Bloom and Doom (13 page)

The young woman who had driven him appeared over my shoulder.

“Audrey, have you met my new assistant, Shirley? I’ve gone all modern, so don’t call her a secretary.”

Shirley reached out and shook my hand with a firm grip. “That’s because no secretary would put up with what I do.” The words were teasing and brought a smile to the old man’s lips.

“She keeps me in line,” he said with a twinkle.

“That’s quite a job,” I said.

“Chauffeur, dispensary, masseuse,” she said.

“Masseuse?” I said.

“I studied physiotherapy. It’s good for arthritis and all manner of illness. I dreamed of opening up a shop or some kind of in-home practice in Ramble. I met a few clients at the health club, but most of the older people around here seem to think . . .”

“That massage is a little steamy?” I offered.

“And that a masseuse is another name for a prostitute,” she finished. “I’ve even had a few offers.”

“But she’s a good girl,” Pastor Seymour said.

“Too good for you,” she teased.

Friends and family started to arrive, so I slipped out to the CR-V and changed my shoes. The ground held just enough moisture that the heels sank into the earth unless I forced all my weight to my toes. I can’t say the resulting walk was graceful.

Soon mourners filed into every available seat while the musicians played soothing classical pieces and old hymns, while clamping their music to the stands with clothespins against the wind. The overflow crowd, perhaps equal numbers familiar Ramblers and strangers, stood around the circumference of the rippling tent, providing a windbreak, I was sure, for everyone inside. Liv and I were among those stuck standing, having staked out a side position not far from the front, since the Rawlings had asked us to distribute single flowers to the mourners at the close of the service.

Larry mingled among the stragglers in the back. I’d never seen him in a suit before, only in jeans and overalls. His field-worn face and callused hands seemed awkward in a starched white shirt and tie. When he caught my eye, he smiled, then turned back to talk to Worthington, the Rawlings’ butler.

Pastor Seymour delivered a wonderful sermon, somehow still managing to project his voice farther than he could walk unassisted. By wonderful, I mean coherent and short, my enthusiasm for his brevity encouraged by the pressure now increasing on my toes from my unnatural stance and the wind gusting at my back and plastering the skirt of my dress to the backs of my legs.

Brief eulogies from friends and family members followed. I listened intently as everyone from relatives to fraternity buddies gave brief statements. But it seemed unlikely that anyone would let a motive for murder slip at the funeral of the victim—and that was how it turned out. From the public comments, one might suspect Derek was up for canonization.

Miranda and Jonathan Rawling perched in the front row. They did not speak, but Jonathan wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulder and Miranda dabbed at her eyes daintily with a genuine lace handkerchief.

At the close of the service the musicians played while attendants lowered Derek’s body to its final resting place.

“Friends,” Lorne Jans said in his official sober tone, “the family has provided flowers for you to place on the casket as you say your final good-byes.”

Liv and I took our positions on either side of the center aisle, where we’d placed large urns of assorted long-stemmed flowers. As mourners approached the coffin row by row, we handed a single flower to each person who came. Not to be irreverent, but with the number of flowers they’d requested, I was going to be surprised if there was any room left over for dirt.

Jonathan and Miranda were the first to approach, and we halted the line while they stood over the cavern that now held their only child. Miranda, looking more frail than petite in her feminine black suit, swayed for a moment as she stood. Her husband’s grip on her arm tightened.

I’d heard all kinds of stories, mainly from other florists, about funeral theatrics: fainting wives and mothers, sudden heart attacks, and even a story or two of grief-stricken wives or lovers—sometimes both—throwing themselves into caskets. Nothing like that happened here, not that I expected it to. Rather, Miranda whispered the beginning of a child’s bedside prayer, then melted into her husband’s arms.

I blinked back a tear and swallowed hard, forcing down the acid that rose in my throat.

After Jonathan steered Miranda to the side of the casket, where they could greet those who came up, Liv and I resumed the distribution of flowers to the remaining friends and family. The next man through bore a striking resemblance to Jonathan, so I assumed it must be his brother. Which got me thinking, since Derek was the Rawlings’ only son, and presumably their heir, could someone have killed him to move up their position in line? It always worked out that way on
Perry Mason
.

As the rest of the mourners followed, Liv and I somehow assumed that cloak of invisibility worn by those carrying out a service. People in line chatted about everything from their grocery lists to their sex lives. Yeah, ick. But the main topic of hushed conversation was the murder. Several talked about Jenny as if she were already tried and convicted and sitting on death row, waiting for her last meal.

