For Better or Hearse (9 page)

“Did she agree to let you see it?” Kate's voice crackled through my cell phone as I walked down a side street toward Georgetown's business district. Georgetown already brimmed with energy at ten o'clock in the morning, with box trucks double-parked for their deliveries and boutique owners putting out sidewalk signs. I passed a New Age shop and noticed a sign advertising two-for-one chakra balancing, hanging amid the dangling crystals in the window. The sale would have tempted me if I had any idea what or where my chakras were.

“After I explained our theory about Georgia being framed, Joni was more than happy to help out.” I glanced at my watch to make sure I still had enough time to get my morning frappuccino before meeting Kate. “She's bringing it by this afternoon.”

“Our theory?” Kate sounded amused.

“Yes, our theory,” I insisted, dashing across M Street before the light changed. “You, me, Richard, and Leatrice.”

“Leatrice? How did she get involved in this?”

“You know Leatrice. Do you have to ask how she got herself involved?” I pushed the glass door to Starbucks open with my shoulder. The M Street coffee shop boasted lots of exposed brick, wood floors, and a large front window perfect for people watching. I sucked in the intoxicating aroma. Too bad I couldn't stand drinking the stuff unless it was mixed with enough chocolate and milk to make it nearly unrecognizable as coffee. With its whipped cream topping and faintest hint of coffee flavor, the frappuccino had been the heaven-sent answer to my coffee aversion, and now I'd become addicted to them. I ordered a Grande Light Mocha Frap and congratulated myself for not splurging on a Venti.

“This isn't turning into one of Leatrice's amateur sleuth projects, is it?” Kate asked. “Like the time she believed that she saw the old guy in 2B on
America's Most Wanted
and started following him around in a trench coat?”

“Of course not,” I lied, knowing full well that Leatrice considered herself an equal partner in finding the real killer and clearing Georgia whether I liked it or not. I took my drink from the counter and walked back out to M Street. “Anyway, she hasn't followed that guy around in ages.”

“That's because he moved, Annabelle. Not that I blame him. Who wants to be stalked by an eighty-year-old midget?”

I headed down a side street toward the harbor, taking small sips of my frappuccino. “She's not a midget, and you know it, Miss Smart Aleck.”

“Maybe not legally, but she is pretty small,” Kate argued good naturedly. “I think she's shrinking, too.”

I arrived in front of the trendy flower shop, Lush. Monochromatic bunches of green and white flowers sat in galvanized buckets in the window. I tried the door. Locked. “How far away are you?”

“Right around the corner,” she said as I saw her red car squeal around the curb, clipping the edge of the sidewalk. She parallel parked semilegally at the end of a row of cars and hopped out. “Are we the first ones here?”

“The boys must be running late,” I called out as she strode across the street. By “the boys” I meant the two floral designers, Buster and Mack, who owned Lush and had become our new favorites. Their edgy modern designs were only one of the reasons they weren't your typical florists.

I heard a low rumble in the distance. In a few seconds two shiny chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycles appeared around the corner. They growled to a stop in front of us, and the massive riders, clad almost entirely in black leather, dismounted the bikes. The color of their goatees, one brown and one red, was the only way to tell them apart from a distance. They pulled off black helmets and pushed their riding goggles onto the tops of their heads. The “Mighty Morphin Flower Arrangers,” as they preferred to be called in the biker world, had arrived.

“I swear those pants must be special order,” Kate said under her breath. “I don't think Big and Tall shops in Washington carry leather. Not stretch leather, at least.”

Buster of the dark brown goatee took two long steps to reach us. “Would you believe we got pulled over?”

“Apparently some bike gangs have been causing trouble.” Mack joined him, shaking his head. “This
one had to tell the cop that we're florists on the way to a meeting with wedding planners.”

“The officer wouldn't believe me.” Buster took out a jumbled key ring and opened the door to the shop. “We had to wait while he ran our plates. And then he gave us tickets for speeding.”

“Imagine,” Kate muttered to me as we followed them inside.

They hung their helmets on hooks by the door and flipped on the track lighting that illuminated the window floral displays with colored light. A polished chrome rack held more galvanized buckets of blooms along the side wall, and a high metal worktable ran the length of the back, with several stools tucked underneath. The center of the room was empty. Minimalist, according to Buster and Mack. No stuffed animals, wicker baskets, or balloons in sight. Woe to the unsuspecting person who tried to order a “Pick Me Up” bouquet. The boys would slit their own wrists, then the customer's.

