Bloom and Doom (8 page)

“Oh, honey”—Amber Lee paused while she took a pull on her Coke—“I got some more news from one of the customers. The judge set bail pretty high. From what I hear, Ellen either can’t or won’t pay it.”

“They must have charged her, then,” Opie said as she crunched up her burger wrapper. “But she’s lucky. They don’t often set bail at all in a murder investigation.”

All eyes turned to stare at her.

“Hey, my dad’s a lawyer. You pick up these things.”

• • •

With Amber Lee
in charge of our new interns, Liv and I headed to the Rawling place with a new load of completed floral arrangements.

I wended the narrow private road. We passed a riding arena, a tennis court, and what looked like a golf green all set in lush green rolling hills just outside Ramble.

“Georgian Revival, I think,” Liv explained when we caught a glimpse of the house.

Pavement turned to a flagstone drive that circled a fountain before approaching the magnificent front entrance replete with grand columns. The caterer’s vehicles and the hearse were parked to the side, between a freestanding three-bay garage and a side wing of the house. I pulled the CR-V into a spot next to them. Darnell and crew pulled in behind us.

We each grabbed a floral arrangement. As I considered the weight of the large arrangements the boys were carrying, I made a mental note to keep the football team on speed dial. The caterers stepped aside to allow us access, although they didn’t look happy about it. We then filed through another hallway and into what turned out to be the back door of the parlor.

A long room, the parlor seemed more like a string of three living rooms in a row, each with a separate seating group in a coordinating style. It kind of reminded me of a ritzy furniture showroom. At the end, in front of a marble fireplace, the town’s funeral director fussed with the casket, finished in a creamy tone that looked like it was chosen to blend in with the existing furnishings, which I noted with mixed pleasure contained a considerable amount of peach.

Elaborate white moldings and high ceilings extended the length of the room. Through the open double doors into a grand foyer, I caught just a glimpse of a crystal chandelier and curving staircase.

“Why would anyone want something so impersonal?” I whispered to Liv. Yeah . . . jealous.

“I knew the Rawlings had money,” Liv said, “but I wasn’t expecting Buckingham Palace.”

The good news was that the room provided plenty of space for all the arrangements—and the ones still coming.

Right then the “creepy dude with the long coat,” as Brandon had put it, sneaked up behind me. “Are you with the florist?” he asked. I whirled around to greet the epitome of English butlers, complete with aristocratic accent. Someone had been watching a little too much
Downton Abbey
. No wonder they needed a parlor.

“Yes.” I held out my hand. “And a friend of Derek’s come to pay my respects.”

The butler looked apoplectic, but he did shake my hand. “Worthington,” he said. I assumed that was his name. First or last, I wasn’t sure. He was sixty-something, I guessed, with well-chiseled features, almost sculpted gray-brown hair, and perfectly manicured nails. Stiff and prickly as an aloe. The comparison made me shudder. Aloe was the symbol of
grief
.

“The visitation starts in half an hour,” he said. “We must place the flowers and have . . . your staff . . . out of the way by then.” He walked off to deal with the caterers, so I had no idea why he included himself in the “we” who had to place the flowers.

I grabbed Liv by the elbow. She was still gawking at the room like a tourist in a museum.

We huddled and came up with a plan, treating the arrangements themselves like flowers in a bouquet. The room became the vase, and we strategically placed arrangements to form a base, contrast, and filler.

Lorne Jans, Ramble’s mortician, and his son, Joe, propped open the casket and fussed with the pillow arrangements the family had ordered. I’d always thought Lorne needed two other sons named Adam and Hoss. Apparently so did half the town, since Joe’s nickname was Little Joe despite his gangly stature of over six feet. Little Joe reminded me of a pitcher plant or swamp lily: tall, dark, thin, and often found in dismal places. And totally lacking in romance; the Victorian guides assigned no meaning to the flower. Then again, such is the life of a mortician.