Still, I forced myself to eavesdrop, hoping maybe I could glean something that would lead to more suspects. I also wondered if the mystery woman—the woman who’d written the threatening letters—could be in attendance.

Carolyn, the mayor’s daughter, had taken time out of her day-before-the-wedding plans to be here and stood in line with her parents. A pout formed on her lips as she pulled blowing hair from her face.

“But the manicurist appointment was for ten minutes ago.” She inspected her already perfect nails. “Are you sure she’ll wait?”

“She’ll wait,” Mayor Watkins said. “If she wants to keep the variance for her shop.”

“And we still should have time to get our hair done before the rehearsal,” his wife, Rita, added.

They seemed less than concerned about the dearly departed. I scanned the remaining group of mourners.

Near the back, his gaze roaming over the crowd, stood Bixby. I suspected he stayed in back to keep as much distance as possible from the allergens. I could tell that strategy wasn’t working, especially with the swirling winds. He looked as red eyed as Miranda Rawling.

As I handed the last of my flowers, a daisy, to a young girl (who began plucking off the petals to a cadence of “he loves me, he loves me not”), I glanced at Liv, whose urn still held half its blooms. I drew her attention to my empty urn, then headed to the truck for more.

On the way back, my hands filled with more pollen-laden flowers, I stopped to talk to Bixby. Insensitive and probably a little petty of me, I know, but I guess I still bore a bit of a grudge.

“Chief.” I casually shifted the flowers from one hand to the other, sending unseen allergens swirling into the air. At least, that was my willful and malicious attempt. “Anything new on the investigation?”

“Hello, Audrey.” He took one step back and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Nothing I’m able to divulge to the general public, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” I took one step toward him. “I just hoped that you’d found something that could clear Jenny.”

“Ah, your friend.” He ran his handkerchief under his nose. “I’m afraid not. There’s just so much evidence—the knife, for example. The knife you gave her.”

That did it. I stepped forward until I cornered him against one of the tent’s support poles. I went to stick an accusing finger in his face, then realized that hand still held the flowers. Even better.

I hate to admit I stooped to something so petty, but in my defense, I was sleep deprived and more than a little cranky and a bit unbalanced—with my heels still sinking into the soft dirt. Besides, what could he do? Charge me with assault with a deadly delphinium?

“That’s circumstantial,” I said, “and you know it.”

He recoiled in horror from the advancing flowers, plastering himself against the tent pole. “Who else had access to the knife, then, huh? You yourself said you gave it to her.”

Why did I give her that knife? Because I was trying to help a friend in need, to give the kid a break. That was why I put the knife, the shears, and the tape in the bag. The bag?

“Wait,” I said. “The
bags.
The bags have holes in them.”

He looked at me as if I had broken out in a chorus of “The Wells Fargo Wagon” in Swahili. “What?”

“I put the knife, the shears, and the tape in a bag.” I stepped back but waved the flowers to illustrate my point. Unconsciously, at this point. Honest.

“The last shipment of bags had holes in them. Liv’s been up in arms about it for days now. Customers have been complaining because they’re missing items. Think about it. The shears and the bag were in the apartment. The tape was in the car, on the floor. The knife could have fallen out anywhere. The sidewalk, the car. Suppose the knife
was
on the floor of the car—then anyone could have used it to kill Derek. We need to take a look at that bag. I only hope Sarah hasn’t thrown it out.”

Bixby crossed his arms in front of him. “
We
don’t have to check on anything. Look, I understand you want to help your friend, so I won’t even ask how you know what we found on the floor of the car. I have my suspicions there. But I’ll tell you this much: Jenny’s were the only fingerprints found on the knife.”

“So the killer wore latex gloves. You see it on TV all the time.” Even as I said it, it didn’t make sense. Picking up a knife from the sidewalk or the floor of the car to kill Derek would suggest the killer hadn’t planned it that way. Bringing gloves suggested some premeditation. I couldn’t have it both ways. My realization must have shown in my eyes.

“See what I mean?” he said. Although his question was punctuated not with a question mark but with a gigantic sneeze.

“I still think the bag should be evidence. I don’t understand why you took half our tools but left behind something so crucial.” As I swung the flowers around to illustrate my outrage, I realized I’d gone too far. Bixby closed his eyes. Several short breaths failed to bring under control the sneeze that was coming.

