A Deadly Bouquet (20 page)

I was especially struck by the phrase “cause and effect.” I squeezed my eyes shut so I could recall her exact comment: “Events of our past shape the people we are today.”

If my father had stayed home, would I have turned out differently? I credited my mother and Carl as having the biggest influence on me. My father's absence had shaped my life, too. But which had the most effect on me? His leaving or his staying away? I had no way of knowing for sure, even though his abrupt departure had been as traumatic as a death. But even death doesn't end a relationship. Memories, often scarred and battered from constant use, plague the mind and the heart.

I opened my eyes. The first thing my gaze landed on was the plant display by the front window. A dracaena had missed getting a drink of water. The leaves were limp, the plant wilted. From experience I knew once it received moisture it would revive, but there was a good chance the leaves would develop brown tips. I could trim away the damage, but the plant would never be the same. Cause and effect.

“That was quite a conversation,” said Lois.

I grimaced. “The one in my head or the one with Harriet?”

“Both. The way your mind works has always been a mystery to me.” She nodded toward the door. “I had a hard time following what she said. I liked the part about a florist using her senses, but she lost me on the scent, aroma, and odor thing. What did she mean about ‘blanket analogy'?”

I glanced at Lew to see if he was going to jump in with a lengthy explanation. He widened his eyes at me in a fake innocent stare. Well, fine. I'd give this philosophy a shot. If I got it wrong, I was sure he'd bulldoze in to correct me.

“Okay. Here goes,” I said. “Scent, aroma, and odor are categories of smell. Most people only smell.” I giggled. “You know what I mean—use their noses. They don't consciously apply the correct word. Harriet says that as florists we classify things more specifically.”

I thought for a moment. “She's right, you know. Take, for instance, how we distinguish color. To some, brown is simply an earth tone. As florists we categorize by fine-tuning—cocoa, toast, toffee, and fudge. When I named each one, didn't you have clear mental pictures of each color?”

Lois nodded. “I get it, but it sounds to me like you need a snack.”

I waved away her suggestion as excitement throbbed through my veins. It was as if I'd exchanged a low-watt bulb for a brighter one. It's funny how an image or an idea will change when a speck of knowledge or a new perspective comes into play.

“Claire was an artist as well as a beautician. She was creative. She painted that mural on the ceiling of her shop and called it a way of achieving ‘a total sense of catharsis.' Doing the work might've been rewarding, but I'd lay you odds it was the picture that was important and suited her purpose.”

“And that would be?” asked Lew.

“She used Missouri wildflowers for the hair. The girl looks sweet, innocent. Her eyes are closed as if she's sleeping. But I can't figure out where the tragedy fits in.” My mouth dropped open. “Oh my gosh. She's not asleep. She's dead.”

Lois gasped. “Claire painted a dead girl on her ceiling? That's morbid.”

“Not that kind of dead. She looks angelic.” I bit my lip. “I have to see that painting again.”

“How?” asked Lois. “According to the story in the newspaper, Claire didn't have a partner or any family. The shop will be locked up. It's a crime scene.” Her eyes narrowed. “You aren't thinking about breaking in?”

“Of course not.” I fluttered my eyelashes. “I have more
sense
than that. If I were in jail, you and Lew would have to do this wedding by yourselves.”

“God forbid.” Lois sighed. “I suppose we could do it, but I'd probably end up your cell mate. I'd kill the woman.”

“Evelyn isn't so bad,” said Lew. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Why is that?” demanded Lois.

He lifted a shoulder. “We've had extra people help at holidays, and they make mistakes. Evelyn walked in the door, watched me take an order, and took five more without a problem. She thrives on challenge. Once this wedding is over, I think the woman will fall apart.”

I nodded. “She said as much to me last night when I saw her in the park. In fact, she was crying.”

“That's just great,” said Lois. “When a woman cries, that means someone's gonna pay. You just wait. It'll be us. Before this day is over, Evelyn will be in here wanting to add something totally off the wall to this wedding.”