“Audrey, this rose . . .” Lorne pointed to the pillow arrangement.

“Oh, it’s . . .” I fixed it in less time than it would have taken to explain about guard petals. I tucked the small heart-shaped pillow back into the casket.

Derek looked . . . I know people often say the dead look peaceful, like they’re asleep. And there’s a reason for those clichés, but none of that could be said without the work of a talented mortician. Otherwise the dead look gray and sunken in, or so I discovered on my one—and only—date with Little Joe.

I found my eyes drawn toward Derek’s high-collar dress shirt. “You can’t even see . . .”

“No,” Lorne said. “You can’t. When they first told me how he died, stabbed in the neck, I thought we were going to have to do a closed casket for sure. But a few stitches, a little makeup.”

Liv walked over and joined us in front of the casket. “You do great work, Lorne.”

“You really do.” I leaned in and found the spot, right near the collar, where the knife blade must have entered. “The wound is tiny.”

“It did the trick,” Lorne said. “A clean slice. Bled like crazy, though.”

“Spurted,” Little Joe said, over my shoulder. “From the artery. Like that hockey player who got his neck slashed with a skate.”

Liv laid a hand on my arm.

“That was the jugular vein,” Lorne said. “Not an artery. He wouldn’t have survived the artery.”

“It couldn’t have been a vein,” Joe insisted. “He was spurting, not gushing—all the way down the ice. The spatter pattern was all wrong—”

Liv’s grip grew viselike. She started to sway.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“Fine,” she said, but her color blanched. “I might just go wait in the van.”

“Sure.” I watched her walk out the door, a little unsteady. It wasn’t like Liv to react like that. Florists spend a lot of time in funeral homes, after all. New babies, romance, weddings, and death: that was pretty much our business. And the normally levelheaded Liv had always been up to the challenge before.

With Liv out of earshot, I asked, “So it was definitely the carotid artery?”

“I still think it was the vein,” Lorne said. “I don’t think the trainer could have saved him if . . . oh, or do you mean Derek?”

“Derek.”

“Definitely the artery. He lost so much blood,” Lorne continued. “Very little draining to do.”

I thought about the hockey player for a moment. “Lorne, you don’t suppose . . . I mean, if a hockey player can be injured that way by accident . . .”

“That what happened to Derek might be accidental?” Lorne shook his head. “No, I’d say Derek’s killer not only tried to kill him but picked the most vulnerable place . . . and then did it with surgical accuracy.”

What came next, I knew from my earlier nursing studies. Each remaining beat of Derek’s heart would have propelled the blood from his body. Liv’s queasiness hit me for a minute. I hoped it wasn’t caused by something in the lunch we’d eaten. Considering the week ahead, even a mild case of communal food poisoning would be disastrous.

Lorne and Little Joe finished their work, tipped their proverbial hats, and rode off into the sunset, leaving me alone in the parlor.

Dishes clinked as the caterer laid out refreshments in the dining room.

Worthington gave me the evil eye and tapped his watch. Guests for visitation would be arriving in ten minutes.

I stood back and examined the flowers one final time and noticed the dangling gladiolus in the tall spray sent by Senator Nash. I eased my way around the other arrangements and struggled with it from behind, wedged in the tiny space between the coffin, the wall, and the tall arrangement. It took me a couple of minutes. The foam we use can be unforgiving. I found the original hole made by the stem, but the flower leaned too far forward. I eventually found a better spot to place it and was about to push it in.

“Derek.”

The voice made me jump. With just enough vantage between the stems in the floral arrangement, I saw a head of short gray hair leaning over the coffin.

“Derek, I . . .” The voice, which I recognized as Jonathan Rawling’s, Derek’s father, paused and the figure shuddered. He braced himself against the coffin, shoulders wracking with silent sobs.

I fought the impulse to rush over, put my arms around him, and offer some words of comfort—if such things existed. Instead, I remained in place, hidden behind the foliage. I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but now it seemed more awkward to make my presence known and interrupt.