What happened next progressed like one of those slow-motion films they showed us in high school, the ones that demonstrate how far a sneeze can travel. I managed to get a step back, but this was a forceful, full-body sneeze. He tried to direct it safely to the ground—and, thankfully, he did. But as the sneeze erupted, his . . . uh . . . posterior portions connected with the tent post. For a second, it flexed, but then the pole disconnected at a joint, and the flap came down, slapping Bixby in the face.

He instinctively lifted his hands to protect his face, or maybe he got tangled in the rippling flap and panicked. The only thing I know is that, soon after, the next pole let loose. I stood paralyzed as the whole structure listed, then a domino effect ensued. At first the tent remained airborne, supported by the lift created as the air rushed in underneath it. Then it gave a final shudder and deflated, leaving Liv, the string ensemble, the harpist, and a dozen or so mourners trapped underneath the billowing canvas.

As Liv crawled out, the tent rested like a veil on her hair, making her look much like the Virgin Mary in one of our childhood Christmas pageants. (Liv always landed the part of Mary. I, on the other hand, was always cast as Shepherd #2 or some such. Except for the year I had to play a goat.)

Liv rolled her eyes in a very unbeatific manner. Then she started giggling.

The violinist shimmied out of the tent next, but on his back, trying to catch a glimpse up my swirling skirt. My stare of death was met with a wink, as he rose to his feet and began helping others to theirs—mainly women, I noticed.

The crowd dispersed after that. Liv and I stayed around for another hour packing up our equipment. I tried to avoid the Rawlings and Bixby. And the violinist.

The remaining flower arrangements we’d worked for days to construct would be picked up by the local nursing home. The Rawlings apparently found donation an easier alternative to disposing of all this extreme foliage.

Then, with the family gone and only the rental company there trying to make sense of what had happened to their tent, I approached Derek’s grave. I pulled a flower from one of the arrangements at random. I glanced at it. A blue rose. A blue rose can mean many things—
impossible
or
unattainable
, since it doesn’t occur in nature and must be dyed. Maybe finding Derek’s killer would prove both impossible and unattainable.

But the blue rose also was the symbol of
mystery
. And mysteries were meant to be solved, weren’t they?

“I can only do my best, Derek.”

I tossed the blue rose on top of the heap of foliage that rested on Derek’s coffin, took a deep breath, and walked away.

Amber Lee’s laughter filled the shop.

Liv raised exasperated eyes to the spiderwebs on the ceiling. “It’s not funny. This could be very bad for business. The whole funeral was ruined.”

“First of all,” Amber Lee said, “from what you told me, most of the guests were gone. Second of all, I’d think the tent rental company or the weather would get most of the blame.”

“Or Bixby,” I added, preparing yet another peach rose for the pew decorations. “He’s the one who wrestled the tent down.”

Liv gave me the look. “Because someone backed him into a corner. Really, kid, what were you thinking?”

“Backed him into a corner? Me?” I flashed her my most innocent look. “I never raised my voice. We had a civil conversation. At least he agreed to look for that bag.”

“Civil conversation? Waving those flowers around. I’m surprised he didn’t press charges.” After a moment or two of silence, Liv’s lips pressed together in an expression designed to stifle a giggle.

Growing up, sitting at the table over milk and cookies, we’d often get the affliction Grandma Mae called the giggles. I don’t remember anything funny that started these sessions. But one of us would start laughing, and then the other, and then we couldn’t control ourselves. Tears ran down our eyes, milk (and sometimes cookies) spurted from our noses, and we had trouble remaining upright in our chairs. The sessions generally ended in hiccups and deep breaths, with more than an occasional relapse.

So it wasn’t unusual, when I saw her try to suppress a giggle, that a similar one rose in my throat. When my laughter bubbled over, Liv’s chin quivered a brief moment before she caved, and the back room filled with laughter. It spread to our floral design interns, and even Opie cracked a broad smile.

When the bell over the door rang, tears were still running down my face. “I’ll get it.” I wiped the streaming tears with the back of my hand as I walked out, only to see Nick staring at the offerings in the self-service cooler.

“Hi.” He flashed me a dazzling smile. That man missed his calling. He should be doing toothpaste commercials. I wondered how someone who spent his days working with sugar could keep his teeth so perfect.

He opened the cooler and pulled out a small bouquet of delicate dendrobium orchids. A symbol of
beauty
—letting the recipient know she’s considered a belle, someone admired for her beauty and charm. The sight plummeted me back to earth. Nick obviously treasured a beautiful woman, and I, with my windblown hair and tears streaming down what was sure to be a rather red face, would never be more than a friend. I was someone to talk shop with, to share wedding plans with—for other people’s weddings—and to help tote home drunken matrons.

