Ashes of Roses

by Melissa R. L. Simonin

  “That is one option,” Miles concurred.

  “They’ve done a thorough job,” I scowled. “If I didn’t remember this rose in particular, I never would have known to search here.”

  “Do you remember the location of any others?”

  “Not specifically,” I considered. “But… I know there were several I didn’t recognize. But it’s not like I know every rose ever patented.”

  “No, but you know a lot, and so do I,” Miles replied, as we slowly continued down the path. “The roses aren’t planted in as orderly a fashion as the rest of the gardens. Though that adds to its appeal, it does make missing shrubs less conspicuous.”

  “Marge didn’t say anything about this,” I recalled. “I doubt anyone else realizes.”

  “Considering one body was found today, and a search is underway for another, it’s not unfathomable that the loss would go unnoticed,” Miles agreed. He paused, then pointed to the side of the path.

  “Leaves, and a short stem,” I acknowledged. “From a rosebush.”

  “Exactly. Rather than search for missing roses, let’s search for the roses that are missing,” Miles replied. I hurried to stay in step, as he increased his pace. He seemed to know where he was going. “To remove a rose bush would require cutting it down in stages. Those branches have to be somewhere.”

  “Maybe whoever did it, took the pieces with them,” I suggested.

  “If it was one or two missing shrubs, maybe,” Miles replied. “It would be a large, prickly load, regardless. While missing rosebushes in a garden this size might not immediately draw attention, if someone was observed cutting them down and carting them off, that would be.”

  “So… it was done in the dead of night, in between killing at least one person, and avoiding the murder of another—unless it was related, somehow—and during a terrible storm,” I considered. “How much could one person accomplish under those conditions?”

  “How would they know which roses were Finn’s hybrids?” Miles countered, as he took a moment to brush aside more mulch, to reveal what was left of a once towering climber.

  “They work here?” I understood. The thought made me feel a little sick, but… “That would explain it. How they’d know, and… unless Finn saw, they could cart the branches away in broad daylight, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “In the days and weeks leading up to the ball, there’s bound to be an even greater attention to detail than usual,” Miles agreed. “It would amount to a lot of branches, leaves, and trimmings to dispose of.”

  “So logically, if they didn’t cart them away from the manor, they disposed of them in the same place as the rest of the cuttings,” I considered. “So where is that?”

  “I’m guessing there’s a compost pile somewhere on the grounds,” Miles replied. “It’s likely in the vicinity of the building that houses the manor’s gardening vehicles, mowers, tools, and other equipment, when not in use.”

  “Of course,” I realized. “They have to keep all that somewhere. They don’t have a lawncare company with their own equipment, like we do. Even then, the basement at the estate is still used to store supplies. But… where would the manor’s storage building be located?”

  “Behind the manor, just as the greenhouses are,” Miles replied. “I don’t expect it’s far from there. I recall seeing a tall stand of evergreens, about a half acre beyond the furthest greenhouse. Chances are, it shields the building from view.”

  “That makes sense, of course it would be hidden!” I said in excitement. “The Carlisles wouldn’t want a shed, garage, or employee parking lot ruining the scene from the windows of the manor.”

  “The same for a compost pile,” Miles said. “I will be very surprised if we don’t find one. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where the mulch in the flowerbeds comes from.”

  “Excellent,” I said with enthusiasm. “If we find a bunch of fresh rose cuttings, that’ll be another sign it was a manor gardening employee that did it. Who else would know about it in the first place, and risk exposure by going there? The roses had to be carted out by wheelbarrow. These paths aren’t made for motor vehicles, and they’re too narrow, anyway. Moving just the climber, would take several trips. Are those the trees we’re looking for?”

  Up ahead, like a row of pillars, stretched a long stand of tall, narrow, closely spaced evergreens, their pointed tips reaching for the darkening sky overhead.

  “That’s it,” Miles replied.

  “Wouldn’t it be lit? Or maybe the trees block the light,” I commented, as we drew nearer.

