susannah’s pickup truck.

There’s just something a little slimy about the guy, said Susannah, when we were out of the parking lot and headed toward the next garden stop. I wish there had been somewhere else to eat lunch out this way. We could have avoided him.

At least the food was tasty, and the prices weren’t outrageous, I said, trying to find a positive aspect to the experience. My terminally Pollyanna outlook could sometimes get me into trouble.

You can bet Walter didn’t cook it himself, Hope noted.

What makes you so sure? I asked.

Because it would have been a lot oilier if he had touched it, replied Hope, and turned to give me a half-grin. She made me cackle from the back seat.

Do you know what we are? I asked.

A bunch of flower-crazy gals? asked Susannah.

Yes, but that’s not all. You know how the kids type LOL in their text messages to say ‘Laughing Out Loud’? Well, we’re also LOLs. We’re Little Old Ladies and we’re Laughing Out Loud, but we’re also Living Our Lives with Lots of Love. So we are LOL to the fourth power!

Hope did a double-take at my statement.

Say it again, she requested.

We’re little old ladies laughing out loud, living our lives with lots of love. Think about it. We have our love for each other and God’s love for us. We laugh and share and keep going together. We’re (LOL)⁴.

I like it, said Susannah. I like it a lot.

Me, too, said Hope. Good job, little sister.

Susannah signaled her turn as soon as the sign up ahead came into view. Delilah’s Delightful Daylily Farm – ½ mile ahead – Turn left now read the placard. The arrow hanging beneath it pointed to the left.

Getting close, girls, she announced. I really appreciate the big sign here on the main road. I didn’t see a regular road sign identifying Sassafras Loop by name and I don’t get out this way very often. We could have gone right past it.

These folks are spread out all over creation. I can’t believe we’ve managed to see four gardens already, observed Hope. It’s a good thing Cypress Point isn’t as big as Hattiesburg.

I looked up from the stapled sheaf of pages I studied in the back seat of Susannah’s extended cab pickup truck.

Looks like this one is the last on our list, unless you have another up your sleeve, I said. We’ve looked at one heck of a lot of daylilies, and still didn’t get to visit all of them.

I really love the way this event just grows each year. Susannah kept her eyes on the twisting country road as she spoke. "Hope, do you remember when it started back in 2005? There were only three gardens participating in the tour and it was only held for one day. Then Hurricane Katrina came along and those three were the only ones in 2006, too. Some of the displays looked a little battered but the tour went on. We were just tickled the growers and flowers came back.

Now our Cypress Point Daylily Driving Tour runs three days and covers eighteen different gardens. If we scheduled the time perfectly, we could probably see all of them, but it would take the whole weekend. Some are only open on one of the days of the event.

Just then we passed a faded billboard on the east side of the road. Coming Soon! Sassafras Acres it proclaimed. An opportunity for gracious living Southern Style from Scales and Associates.

Is this what Walter Scales meant when he said Delilah ruined his plans? Doesn’t look like much development took place out here, I said.

Oh, yes, this is Walter’s big dream. Delilah’s property sits right in the middle of his acquisitions, replied Susannah.

Mercy, this one should be an experience for you, she continued as she turned into the driveway of the target garden. Delilah came here after Hurricane Katrina and started working daylilies like a demon. She claims to have sixty acres of daylilies planted and registers several new varieties each year. I’ll look forward to your opinion of her gardens when we’re done.

No other vehicles occupied the parking area we pulled in. We left the truck and stretched joints grown stiff on the ride from the restaurant. Our silver-crowned heads turned and tilted as we twisted out the kinks of the twenty minute trip. We must have looked like old lady robots in blue jeans to anyone watching. Like something out of a science fiction movie we stood, two short robots and a taller one between us.

Garden beds stretched out beyond a neat white picket fence. A greenhouse stood to the rear of the beds and a rambling ranch-style home anchored the property far to the right of the gardens.

Shall we? asked Susannah with a broad sweep of her arm toward the garden’s entryway. I don’t see the owner yet, but daylilies await and the day’s fast passing. She may be showing another group around. We’ll keep an eye out for her.

How will I know her? I asked.

Susannah laughed.

I don’t think you’ll be able to miss her. She’s loud and showy and a bit self-centered. If you meet her you probably won’t get a chance to wonder, because she’ll tell you who she is and just how special she is.

I looked to Hope, who nodded in agreement. With a shrug of my shoulders, I turned and followed the others as they headed toward the entrance.