I forced a smile as I cashed him out.

“These are pretty,” he said. “More than pretty. Exotic. Unusual.”

“Interesting.” I’d long since noticed that what men see in flowers they often see in the women they’re enamored with. So Nick went for the unusual and exotic type.
Unusual
was something I could accomplish pretty well.
Exotic
was another story. I pictured some slim, petite Asian woman with pouty red lips. She’d be wearing a sleek silk suit with impossibly high heels and carrying some purse-bound pooch.

I, on the other hand, was more of a homegrown girl: fresh faced, all denim, cotton, flat shoes, and corn bread and apple pie. Nick’s sweetheart was probably somebody new to the community—maybe one of those DC types who’d moved into the area in recent years, looking for more affordable housing despite the two-hour rush-hour (an oxymoron, if I ever heard one) commute. Which could also explain why nobody could claim to have seen him with anybody. People who spend four hours a day in the car can spare little time or energy for socializing, especially if they’re tossing doggie treats into their purses all day.

“Will you . . . uh . . . be at the wedding tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve known Carolyn for years now, and we’re doing the flowers, too. It never hurts to invite your florist as a guest.” I chuckled. My earlier mirth evaporated, however, melting away at the sight of those blasted orchids. I needed to get over this silly infatuation. “It helps in case of any last-minute wilting issues, too.”

He laughed as I handed him his change. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then. We’re doing their cupcakes. And I’ll be there to handle any last-minute frosting debacles. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to work myself and let you get to yours.”

I waved lamely at Nick as he left, wondering if he’d bring a plus-one to the wedding and we’d finally get a gander at this exotic mystery woman.

With a small sigh I returned to the back room and the mound of wedding work that yet awaited us. I demonstrated how to compose the pew arrangements to the interns, then turned the task over to them before diverting my attention to an arrangement meant to surround the unity candle.

For some reason, the phrase “Always the bridal florist, but never the bride” popped into my mind, and I couldn’t shake it. Maybe it was the long hours and little sleep, my aching feet and back, or just coming to earth over my ill-fated crush on Nick, but I could sense a major pity party coming on.

And a pity party without mentally rehashing that whole fiasco with Brad the Cad would be as complete as a Cinco de Mayo party without salsa.

Brad and I had been dating for about a year. Call it a premonition, but I’d tried to cancel our dinner date that night. It was just before Mother’s Day, and long hours had left me dead on my feet. But he begged and pleaded, so I knew something was up.

I was standing right at the same workstation, in fact, when I promised him I’d be there. He sounded excited on the phone as he told me to meet him at seven thirty at the restaurant at the Ashbury Inn. Liv and I spent a giddy afternoon speculating. She decided that his excitement on the phone, his insistence that I be there, and his choice of the romantic, expensive venue could only add up to a proposal. And I spent the rest of the afternoon making flower arrangements for other people while planning my own wedding flowers.

That was when I made plans for that now loathsome bouquet—the one scattered over Derek’s dead body. I then went on to plan the church decorations, and before quitting time, I’d put finishing touches on my mental plans for the centerpieces for the reception. I ran home, dressed up, treated my face to the rarity of the full makeup routine the stylist suggested that time Liv and I had closed up shop and headed to a pricey salon for a day of pampering. I even pulled the tags off and ironed my new dress and wrestled my feet into heels.

Brad, on the other hand, wore a sports shirt and khakis and had neglected to remove his five o’clock shadow. But I refused to let that dampen the moment. After all, a twinkle of excitement danced in his eyes as I answered his knock at my door. I guess I was so focused on that, I also took no notice that he didn’t comment on my appearance.

We ordered and ate our dinner as usual, except for a bit of silence in our ordinarily easy conversation. But I attributed that to nervousness over the upcoming proposal. His frequent wiping of his palms on his napkin confirmed the diagnosis. And mine were getting a little damp as well. Either it was nerves or we were both coming down with the plague.

I spent the silent moments working out more wedding details. If we held the ceremony in the gardens of the Ashbury, I might even arrive in a horse-drawn carriage festooned with roses and ivy. My brother, Philip, could walk me down the aisle, I supposed, as long as Mother didn’t mind if I didn’t ask her new husband. I’d only met the man a handful of times. Surely she wouldn’t expect—

“Audrey, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here. I mean, besides dinner.”

I shrugged and sent him a shy smile.

“It’s just that, I think the time has come in our relationship . . .” He started picking at a dry cuticle, a nasty habit I hoped to break him of one day. “Well, I don’t know how to say it except to say it.”