When the voice resumed, it was hoarse and full of emotion. “You really mucked it up this time, son.”

Around dinnertime, I swung home to feed
Chester. Granted, Chester has dry food available to him twenty-four/seven—and it shows. But without regular supplements of canned cat food, he’ll do things like chew the bottom of my cabinet doors or put fang marks in my blinds. For some reason my landlord finds this annoying.

I poured out a half can of something that smelled like it washed up on the beach somewhere and grabbed a quick bowl of cereal for myself. I craved a shower before I headed back to the shop, but with Liv and company waiting for me, I settled for a quick change of clothing. I opted for more casual jeans and my neon green “Florists Rock” T-shirt. While we had plenty of work, there’d be no customers to impress. I was heading out the door, tossing a toy mouse in Chester’s direction to distract him and keep him from running out again, when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Audrey? This is Jenny.”

I leaned down on the arm of the couch. “Jenny . . . how are you, hon?” I wasn’t sure where the “hon” came from. Maybe my subconscious mind was trying to sound sympathetic.

“Audrey, this is a nightmare. I’ve tried to call, and no one will . . .” Jenny completed the sentence with sobs instead of words.

“Jenny, calm down. I’m here.”

She began again. “I can’t talk long. I’m in jail. They say someone can bring by clean underwear and socks. But Mom hung up on me. And I can’t get through to Sarah at all.”

Sarah was Jenny’s roommate, one of the health club set.

“Would you like me to swing by your apartment and bring in some of your things?” Grandma Mae was always mortified by words such as “panty” and “bra,” always substituting the more-generic “things.” I guess I picked that up from her. Unmentionables should remain unmentioned.

“Yes, I mean . . .” Jenny sighed. “I guess the underwear and socks need to be new in an unopened package. But I would like someone to stop by the apartment. I’m worried about Sarah. She’s not answering her phone, and after what happened to Derek, I . . . Oh, Audrey, who would do such an awful thing? There must be some kind of nut job out there. What if he got Sarah, too?”

I pinched my eyes shut momentarily, trying to blink away the brashness of the request. What do you do when you’re worried about a crazed killer on the loose? Just call old Audrey, whom you haven’t talked to in months, and send her into the thick of it.

Of course I agreed to check on Sarah. There’s a fine line between a well-bred Southern lady and a sucker. And I’d never been very good at finding that line.

I got the size and brand information on her jail-acceptable “things,” glanced at the clock, and promised they’d be there in the morning.

“Jenny,” I said, tucking the paper in my pocket, “I wanted to ask you. What happened with Derek?”

“Audrey, I don’t know. The police said . . . But I was so groggy. Breaking up with Derek was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do. After Derek and I talked, I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. I just wanted to get everything out of my mind.”

“But the knife, Jenny. The knife that I gave you to practice with. What happened to it?”

“It was in the bag I took inside,” Jenny said. “I think . . . I don’t know. Everything is all blurry.”

I heard some voices in the background, and Jenny said, “I have to go. Good-bye.” And she hung up.

I called Liv and told her why I would be late. She understood. After all, Grandma Mae had taught her to be a Southern lady/sucker, too.

I swung by Jenny’s apartment first and knocked on the door. No answer. Nothing seemed amiss. No broken-in doors. No bloodcurdling screams. I tried not to look at the place Derek’s car would have been parked. But I couldn’t resist. Despite the tragic circumstances, it was nothing more than a parking space—empty, potholed. Only the remains of a police flare marked the scene.

I decided to try to check on Sarah again after purchasing Jenny’s things.