As we walked through the vine-covered arch covering the entry to the garden path, we chatted about the pleasant setting and array of colors in the garden beds. Wind chimes in the surrounding trees provided a sound track for our steps. Our paths diverged as we neared the beds and each of us drifted toward the patch of color which most attracted her.

I’ve always found myself drawn to flowers in shades of yellow, orange, rose and peach and today was no exception. I read the labels on each of the flowers I passed, both amused and bemused by some of the names. New to flower gardening, I tried to absorb all the details I could as I read the tags. I had taken in a lot of information in the last few months and found myself considering different cultivars for my own use. The little house I rented from Hope had only a small yard, but I had room for a few plants.

’All-American Tiger’ Stamile, 1995, I read, as I examined a bloom in burnt orange and red. I had finally gotten used to the idea of the name of the grower who developed the particular variety and the year it was registered following the name of the cultivar.

Hmm, love the name. That would be a big hit in Louisiana with the LSU fans, if only the colors were purple and gold. Very pretty as it is, though. I wonder if there’s a variety named All-American Bulldog. Maybe over in the beds of darker red flowers. But this ‘Raspberry Butterflies’ Gossard, 2003 is lovely. As I continued down the beds, I noticed Hope was focused on the beds of purplish blooms, while Susannah was engrossed in head-down study of the red ones.

’Angelic Messenger’ Abajian, 2001 – wow, so delicate, I observed to myself. I examined the rosy ruffled blooms. I love the look. Wonder if I could get it to grow at my place.

As I studied the group of creamy white flowers marked ‘Arctic Lace’ Stamile, 2003,’ I spotted broken leaves and bent stems in the next bed over in my peripheral vision. The sight seemed so out of keeping with the tidiness of the other beds that I stepped closer to check out the situation. I took one long look and stepped back, not believing what I saw. With a whispered prayer that I was mistaken, I stepped nearer and looked again but nothing had changed.

Umm, Hope, Susannah, could you come here a second? I called, and I heard my voice trembling as I stood by the disheveled flower bed. My two companions hurried over across the grass between the beds. I guess they could tell how upset I was by my tone.

What’s wrong? asked Hope, as they got close. Are you okay, honey? Are you feeling sick?

I think I’m okay, but I’m not sure, I replied. I focused on the faces of my companions for a moment. I realize you two are the Master Gardeners and know a whole lot more about gardening than I do, but I don’t think this is a normal gardening technique.

I pointed down to the bed of crushed plants and the pair of red paisley garden boots on the barely visible legs of a woman’s body stretched out face down among the daylilies.

Chapter Two

What in the world? Susannah stepped around me and reached forward to ease back some of the arching leaves. Are you all right, ma’am? Do you need some help? she called, her voice sounding higher than normal and loud in the silence of the garden. No answer came. She reached down and felt for a pulse, but found nothing.

Susannah laid the woman’s limp arm back down and stepped back. I screamed then – a long wavering scream that came from the depths of my heart. It tore my throat even as the sight before me tore at my mind. I heard it and felt it and was powerless to stop it.

Hope turned to follow my gaze and gasped in the same horror I felt at the bloodied brown hair visible on the head of the figure in the flowers since Susannah had moved some of the leaves aside. Pieces of broken terra cotta tangled themselves in the brown strands. Susannah staggered back a few steps from the flower bed.

Mercy, stop. Stop screaming now, Hope ordered as she grabbed my arm to pull me around, away from the ghastly contents of the flower bed. Screaming won’t do anyone any good. You’ve got your cell phone. Call for help. I left my phone in the truck. She began to rub my back, just as she had done when we were children. Calm down and call for help.

My screams subsided into sobs once my line of sight didn’t include the body and its bloodied head. I fumbled as I tried to pull my cell phone from the holster on my waistband with uncooperative fingers. Once I tugged the phone free, I made the call.

What’s going on here? demanded a buxom brunette who emerged from within the greenhouse. She appeared to be in her late 30s or early 40s. Her dark hair was arranged in what might have been an intricate up-do earlier in the day but was now sporting many loose curls and flyaway strands.

What’s all the noise? she continued. Her hips swayed under a flowered tool apron as she sailed toward us. She held a pair of soiled gardening gloves in one hand and waved them with every word.

Umm-m, there’s a little bit of a problem here. There seems to be someone injured in the flower bed. Aren’t you the owner of the gardens? Susannah’s school teacher voice sounded calm.

That’s right, I’m Delilah Bergeron. Who in the world are you?

My name is Susannah Bowles. These are my friends Hope Appleton and Mercy McKay. We stopped in for the daylily tour and came across…this. Susannah pointed toward the feet protruding from the flower bed.

"Well, I cancelled