Bloom and Doom (5 page)

I slid into my seat at the table just as Liv began rocking in her chair again.

“Liv, what is it?”

“Eric had a hard time seeing because of those tinted windows. And when he got close he saw him.”

“Who?”

“Derek. Audrey, he was dead. Dead and sitting behind the steering wheel of his car.”

“Was Eric positive? Maybe Derek just passed out or something.”

“No, he was certain. Audrey, there’s more. When Eric got closer, he could tell it wasn’t just the tinted windows that were making it difficult to see. Something was smeared all over the windows. Audrey, it was blood, and Eric said there was a knife still . . .”

I held my breath, forcibly exhaled, then recalled what I remembered from college anatomy. No, anatomy is not required to be a florist, but few people in Ramble know I studied nursing for two years before dropping out. The reason is known by even fewer. “That must have hit an artery if it . . .”

Liv turned a decided green.

“Sorry,” I said. Derek had been murdered. Right on the streets of Ramble. No wonder she was so shook up. “He wouldn’t have suffered long.”

“But, Audrey, Eric thinks the knife was one of ours—from the shop.”

“He must be mistaken.” Liv had ordered a dozen of those knives with the florist shop name printed on them so they wouldn’t wander. And if they did wander, at least they would serve as advertisement.

She stared hard at me. And then I remembered.

“I gave Jenny a knife yesterday, but she wouldn’t . . . couldn’t have done anything like that.”

Liv shook her head. “Audrey, Eric said the bouquet was there, too, in the car. Torn to bits and covered with blood.”

A stream of police entered and exited the
Rose in Bloom like a swarm of ants attacking blossoming peonies. Okay, a rather small swarm, since the Ramble police force consisted of six officers, the chief of police, two volunteer crossing guards, and a couple of retired officers who filled in when needed. The entire force seemed to be present this morning.

The time I’d taken to calm Liv down was wasted the second she saw the uniformed officers carting items out of the shop in plastic and paper bags.

“What in the heliotrope is going on here?” Liv, both hands clenched into fists at her sides, marched into the shop and toward Kane Bixby, who leaned against the counter.

I stayed a couple of steps behind her. When Liv gets angry, she scares me, too.

Bixby, Ramble’s chief of police, reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. A cluster of spent tissues fell to the ground. “Search warrant.”

Liv grasped the corner of the page with two fingers and scanned it—from a safe distance. “But why my shop? What could you possibly be looking for?” Another officer came from the back room carrying a paper bag with stems protruding from the top. Liv dropped the warrant and put her hands on both cheeks. “And why are you taking my flowers? You can’t take our stock!”

“Trust me.” Bixby retrieved a clean tissue from another pocket and wiped his red, watery eyes. “The last thing I want to do is take your flowers.” He paused to stifle a sneeze.

Kane Bixby’s regret appeared genuine. In the five years Liv and I had been running the shop, he’d never set foot inside or ordered anything for his wife, even though a few times we’d seen her strolling past the shop looking wistfully at our displays. We’d invited her in one day, but she’d declined, citing her husband’s allergies, which she claimed were so bad, he could tell when she’d even gone near a flower shop.

In his sixties, Bixby kept himself in good physical condition. Slim, with receding gunmetal gray hair, he struck an imposing figure—except when doing an impression of a walking mucus factory. Since he seemed the type to enjoy striking an imposing figure, his allergies must have made him truly miserable.

Another officer walked by with a box containing our cutting implements, everything from our utility knives to our floral shears.

Before Liv could have a grand mal conniption, I stepped forward. “But why
all
of our tools? I can understand you taking the knives . . .”

Bixby raised one eyebrow and turned to me. “Why would you ask about the knives in particular, Audrey?”

“Oh, cut it out, Bixby,” Liv said. “You know Eric told us.”

“Told you that a knife marked ‘The Rose in Bloom’ was used as a murder weapon?”

“And so you’re taking our shears, too?” I said. Liv’s aggravation finally hit me.

Bixby crossed his arms in front of him. “I’d rather discuss the knife. How many are there?”

“How many . . . ?” I guessed the question hadn’t sunk in.

“The red-handled knives with the name of the shop printed on the handle.” Bixby spoke slowly and clearly—kind of like Mr. Rogers, but not so nice about it. “They look new. You must have special-ordered them. How many of them did you order?”

“I ordered twelve,” Liv said.

“And we recovered nine in the shop,” Bixby said. “Any idea where the others are?”