  “We’ll soon find out,” Miles said.

  We skirted the trees, and a broad space opened up before us.

  Four trucks were parked there, beside a long, low building. Several rolling garage doors lined the front, alongside one of normal proportions. Above that, a single unlit exterior spotlight was fixed. Dotting the dirt lot surrounding the building and the road that led behind it, stood large piles of clippings, grouped in various stages of decay. We bypassed those either ready to serve as mulch or well on their way, and searched for remnants of green. The lack of bright daylight didn’t greatly aid in our search, but it was enough for now.

  “These piles aren’t just wilted, they’re withered,” I commented, as we canvassed each one. “They’d be dry too, if it wasn’t for all the moisture we’ve had since last night.”

  “It’s here somewhere,” Miles said with confidence. “We’ll search behind the building, if it doesn’t turn up on this side.”

  “Ooh, that’s at least newer,” I pointed to the next pile.

  “And this, is new,” Miles said with satisfaction, as he led me to the one beside it. “Look how fresh the leaves are, and the stems. They were put through a chipper shredder, like the rest, but it’s easy to see what this is.”

  “Rose cuttings,” I agreed, as we bypassed a set of deep tread-marks, on our way for a closer look. Miles activated his phone’s flashlight app, and scanned the large heap of freshly shredded vegetation.

  “See anything other than rose bushes?” Miles questioned.

  “No… Some of these branches were really thick,” I pointed out.

  “Thicker than makes sense, unless the point was to cut them back severely, or remove the plants entirely,” Miles remarked. “It also seems odd that there are no petals, and no buds, in any stage of development.”

  “You’re right… there aren’t,” I realized. “There ought to be. All the roses are in bloom, and gearing up for more. We know Finn ensured that the hybrids were deadheaded to prevent seeds growing, but…”

  “These all lost their heads regardless of development, and before being put through the shredder,” Miles said. “Perhaps whoever took Finn’s seeds, his record book, and the young hybrids, felt the immature buds could be used to prove ownership. What I’m certain of, is that it isn’t standard practice to remove all trace of buds before disposing of cuttings.”

  “So it’s a safe assumption that we’re right, and this is what’s left of the hybrids that were once planted in the garden,” I concluded.

  “I would say so,” Miles agreed, as he slowly circled the mountain of once vibrant roses. I followed close beside him, and watched as he shone his light from top to bottom, and side to side. “Hm.”

  “What?” I wondered, as he focused on the ground, and the shredded cuttings strewn there.

  “I don’t think the wind would scatter quite like this,” he commented, as he turned and panned the light behind us.

  “Maybe the vehicle that made those ruts was used to pile it all together, once the rose murderer was done chopping them up,” I said disapprovingly. I couldn’t help being really upset at whoever did this to Finn’s beloved life’s work! I was trying hard not to think what the odds were that Finn’s life was ended, in the process.

  “Right,” Miles said, as he led the way back to the deep tracks in the mud. “So… unless this area had rain the rest of the manor didn’t, or suffered a case of severe
over-irrigation, I don’t think these tracks were made yesterday afternoon, or even evening.”

  “Okay, but… how in the world would anyone manage chipper-shredding all this in a storm? Why would they go to the trouble of piling it up, afterward? Would that even be possible, with the wind, and how could they see to do all that? It’s not like it’s well-lit over here. Even if that light was on, it wouldn’t be.”

  “I agree,” Miles said grimly.

  “What?” I wondered, as the pile began to shift. Either there was something alive in there, or Miles’ superpowers were responsible.

  “Just… a theory,” Miles replied.

  The pile separated, lifted, then abruptly stopped. My eyes widened.

  “Is that…” I gulped.

  Miles nodded gravely.

  “I think we found our missing body.”

  Chapter 16

  “Oh my goodness, is it…” I gripped Miles’ arm. He hesitated, then the shroud of pulverized leaves, branches, and stems rose higher.