“Remind me why we're meeting with Nadine again.” Mack tossed the bride's thick file on the table. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the wedding this Saturday?”

I hopped up onto a stool. “She's just getting nervous and wanted to take a final look at what you have in stock.”

Buster waved a hand at the buckets of viburnum, hydrangea, and calla lilies. “Everything that's green or white in here is hers. I hope she knows that it's too late to chicken out and go with some mamby-pamby blush tone scheme.”

“Don't worry,” I assured them. “She may be Southern, but she's not a girly-girl.”

“She loves the look you boys put together,” Kate added. “The lime green and white is going to look amazing in the Park Hyatt's modern ballroom.”

Buster ran his finger down a desk calendar and glanced up. “You know where our other wedding is on Saturday, don't you?”

“The Fairmont,” Mack chimed in. “People check in but they don't check out.”

Buster ignored his counterpart, who giggled with Kate. “We don't know what's going on over there. I'm assuming the wedding is still on, but Georgia won't return any of our calls.”

“You haven't heard, then?” I said. Darcy must not have made it to their messages yet. Surprising that the gossip hadn't reached them, though. Georgia had been one of the first big hotel catering execs to recommend the avant garde florists, and they adored her. “Georgia's been arrested for the murder of Chef Henri.”

Both men gasped.

“When did this happen? We've been at a Christian biker rally and only got back last night,” Buster said, his face stricken.

“She would never!” Mack's eyes were wide.

“Of course not,” I agreed. “She's innocent.”

Buster sank onto a stool, his face considerably paler. “Then why did they arrest her?”

“We think she's being set up by someone who wanted her out of the hotel,” I said.

Mack blinked back tears. “Who would do such a thing?”

“We're not sure yet.” I dug in my purse for a tissue and held it out to Mack. “The GM wanted to replace her, but the general consensus at the hotel is that he's too spineless to frame her for murder.”

“Those other chefs at the Fairmont aren't too spineless.” Mack blew his nose. “We've heard them talking when we're bringing flowers through the back of the hotel.”

Buster nodded in agreement. “The sous chefs are almost as mean as Henri.”

“Really?” Kate asked. “Maybe being scary is a chef thing.”

“The real killer must have set up Georgia to throw the police off the trail,” Buster said.

“Maybe. Kate and I have promised Georgia we'd nose around and see who hated Henri enough to kill him. If we can find the actual murderer, Georgia will be off the hook.”

Buster's face relaxed. “If we hear anything interesting, we'll let you know.”

“We should send flowers,” Mack sniffled. “Do they let you get flowers in jail?”

Kate patted his hand. “I don't think so.”

Mack dabbed at his eyes. “It's too horrible to think about Georgia sitting in some drab cell with no decor.”

“She'll be out before you know it,” I tried to reassure them. “In the meantime, we still have a wedding on Saturday, remember?”

“Come on, you old softie.” Buster gave Mack a hard pat on the back. “We won't let this get us down, will we? The bride is counting on us.”

Mack bobbed his head up and down. “She's such a sweet little thing, too.”

The glass door swung open and a cloud of cigarette smoke tumbled into the room. A waifishly thin woman followed, her brown hair tied up in a messy bun and a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“What do you mean they're bringing their kids?”
she screamed into the phone, losing all remnants of her lilting Southern drawl. “This is an adult reception, Mother. That means no kids.” A pause while she took a drag on her cigarette, then coughed. “He's your brother. You fix it.” She snapped her phone shut and smiled at us. “Sorry about that. Last minute guest issues.”

“Hi, Nadine,” I sputtered as everyone else stared. “I didn't know you smoke.”

“Oh, this?” She looked at the cigarette between her fingers. “I started this week to calm my nerves before the wedding. It doesn't seem to be working, though.”

Leave it to a bride to try to reduce stress by picking up a habit that could kill you.

Mack grabbed a small glass bubble bowl from the shelf and rushed to hold it under her cigarette's long, dangling ash before it fell.

“Thanks.” She took the bowl from Mack and pulled out a stool. “I'm still getting used to these things.”

Buster regained his composure and opened her file. “Annabelle and Kate mentioned that you want to go over a few things for your wedding.”

“I haven't been able to sleep because of my bouquet.” Her slight Southern drawl had reappeared. I noticed that her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red. I could see that she was well on her way to a meltdown and wondered if she'd make it to Saturday. Or if we would.