“I don’t know,” Liv said. “They wander. That’s why I had the name printed on the sides.” She looked at me.

I turned to stare at the floral case.

“Audrey, do you know where any of the other knives are?” Bixby asked.

I developed a sudden interest in my fingernails. I had two reasons for avoiding this question. “Well, I may have one in my other purse.”

“Audrey, how could you?” Liv’s voice oozed disappointment. “You know how hard it’s been for me to keep those knives in-house.”

“Liv, I just took it home one night when . . . let’s not worry about that now, all right? I hardly think it matters since Bixby’s walking off—”

“I’ll have someone escort you home to pick it up after we’re done here,” Bixby interrupted. “But that still leaves two knives at large. Any ideas?”

At that point my uvula (for those without a medical background, it’s that dangly thing that hangs in the back of your throat) spontaneously increased to twelve times its normal parameters—or at least it felt that way when I tried to swallow. Liv and I had agreed not to mention giving the knife to Jenny unless asked directly. Was this direct enough?

“We have to tell him, kiddo.” Liv patted my arm.

“Tell me what?” Bixby said.

“But it might not be the same knife,” I said. “There’s still two missing.”

“Miss Bloom, if you know where either of the two missing knives are, I suggest you speak up.”

“I lent one of them to a new employee. She needed it to practice some of the techniques I taught her.”

“And that employee has a name, right?” Bixby pulled out another tissue to wipe his eyes. But despite the redness and inclination to water, they were clear and focused on me.

I swallowed. “Jenny Whitney.”

“Derek’s fiancée?” Bixby cocked his head to hear better, as if waiting for me to add to my statement. I declined to accommodate him. “Now, why do you suppose Jenny would need a new job if she were going to marry Derek Rawling?”

“It’s not the 1950s,” I said. “Today women don’t stop working just because they get married.”

“She planned to break it off with him,” Liv volunteered.

I gave her a dirty look.

“Sorry, Audrey,” Liv said.

“You heard her say that?” Bixby asked Liv.

“Not exactly,” Liv told him. “Audrey did.”

Bixby turned to me. “Audrey, is that what Jenny said? That she planned to break up with Derek?”

“Yes, but—” I couldn’t finish my argument. Bixby had already made his way to the back room. He exited moments later with two of his officers. After a brief, hushed conference, the two men headed out the door.

Bixby turned back to me. “Thanks, Audrey. That helps a bit.”

“You’re thinking Jenny killed Derek,” I said. “But you’re wrong. I know Jenny. She couldn’t harm a fly.” It was true. Anyone who’d spent enough time riding around in Jenny’s car would know she was a shooer and not a swatter when it came to flies. Okay, she’d flattened that spider once, but it was big and hairy and scary looking, and I couldn’t blame her a bit.

“Audrey, I’m not saying she did. It’s too early in the investigation. And, while you’re friends, if you step back and try to be objective, you’ll see that she has motive—a failed relationship with the decedent—”

“A lot of people have failed relationships, Bixby. That doesn’t mean they kill each other.” Although the thought may spring to mind. I made a mental note to burn my homemade Brad-the-Cad dartboard, in case anything should happen to him one day.

“I’m not saying she plotted it. But what if Derek didn’t take the breakup well? What if they struggled? Maybe she felt threatened. Audrey, it could even be self-defense.”

My hand flew to my forehead, and I used my fingers to rake my hair away from my face. I stared at Bixby for a moment, then shook my head. “No, not even that. Not Jenny.”

“Chief?” one of the retired officers called from the back room. Bixby left to join him.

Liv followed Bixby, and I followed Liv.

“Ladies, will you please stay out in the main part of the shop?”

Liv and I ignored Bixby’s request.

I had just enough of a vantage over Liv’s head to see Larry pinned against a wall by Ken Lafferty, Ramble’s newest and youngest police officer.

“I caught this perp sneaking in the door from the alley.” Ken’s face flushed as he beamed with obvious pride.

“Let him go, boy,” Bixby said. That was the first thing Bixby said that made sense since he’d arrived.

“What is going on here?” Larry asked, shaking out his arm, his eyes wide as he took in the scavenged back room.

“Never mind that,” Bixby said. “You can’t just walk in on police business.”

“How could I know you had something going on back here?” Larry said. “I’m just here to make a delivery, as usual.”