Here it comes, I thought. I wondered if he would drop to one knee in the restaurant. And then I’d say yes, and everybody would clap. Maybe they would bring a complimentary dessert. Yeah, my priorities were probably off for thinking that, but then again, I’d tasted the dessert at the Ashbury before. Their cheesecake is to die for.

“Audrey . . .” He didn’t kneel but cleared his throat. “I’m moving.”

All the blood rushed to my face and my head started to buzz.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

“Moving?”

“Yes. It’s what I’ve been hoping for. A job with the production crew for a new TV show. A real break into the business.” He stared out the window. “No more videotaping weddings and transferring dreadful home movies that no one ever wanted to watch in the first place to DVDs that will just gather dust on a shelf.”

It might not be that bad to move, I thought. A local TV show filmed in Richmond or even Virginia Beach wouldn’t be too terrible. If we moved to Virginia Beach, I still had friends there. I know I said I never wanted to leave Ramble, but maybe we could find a place on the outskirts of town . . . I stopped myself short. Caught up in what he’d said, I’d missed what he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked me to marry him.

“Where is the job?” I took a sip of my water with shaky hands, then put my nervous energy to work shredding my napkin in my lap. And no, the Ashbury doesn’t use paper napkins.

“Manhattan.”

“As in New York City? That Manhattan?”

“None other.” He gave me one of those quirky grins of his, his head held high and the pride ringing in his voice. He considered this move making the big time.

“That’s crazy,” I said, popping his balloon. He seemed to shrink into his chair. “There’s all kinds of wackos in New York. Pedophiles and mass murderers and rapists and riffraff urinating on subways and mugging joggers in the park.”

He rolled the salt shaker between his hands and wagged his head. “I’ve made up my mind, Audrey. I’ve given notice and sent in my intention letter. One of the guys in the crew had a room to rent, so that’s all settled. I start in two weeks.”

So everybody and his brother knew about this before me. Without even telling me he’d applied, his plans were all made. It seemed like he had all the details settled but one.

“What about us?” Yes, I’ll admit, it was a direct question.

He reached over and laid his hand on mine. “Audrey, you know how I feel about you.”

“Enlighten me.”

He let out a lungful of air from pursed lips. “I think this is a new beginning for both of us.”

“A beginning of what?”

“Audrey, I can’t take you to New York, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to wait for me. Maybe this is a test. Maybe in a few years I can come back to Ramble and be content. But I think it’s time to explore what’s out there, expand our horizons.”

“You mean date other people.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you think that’s best?”

I studied his face. His expression was somber, but something around the corners of his eyes gave him away. “You
want
to break up.”

He held up a hand. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

“Audrey, it’s about the job.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s about all the glamorous women you think you’ll find in New York City. A bigger pond and more fish to choose from. Well, let me tell you, it’s not all
Sex in the City
. Not everyone is a size-two fashion model and they’re not going to line up to date some small-town videographer. A big city can also be a lonely place.”

“Audrey, keep it down, will you?”

And then it dawned on me why he was dropping this bit of news on me at the Ashbury. So I wouldn’t make a scene. Little did he know.

I stood up and pointed my finger in his face. “Well, you listen, Mr. Big-City Show-Biz Tycoon. Go to New York. Expand those horizons of yours. And when you get your fill of the skyscrapers and subways and hookers on every street corner and all that other Yankee foolishness and come back here with your tail between your legs, do me a favor.”

Brad winced. “What’s that?”

I leaned over the table, until nose to nose with him.

But I had nothing more to say. I yanked my purse over my shoulder and walked out to the applause of our fellow diners.

Kathleen Randolph left the check-in desk, ran out after me, and drove me home.

“You know what I think?” she’d said as she turned onto Ramble’s Main Street. “I swear the reason men stink at relationships is because of battle genes. When men go to war, the ones who survive are either very good at fighting or very good at running.”

“Brad’s never been in the service.”

“No, but I bet his father or grandfather has. Think about it. Johnny comes marching home again, gets married, and has little Johnnies. Sometimes I think the ability to sit down and work things out has been totally bred out of the male sex. Especially in Ramble, Audrey. After all, this town was settled by Josiah Carroll.”

“The Revolutionary War hero, I know. He was a spy. Brad’s a descendant on his father’s side.”

“Hero and spy, my foot. The only reason Carroll was able to warn the troops about the British presence was because he was running away from them at the time. Take it from me, Audrey. I’ve been married three times. And all men seem to want to do is fight or run.”