Buster read the proposal. “We have down a hand-tied bouquet of white Casablanca lilies and white hydrangea.”

“I'm sure it would be beautiful, but it doesn't seem to fit the modern theme we chose for the rest of the wedding.” Nadine waved her cigarette, and Kate ducked as some ash flew her way.

Mack raised an eyebrow. “For the rest of the wedding we have chartreuse arrangements of pods and orchids with touches of lime green viburnum.”

“Exactly.” Nadine took a drag and blew out a stream of smoke. “I love that look. Can we do something like that for my bouquet, too?”

“Well…” Buster and Mack exchanged glances as Nadine slid off her stool and walked to the rows of tall metal flower buckets. She ran her hand along the blooms.

“This is it!” she cried out, pointing to a cluster of puffy green balls covered in soft fuzz. “I love these. They're so untraditional. I want to carry a bouquet that no one has seen before.”

“That would do the trick,” Kate whispered to me.

“You want to carry a bouquet of only those?” Mack asked, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Buster jumped in before Mack could say anything else. “Could we add some green orchids to fill it out?”

“That's fine. Just a few, though.” Nadine threw her hand back, and her cigarette went flying. We all dodged as it landed in the corner and Buster stamped it out. The bride didn't even notice.

Nadine turned around and gave a long, satisfied sigh. “I feel much better now.” She picked up her purse. “I've gotta run to my final dress fitting. I keep forgetting to eat, so they have to take it in again. Where did I put those cigarettes?”

“We should be all set, then,” I said, hoping to put closure on her last minute changes. “We'll see you at the rehearsal.”

Nadine opened the door and paused. “I'll call you this afternoon, Annabelle. I have a few changes to the passed hors d'oeuvres.”

Before I could explain the problems involved with changing the menu three days before the wedding, she left.

“I'd say that went well,” Kate said with a smirk.

“Oh, shut up.” I pulled the bride's floral proposal out of my bag and turned to Buster and Mack. “So what's the name of the flower she changed her bouquet to?”

Buster grinned. “The bride chose a lovely bouquet of orchids and monkey balls,” he said in a television announcer's voice.

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard right.” Mack beamed. He and Kate collapsed against each other in hysterical laughter.

I imagined the newspaper write-up in Nadine's South Carolina hometown. “The bride wore an ivory Vera Wang gown of silk organza embellished with seed pearls and carried a hand-tied bouquet of orchids and monkey balls.”

Sometimes my job had its rewards.

“I would have left it outside your door but your neighbor threatened to call the bomb squad on me,” Joni said as Kate and I reached the landing to my apartment. She sat outside my apartment door wearing black pants and an untucked black T-shirt, with a paper shopping bag sitting in her lap. Leatrice hovered a few feet away in hot pink cowboy boots, giving her the evil eye.

“I noticed her following me in the building so I pretended to go in my apartment then I tailed her to your door.” Leatrice didn't take her eyes off Joni. “I was about to make a citizen's arrest when you showed up.”

Clearly, Leatrice had been watching too many episodes of
America's Most Wanted
again.

“I'm so sorry.” I hurried to get my keys, giving Leatrice an evil eye of my own. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long.” Joni got to her feet and held out the brown bag with handles. “I planned to leave the video
hanging on the doorknob but apparently that's frowned upon in this building.”

I looked at Leatrice over my shoulder. “This is Joni. The videographer I spoke to on the phone.”

Leatrice began to fidget. “How did I know she was who she claimed to be? That bag could be a high-tech explosive, for all I know.”

“Did you explain who you were?” I asked Joni.

“Several times.” Joni arched an eyebrow. “I didn't know I needed to bring
two
forms of ID, though.”

Kate gave her a nudge. “Well, you do look suspicious. Most terrorists are blond females, you know.”

“She's wearing all black and carrying a package,” Leatrice insisted. “You can't be too safe.”

“This is Washington,” Joni muttered. “Everyone wears black.”

I pushed open my front door and ushered everyone inside, taking the bag from Joni. “Do you want to stay and watch it with us now that you're here?”

“Why not? It's one of the more interesting videos I've shot for pure entertainment value. There was that time that I shot the biker wedding and the bride wore white leather. I don't even know where you could find a leather wedding dress.”

Thankfully, I didn't have any idea, either. The day a bride asked me for a leather dress would be the day I hung up my wedding planner hat.