“The police cars out front should have been a hint.” Lafferty rested his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked from heel to toe. If he’d aimed for an authoritative posture, he needed target practice.

“You can’t see the front of the building from the back alley,” Liv said. “And that’s where we take all deliveries.”

“How’d you even get in?” Lafferty asked. “I know I secured the door.” Lafferty walked to the door and demonstrated how he had secured it—I guess a more officious way of saying he locked it.

Seconds later, the “secured” door swung open again. Amber Lee walked in, key in hand.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Soon Liv and Larry joined in, and even Bixby stifled a chuckle while the rookie police officer’s ears turned red.

“I guess you solved that mystery, Batman,” Bixby told his rookie, then he turned to Liv and me. “How many keys?”

Liv started to protest, but I answered. “Just four. Liv’s and mine. Larry’s, for deliveries, and Amber Lee in case she’s the first one here.” I found the question encouraging, because it indicated that perhaps Bixby might be considering another suspect besides Jenny. Then I realized his expanded suspect list would include our staff. “Now, wait a second. You can’t be implying that one of us killed Derek Rawling!”

“Rawling’s dead?” Larry asked, while Amber Lee just gasped.

Bixby crossed his arms in front of him. I could see in his shrewd eyes that he was assessing their reactions. I wasn’t sure if he knew Amber Lee well enough to know that she was faking surprise. Then again, with her grapevine connections, she might have known Derek was dead before Derek did.

“Yes, Derek Rawling is dead. Murdered. And I’m going to take a statement from each of you as possible witnesses.”

“But I didn’t see anything,” Amber Lee protested.

Larry shook his head and also denied seeing anything.

Liv and I followed suit.

When the protest grew louder, Bixby whistled everyone silent. “Not that kind of witnesses. But there’s a clear connection between Derek’s murder and this shop, so I’ll need to talk to each of the shop’s employees—separately. Once that’s done, you can resume business.”

“Yeah, with half our flowers and none of our tools,” Liv said under her breath.

“What about me?” Larry asked. “I’m not an employee. I’m just here to make a delivery.”

“No deliveries until we’re done with our search and have taken your statement.”

“I need to turn my truck back on,” Larry said, “so the flowers stay cool.”

Bixby rolled his eyes. “That’s fine,” he relented. “In fact, maybe the back alley is a good place for y’all to wait until we’re finished with our search in here.”

As Liv, Amber Lee, and I reluctantly followed Larry out—and the steel door closed and locked behind us—I felt a shiver. Perhaps the chill came from stepping into the shadows behind the brick buildings or maybe because the April sun had not risen high enough in the sky to warm the area. Or maybe it was just the idea that someone in Ramble had died at the hands of someone we most likely knew. Everyone in Ramble interacted with everyone else. We shopped at each other’s stores, worshipped in the same churches, and lived on the same tree-lined streets. That charming small-town feel had been the balm Liv and I found so restorative.

But it was also difficult at times. While it was true that you rejoiced together when things went well, it also happened that everyone sorrowed at the same time. Like when the owner of the local dress shop was diagnosed with ALS. The whole town rushed to her aid with benefits and offers of help, raising money for wheelchair ramps and a motorized chair. When she passed, the town mourned and then memorialized her. At that precise moment, sitting at her funeral while the whole town wept, I knew I would never leave Ramble. Other places might boast of excitement, entertainment, and drama, but Ramble was family. And you just don’t leave family.

Of course, that also meant that everyone knew your business. They knew when your relationship was on the rocks, when your teenager was in trouble, or even when you put on a few pounds. But as long as they had your back, that was okay.

But now one of our own had been killed. And one of our own was a killer. That was bad enough, but until the police discovered who . . . what would suspicion do to our little town?

Larry’s diesel engine rumbled to life, shaking me from my thoughts. To escape the noise and fumes, I pointed toward the end of the block where outdoor patio tables from the local coffee shop, the Brew-Ha-Ha, spilled around the corner. “Bixby will be able to see us from there when he’s done tearing apart our shop.”

“But he told us not to leave the alley,” Larry said.

“That table is technically in the alley.” Amber Lee started toward the closest one. “Works for me. I’ve only had one cup today, which makes me about a quart low.”

The table caught the morning sun, with a full view of the alleyway, the awning-dotted Main Street, and the hills that rose on both sides of the town. The sun drove away my earlier chill. We took turns going to the empty counter. I added a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese and apple jelly to my tall mocha coffee order. My empty stomach insisted.