Ramble is known for the historic stone and brick shops that line Main Street—shops that now showcase antiques and collectibles. Some purposefully convoluted zoning laws kept chains out, for the most part, in favor of local mom-and-pop businesses. The occasional tourists, heading through for a peek at where Washington slept while doing his survey of the area—or where Civil War general Jubal Early stabled his horses—find them charming. Main Street is a great place to buy a scented candle, a knockoff butter churn, or stale fudge. And, of course, flowers. Underwear, not so much. So I headed out on the fifteen-minute drive to the Walmart in the next town over. The strip mall also boasted the nearest Chick-fil-A and Five Guys, so I made that trek often. Well, not quite a trek, more of a jaunt.

I found all of Jenny’s “things” in short order.

Okay, I also picked myself up a chicken sandwich and waffle fries.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin just as I pulled into Ramble town limits. Yes, I’d timed it to a science.

The lights were dark in Jenny’s apartment when I pulled up. A knock on the door, again, brought no answer.

A herd of flowerpot critters—you know, the googly-eyed animals made of painted clay flowerpots—stared up at me from the porch. Our shop carried a small selection, made by a local craftswoman. Jenny, I recalled, had once retrieved a spare key from under the frog. Or was it the pig? If she hadn’t moved it.

I tried both. And found it under the bunny. Pressing the key in the lock, I turned it and heard the click as the door unlocked.

“What are you doing?”

I whipped around to see Sarah Anderson. Actually, I whipped around to see no one, but found Sarah Anderson, all five foot two of her, when I happened to glance down. Sarah was the cover model for the “petite” entry in
Webster’s
. Not just short, she was thin and as cute as a proverbial button. Even now, when she was clearly returning from the gym in a tank and slim capri exercise pants. Her skin glistened and escaping tendrils of her blond hair caught every breeze.

Frankly, if I looked that cute after exercising, I might do it more often. My postexercise look was best described as a hot mess. And that was probably generous.

“I said, what are you doing?” Sarah’s voice was always soft and feminine, but it bore a bit of an edge at the moment.

“Oh, I . . .” I looked down at the key. “Jenny asked me to stop by.” Okay, Jenny asked me to check on her roommate, not break and enter into her apartment. “She worried when she couldn’t reach you.”

Sarah held out her hand and I dropped the key into it. She opened the door and I followed her in. “Jenny’s worried about me?”

“She said she tried to call but couldn’t reach you.”

Sarah went to the fridge and pulled out an apple. “She probably tried my cell phone. But I misplaced my charger after the police searched the place. Or maybe one of them wandered off with it.”

Of course the police would have searched Jenny’s apartment. I followed Sarah into the kitchen. The apartment floor plan was open, so I could see and talk to her from the front door, but I craved an opportunity to get a better look around.

Not much had changed since I’d last been in the apartment, cluttered and decorated in modern garage sale—mostly by Jenny, I thought. But that wasn’t what I was looking for.

“Sarah, were you home the other night when Jenny and Derek were here?”

While Sarah turned to the sink to mix some unappetizing green powder into water, I glanced around the room. The plastic shopping bag from the flower shop sat on the table next to a newspaper, a sticky cutting board, and a glass half full of water. Or was it half empty? The optimists and the pessimists could argue that later. Next to it were the pruning shears I’d lent Jenny. I could understand why the police hadn’t taken them—they had nothing to do with Derek’s death. Why they’d taken ours, I had no clue. Perhaps all the pollen flying in our shop just made Bixby cranky.

Sarah took a long draft of her green swill. “Not right away. When I got home from the gym, Jenny and Derek were in the living room talking. The conversation looked pretty intense, so I excused myself and took a long shower. When I came out, Derek was leaving.”

“No idea what they talked about?”

“Only what Jenny told me. That she and Derek broke up. She seemed pretty upset. I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

“So Derek left, and Jenny was still here? Did she go out after that?”

Sarah shook her head. “Jenny said she was tired and wanted to sleep. Said she wanted to forget this whole mess happened.”

“Sarah, were there flowers in the house when you came in?”