  For several agonizing moments, my eyes raced over the body lying facedown on the ground amongst the debris.

  I let out a deep breath, and pressed my hand to my heart.

  “It’s not Finn,” Miles stated, because I was speechless with relief. I nodded, as we studied the body some more. I couldn’t tell height, but he was definitely stockier than Finn. He wore dark boots, dark pants, a dark coat—

  “Look at his arm,” I said, as I stared at the puncture wounds evenly spaced along the right shoulder and sleeve of the man’s coat.

  “It matches what we saw in the greenhouse,” Miles commented.

  “So he’s the guy that was killed there,” I summed up. “Who on earth is he, and what business did he have here?”

  “I can only guess, but as there’s no one missing from the manor except Finn, then he’s not an employee,” Miles pointed out. The shroud began to condense and lower, and I squeezed his arm hard.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed.

  “For what?” Miles’ forehead furrowed slightly, as he looked at me.

  “Why are you covering him back up?” I frowned.

  “This is a crime scene every bit as much as the greenhouse,” Miles explained. “I can’t very well set this someplace else. Valuable clues could be lost.”

  “Yes, exactly,” I said pointedly. “You cover him back up, who knows what valuable clues we’ll miss out on. I’m not convinced everything the officers learn, gets trickled down to us.”

  “I don’t suppose your proposal is that I leave things the way they are now,” he said dryly, with a glance at the mass of plant matter suspended in midair.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “But you already knew that. So check for a wallet, then turn him over.”

  Miles grimaced.

  “That sounds suspiciously like tampering, to me.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” I declared. “With your forcefields, your memory, and your skill, you can search him easy, and still keep the scene intact. You can search him and keep the scene intact, anyway. It may be harder than it looks.”

  “Really,” Miles half-laughed, in an I-can’t-believe-what-my-wife’s-asking-me-to-do-this-time kind of way.

  “It’s the truth,” I declared. “It’s also true that this is our business. There’s darkness here somewhere. It’s our responsibility to find it. How will we do that, if we don’t learn all we can, when the opportunity arises?”

  “Not easily,” Miles resigned himself. “Not that this will be.”

  “You can do this,” I declared, as I stepped behind him, and wrapped my arms around his chest. If I distracted him, or interrupted his line of sight, that could change in a hurry!

  “If I end up ripping the lining out of his pockets, I’m giving you the credit,” Miles informed me.

  “That’s fair,” I said soothingly.

  “How do you suggest we explain this, should there happen to be a video camera in the vicinity?” Miles asked.

  “We don’t have to have an answer for everything, it’s too late to avoid the theoretical camera, and I saw you checking out the building. There isn’t one.”

  “You may not have to have an answer for everything, but I’ve yet to see you without one,” Miles tsked.

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I said.

  “Neither am I,” he teased, because that wasn’t the truth! He knew. He just chose not to elaborate.

  Before I could ponder that much, the body moved slightly. It shifted one way, then the other.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in his back pockets,” Miles reported. “If you suggest using a forcefield in place of gloves to institute a closer search, then I have one thing to say; be my guest.”

  I couldn’t help laughing a little. I also squeezed tighter, and shivered.

  “As if you’d let me,” I replied. “His coat must have pockets. Check those.”

  “That will require flipping him,” Miles warned me.

  “I’ve seen worse,” I steeled myself. “Probably. Maybe. I’m not sure, actually.”

  Miles half-laughed, half-groaned, and the body slowly lifted and turned.

  I recoiled slightly. I couldn’t help it, even though I had seen worse. This was real-time, real life, and a real body that was really there, and just a few feet away. The man’s face was deep purple, and his nose kind of smooshed to one side—well anyway, he’d seen better days, for sure. One arm was bent and the other stuck out awkwardly, scratches marked his face and hands, and his coat and pants were ripped in places…

  “No way,” I said with a shock of surprise. “You don’t think—this is the guy, do you?”