I went to the phone. “That's an excellent reason for making myself scarce. I talked her out of the grapevine arch. But if she has another brain cramp, tell her she'll have to discuss anything new with me.”

“Are you calling Sid?” asked Lois.

“No way. I don't want him glaring at me while I study that painting. Besides, he's county. I'm calling River City's police chief, Jean Kelley. She'll be a bit more tolerant.” I crossed my fingers. “At least, I hope she will.”

Once Chief Kelley was on the line, I said, “This is Bretta Solomon. Would it be possible for you to meet me at Claire Alexander's beauty shop?”

“What for?”

“I want another look at that painting on the ceiling. I've had a couple of thoughts.”

“And they would be?”

Her indifference gave me an inkling as to how the conversation I hoped to initiate would be received. She might not be as blunt with her contempt as Sid, but I doubted she would be enthusiastic at the idea of exploring Claire's sensory perception.

Beating around the bush, I asked, “Could this wait until I've had another look at the painting?”

Reluctantly, Chief Kelley agreed, and we settled on a time. After I'd hung up, I dialed another number. When Eddie answered, I said, “This is Bretta. Can you meet me in half an hour at 3201 Marietta Avenue? I need your expertise in identifying some Missouri wildflowers.”

“Guess I can. That's down in the old part of town. I don't remember any garden plots.”

“This is a painting.”

“Hell's bells. I don't know nothing about art.”

“But you know flowers, and that's what I need.”

Eddie grumbled and groused. I cajoled and cajoled until he finally agreed to meet me. I hung up the phone and said, “Boy, the things you've got to say and do to get a little cooperation really bite.”

Lois pointed to the front of the shop. “I see a familiar white BMW pulling into a parking spot.” She huffed on her fingernails and polished them on her shirt. “Golly, I'm good.” She leaned across the counter, peering intently. “Oh, hell. Evelyn is carrying another magazine.”

I sprinted for the back door.

Chapter Seventeen

“This better have some bearing on the case, Bretta,” said Chief Kelley, getting out of her car. She crossed the sidewalk to the door of the beauty shop. “I've got a pile of paperwork that needs my attention.”

“I think the painting is important, I'm just not sure how.”

“Well, that's encouraging,” she said, inserting a key in the lock. She turned the knob. “I'd hate to think you had all the answers.”

“Not even close.” At her hard look, I added, “But I've got a couple of theories, if you'll be patient.”

She pushed open the door and motioned me in. “Not one of my virtues, but I'll walk the walk.” Looking past me to the street, she said, “I see a man headed this way. From the expression on his face, I'd say he's as happy to be here as I am. Who is he? What's going on?”

I made the introductions, then asked, “Can Eddie come in with us? He's here to identify the flowers in the painting.”

Chief Kelley agreed. We moved into the shop and stood under the painting, studying the artwork in silence. The picture was as colorful and distinctive as I'd remembered. When I'd first seen it, I'd concentrated on the flowers. Today that was Eddie's department. This time I focused on the girl. As I stared at her I kept thinking she looked familiar, but was it merely a scrap of leftover memory from when I'd first set eyes on the painting?

The face was a smooth, unblemished oval. Thick, dark lashes fringed her closed eyelids. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she were about to speak. Tiny hands were folded in prayer; the tips of her fingers rested against her chin. She appeared to be wearing a robe. Soft brush strokes had created the effect of draped material that flowed gracefully.

What made me think that Claire had depicted her as being deceased was the strange aura that surrounded the portrait. I'd seen the same dramatization used when the subject had a religious theme.

Chief Kelley said, “What's the deal with the radiating light? Is she supposed to be an angel?”

“A girl who has passed away.”

“Who was she?”

“Lydia Dearborne knew but wouldn't tell me. I have a feeling her identity is important.” I turned to Eddie. “Do you know who she was?”

“No, but then I probably wouldn't recognize my own mother if her face was two feet wide, painted on a ceiling, and had flowers sprouting out of her head.”

“Okay. How about the flowers? Do you know their names?”