“Bixby asked me the same question. I honestly couldn’t tell you. When I walked in and saw Derek and Jenny and the expressions on their faces, I can’t say I made an inventory of the room. I just wanted to get out of there. When Jenny went to bed, it sounded like a great idea to me, too. Audrey, I’d like to say Jenny never left after that point, but a long day at the gym makes me bone tired. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

• • •

No one with
a cat ever needs an alarm clock. Six was the absolute earliest I wanted to awaken, and an extra half hour (or two) after such a long night at the shop seemed more than reasonable.

Chester never got the memo. He circled me on the bed with the motor running. When I pulled the covers tighter to my ear, he proceeded to take what cat lovers call love nibbles. Yes, he bit me.

“All right.” I pushed the covers off and he raced to the kitchen. I considered closing the door and going back to sleep, but that would result in persistent paw scratching on the door until I opened it again—another cat habit my landlord was less than thrilled with.

I followed Chester to the kitchen, where he started weaving around my legs and yowling like only a true tomcat can. I refilled his dry food and water before giving him a half can of some rather surprisingly appetizing-looking beef nuggets in gravy.

After a quick shower, I rummaged up some clean working clothes, taking quick inventory in my closet to ensure I had enough to carry me through the next few hectic days. I then grabbed a dress for a bridal appointment later in the afternoon. And sighed.

My worst problems were a busy workday and a destructive cat. But Jenny was sitting in jail. And poor Derek was dead. I drew in a quick breath, exhaled it slowly, and determined I would have a good attitude. I owed it to our customers. And I owed it to Liv and our crew to set a good example. Besides, I could always collapse on Sunday.

After an invigorating two-block walk in the chilly April morning air, I beat everyone to the shop. I even put on a pot of coffee and powered up the radio before shuffling through the stack of funeral orders yet to be assembled.

When Liv arrived, a few minutes later than usual, she looked scary-pale. The only color in her face came from the dark circles under her eyes. I caught the whiff of ginger coming from her travel mug. She propped open the alleyway door to let in the cool air. We spent the next hour or so assembling the remaining orders. The blinking wall phone suggested there were more, but they would have to wait. The Rawlings had requested that their flower deliveries be made only before and after the hours they’d advertised for visitation. Any new arrangements wouldn’t go out until later in the afternoon anyway.

When our delivery team arrived, they loaded the van under Liv’s direction and then packed the remaining overflow into the CR-V we used for smaller deliveries. When I went to climb into the passenger seat, I found a basket arrangement neatly buckled in, instead.

“Should I strap myself to the hood?” I asked, a little more amused than irritated.

“No, the boys and I got this.” Liv buckled herself in.

I looked back at the crowded van and packed CR-V. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, positive. I’d rather keep you here with Amber Lee. And maybe there’s time to get Jenny’s things over to her before your consulting appointment.”

I glanced at my watch. “Sure I can spare the time?”

Liv rolled her eyes and then rolled up the windows before easing down the alley with her floral cargo.

Inside the shop, Amber Lee moved with amazing speed, filling the self-serve cooler and readying the shop for opening.

“So how did you like the Rawling place?” She wiped a few stray smudges from our glass counter.

“Quite a setup,” I said. “Ever been there?”

“Naw, been trying to get a tour of the place from a guy in my garden club. Says he works there. His name’s Worthington.”

“Worthington? The butler?” Aloe guy.

“He’s a butler? I thought he might be a gardener or something.”

“Do you know much about him?” I asked.

“Only that he lives on the estate in his own private cottage and that he likes to garden. He talks about plants and soil but little else. Should I try to find out more?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, how weird would it be if the butler did it? But I wonder what he might know about Derek’s death since he works with the Rawlings every day.”

“I’m on it.”

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” She winked.

I picked up a peach rose discarded because its long stem had broken, then gathered a few more flowers and arranged them into an old-fashioned nosegay bouquet. The thought of going to the police department and possibly facing Bixby intimidated me a bit. But I had an ally there, one who might be able to smooth my way and supply me with a little extra information, and one who was very fond of nosegay bouquets.