  “The one who assaulted you in our suite last night?” Miles asked grimly. “I’ll be surprised if we find he isn’t. I already see several thorns imbedded in the torn fabric. I don’t imagine they came from the cuttings used to bury him.”

  “How on earth did he get from trying to steal the seeds Finn gave me, to—this?” I puzzled. “Is he also responsible for the destruction in and to the greenhouse, and cutting down the hybrids? Was there enough time for that? Any of that? Is his coat really stiff, or is that the forcefield holding everything in place?”

  “Both,” Miles replied, as he made use of his phone’s flashlight app, and directed it at the front of the man’s coat. “Judging by this, and what we found inside the greenhouse, I strongly suspect he bled to death.”

  “Wouldn’t that take a long time, unless he has other injuries we can’t see?” I studied the evenly spaced wounds doubtfully.

  “Not if an artery was compromised. It’s difficult to tell precisely where he was injured because of his coat, which is staying right where it is, but it’s possible the brachial or subclavian arteries were punctured. It’s highly improbable he stabbed himself with a pitchfork, and he certainly didn’t manage his own burial. It’s likely he was too busy fighting, to apply pressure and seek medical help. Not that pressure would make any difference in the event of a subclavian rupture.”

  The man’s coat pockets moved slightly, then so did those of the pants he wore.

  “Nothing?” I asked in disappointment.

  “As far as I can tell, without sight or a sense of feeling,” Miles replied.

  I watched as one side of the man’s coat lifted a fraction of an inch. There was a metallic flash, and excitement surged through me.

  “A cellphone!” I exclaimed.

  “Looks like it,” Miles replied, but his focus was on removing the phone without disturbing its surroundings. The body turned, then tilted, to provide a better view. The phone moved slightly, and so did the coat. Miles stopped, reassessed, and tried again. Finally he shook his head. “The man’s coat and sweater are fused together with blood. If I move the phone any further, it’ll be obvious. That won’t help the authorities in their investigation, and it will cause them to suspect we tampered with the body before contacting them. I’d just as soon not give them that cause.”

  I slumped, and re
signed myself.

  “That’s the truth,” I said. “So… moving on.”

  “I really do love your ability,” Miles declared. “Who knows how many arguments the truth has spared us.”

  “I don’t know, after a while I quit counting,” I replied, and he laughed.

  The body turned again, and the other side of the jacket slowly lifted.

  “Another pocket,” Miles remarked.

  “With something in it,” I said, and held my breath as a wallet gradually slid into view.

  With a sigh of relief I watched it escape the man’s inside suit pocket, and come to a stop in front of us. It unfolded, revealing a driving licence, on which was listed an English address, and the name Harry Price. I studied the image printed there.

  “Same hair color,” Miles commented, with a glance at the body. “Height and weight are about right. Do you recognize him from last night?”

  “No, but I didn’t get a good look,” I said. “How tall is he, anyway? In feet?”

  “Five foot eight,” Miles converted for me.

  “That sounds right,” I recalled.

  “Then all things considered, it’s safe to say Harry Price is the guy,” Miles concluded.

  A thorough emptying of the wallet revealed several paper bills and business cards for pubs in England, Ireland, and Scotland, all with phone numbers written on the back.

  “Rather than memorize the details, I suggest we photograph the contents,” Miles said. “If you’ll kindly shed some light on the subject, I’ll use my phone.”

  I turned on my flashlight app, he turned his off, then thoroughly photographed each item before returning them to Harry Price’s wallet. The wallet then carefully slid halfway into the inside pocket of his coat, then stuck.

  The wallet retreated, then tried again, as the pocket bulged on one side.

  “There’s something else in there,” I couldn’t help commenting, as the wallet moved aside, then the bulge inside his pocket moved. Miles was too busy trying to retrieve it, to respond.

  “It would be so much easier if I could see what I’m doing,” he said, as his eyebrows knit in concentration.