“Sure. You would too, if you took a book and drove down a country road.” He pointed. “That pink daisy is echinacea—coneflower. Pink evening primrose is curled around her ear. That huge bloom is from the rose mallow family. Elderberry is the cluster of white. Orange butterfly weed. Goldenrod, purple asters, and over to that side are ironweed and milkweed.”

“Milkweed?” I murmured. “Hope in misery.”

“How's that?” asked Chief Kelley.

“Just thinking out loud.” I pointed to the one blossom Eddie hadn't mentioned. It stood above the others as if Claire had given it preferential treatment. The cluster consisted of eight flowers and was yellow-green, tinged with purple. The individual flowers had five tubular hood-shaped structures with a slender horn extending from each.

“What's the name of the yellow-green flower up at the top?”

“I'm not sure. I'm thinking it's in the milkweed family because of the shape of the leaves and blossoms, but the color is off. I've never seen anything like it around here.”

Chief Kelley was losing interest. “Maybe Claire got a wild hair to be inventive.”

Eddie said, “Why would she do that? All the other flowers have been painted accurately, complete with stamens, pistils, and sepals. I have a book in the truck that was Dad's. I'm gonna get it.”

Uneasily, I watched Eddie leave. With just the chief and me in the shop, I knew what was coming. I felt her gaze and tried to ignore it, but she wasn't having that.

“All right, Bretta. What is it about this painting that made you ask me down here? Something has put the wind in your sails. Give it over.” She flashed me a wicked smile. “Or would you rather tell Sid?”

That was a threat if ever I heard one, but I wasn't alarmed. Fact was, now that I'd seen the painting, I wondered if Sid might've been the better choice over Chief Kelley. Sid had known about catharsis, but the chief had accommodated me by letting me into the beauty shop. I owed her an explanation. Whether she understood or believed me was up to her.

I gave it a shot. “Claire painted this picture because it represented a tragedy. By giving form to whatever was bothering her, she hoped to be purged—a catharsis.”

Chief Kelley glanced at the ceiling. “You're saying that girl died tragically.”

“That's my guess.”

“So we need to match her picture to some fatal event that happened—how long ago?”

“I think you'll need to look back to nineteen sixty-six.”

“Nineteen sixty-six? You've lost me. If Claire needed to be purged, why'd she wait so long?”

“The painting is new, but Claire's needs weren't. From all accounts, she spent her entire life looking for acceptance. She tried finding it with men, but had five failed marriages. She donated her talents as a beautician to help others, but that probably wasn't enough. In her younger days, Claire changed her hairstyle if she wanted to make a point. Dyeing her hair outrageous colors and using those weird contacts were ways of disguising her appearance.”

The chief perked up. “She's been hiding out from someone?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, but not the way you're thinking. She's been hiding from herself. Something traumatic was bugging her. When she looked in the mirror she saw the person she had been, so she invented a new image.”

“I don't understand how dyeing her hair green would make her feel any different, but I'll give it some thought. Let's skip on to the flowers coming out of the girl's head. What does that mean? If she died tragically, did she eat something poisonous?”

“I suppose that's possible, but you're being objective, thinking only about what you're seeing—the flowers. Try being subjective—look beyond the painting to Claire's thoughts and feelings. The flowers are important. I'm just not sure why. Claire put this girl's image on the ceiling because Claire regarded her as the heart of the problem. Up there, in plain sight, she was a daily reminder.”

“Of what? Guilt?”

Eddie banged the door shut. “I've got it, Bretta. And I was right. It
is
in the milkweed family.” He put the open book under my nose. “See?
Asclepias meadii.
Mead's milkweed. According to this, the plant is listed as endangered by the Missouri Department of Conservation and is classified as threatened by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

“Really?” I looked from the picture in the book to the painting on the ceiling. It was an excellent rendition. “Why is it endangered?”

“This article doesn't say, but the Mead's milkweed's natural habitat is grassy prairie. From that, I would guess agriculture and residential development have eliminated it. You know how it goes. Heavy machinery comes in and plows up native ground. Plants are destroyed. Once concrete is poured any roots or seeds that escaped the excavation are history—and, on that note, so am I. I have to get to work.”