“And how could I forget the circus wedding?” Joni continued. “That couple was a bit off to begin with, though.”

“Circus people are odd,” I said.

“Oh, they weren't with the circus,” Joni explained. “They just wanted a circus-themed wedding. The groom dressed like a ringmaster and the bride wore a
tightrope walker's costume. All the guests had to dress up like clowns.”

“That's one way to get a lower guest count,” Kate muttered.

Leatrice brightened. “I wouldn't mind going to a wedding like that. I already have the outfit.”

I shook my head. Why was I surprised?

“I'll put the tape in.” Kate took the bag from me and headed toward my television stand tucked in the corner. “I'm dying to see what happened. We missed most of the action after the police detained us.”

“After the bride ran into the courtyard screaming that her wedding vendors had murdered someone, it was pretty much pandemonium.” Joni took a seat on the end of the couch and scooted over when Leatrice sat next to her. “I stopped shooting when the police came out. Luckily, I hadn't come anywhere near the crime scene, and they weren't interested in my ceremony footage.”

“It didn't occur to the police that you might have inadvertently taped something through the glass walls?” I stood behind the couch and waited for Kate to finish putting the tape in the VCR.

“The officer who took our statements seemed really green,” Joni said. “I don't think he'd been to many murder scenes.”

Leatrice turned around to face me. “But you'll show this to the police if we find anything, right?”

“Of course. Once we've determined who the murderer is, I'll turn all the evidence over to the cops and let them make the arrest.” I sighed. “We have to make sure our evidence outweighs the evidence they have against Georgia or it won't do any good.”

“The tape's starting.” Kate hunched in front of the TV. “Where's the remote to this thing?”

“I got it.” I reached over to the wooden end table at the foot of the couch and grabbed the silver remote control. Kate stepped away from the television screen as it filled with an image of the bride getting her makeup done in the hotel suite. She wore jeans and a white button-down shirt, and her bridesmaids clustered around her nibbling on bagels and sipping champagne. She looked so happy that I cringed remembering her face when she saw the dead chef. I pushed the fast-forward button and the screen flashed through more dressing footage, shots of the outside of the church, and the world's fastest ceremony processional.

“Those are lovely dresses.” Leatrice sniffled. “Do you think we could slow it down and watch some of the ceremony? Weddings are so beautiful, I always cry.”

“No way.” Kate shook her head. “It's a full Catholic mass. I sat through it once. No way am I sitting through it a second time.”

We watched in fast forward as readers zipped up to the podium, the bride and groom exchanged vows in rapid fire, and the priest whizzed through communion. I leaned against the back of the couch wondering how long it would take us to get to the good part. You know you've done too many weddings when you consider a murder the most interesting part of a wedding video.

“Here comes the cocktail hour.” Joni reached back and tugged on my sleeve.

I pressed Play and the courtyard came into view. Red lanterns hung from transparent wire and seemed to be suspended in midair. The camera panned the entire space then zoomed in on the bar set up against the Colonnade wall. As the camera slowly tightened its shot on the specialty drink menu in the red lacquered frame, I noticed a flicker of movement behind.

“Stop it there,” Kate cried, pointing to the screen. “Someone's moving in the Colonnade.”

“You're right.” I paused the tape and forwarded it a frame at a time. The background was blurry, but I could make out two figures, both wearing white.

“Chefs' jackets.” Kate slid close to the screen. “They must be wearing chefs' jackets.”

I snapped my fingers. “Of course.” We watched as the figures grappled in slow motion. Then one pushed the other behind the indoor gazebo. The next few seconds seemed to last forever as we waited to see what happened next. Finally one of the chefs emerged into the camera's view. Only one of the chefs. He left the room through the kitchen exit then came back in twice more, each time disappearing behind the gazebo. The killer certainly was thorough.

Kate turned around, her mouth hanging open. “Did we just see the murder?”

I nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. I put the screen on freeze frame.

“It's not very easy to tell who it is, though.” Leatrice squinted at the out of focus figures on the television.

“But we know two very important things now.” My brain started working on overdrive as I focused on the screen. I walked to the TV and pointed to the figure who must have pushed Henri into the ice sculpture. “Whoever killed Henri wore a chef's jacket and had dark hair.”

“You're right.” Kate studied the screen intently. “That narrows it down some, but at the Fairmont there are lots of folks who work in the kitchen and have dark hair.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But Georgia isn't one of them.”