The Accidental Florist jj-16

by Jill Churchill

  "Janey, at least she's unlikely to come to either wedding to make a scene."

  "True," Jane admitted. "Come see your office progress this evening if you can get away."

  "I'd be glad to. I'm at a dead stop on this case right now. Maybe a nice evening will encourage me enough to try something new."

  Chapter

  SIXTEEN

  J

  ane had made her favorite summer pasta salad. Little elbow pasta cooked in chicken broth, white chicken meat cut into small squares and browned slightly. Then minced onions, finely sliced celery, mayo mixed with a hint of nutmeg and a mere breath of curry powder. Nobody had ever guessed there was curry powder in it, but everyone asked what the mystery ingredient was that made it so special. With this she served toasted rounds of bread with Brie spread on it. And a good beer or lemonade depending on who wanted what.

  Mel always chose a cold Coors. The real Coors, not the Light Coors. Todd chose the lemonade. And ate most of the toast and Brie.

  When he'd returned to his room' and computer, Janetook Mel through the dining room and opened the door to his own office. It wasn't an office quite yet. But most of the main parts were done. Some of the studs already had insulation installed. The tiny bathroom had a sink and toilet, ready to install but no door or flooring yet. All but one of the windows were in place, the one which had arrived damaged and was on back order. The empty space was sealed with plastic sheets to keep birds, bugs, and dirt out.

  Mel was impressed. "This might be done by the time we're married."

  "That's what Mr. Edgeworth expects. He's here almost every day. I hear the general contractor groan quietly every time he shows up. Mel, I've been thinking about this case you're on with Miss Welbourne's death. 1 have an idea."

  "What is it?" he asked eagerly.

  "Involve the journalists here and in Australia." "How?"

  "You should be able to get copies of their passport photos from the passport part of the government if you explain why you need them."

  Mel laughed. "Just like that? I ask nicely? And they give me what I want? Jane, have you ever dealt with a federal government agency?"

  "Not really. Just the IRS."

  "Okay, Janey, suppose I can get a copy of their passports? What then?"

  "You pay to have the pictures reproduced in something like the Sunday magazine supplement to the New York

  Times. People all over the country take that. And there must be the equivalent sort of paper in Australia." "So how do they respond to the ad?"

  Jane said, "Oh, I hadn't thought about that. What about a 1-800-something number."

  "And pay thousands of people to answer the phones twenty-four hours a day? And deal with the loonies who think there's something in it for them to pretend they know something? `I saw a couple that looked like that last week in a bar in Denver,' or `I once met a couple in La Jolla that looked just like them two years ago. I think their names were something like Well-something,' Or even nut cases who want to pretend they are one of them."

  "Okay, it was an idea. You said you'd hit a brick wall of sorts trying to find them. This could be the way."

  She knew she hadn't planned this out well enough before presenting it. And it wouldn't be done. She really wanted to help him though. It was fine for his brilliant assistant to find out the whole history of Australian Welbournes, but it hadn't resulted in anything.

  She should have stayed out of it.

  But Mel was aimlessly thinking about Jane's suggestion when he arrived at his office the next morning. Maybe some variation of Jane's idea might work. Find a few rabid go-getter journalists in America and Australia to print the pictures and take it from there. If he'd even mentioned

  the police budget covering dozens, if not more, people to answer phones, he'd be drummed out of his job.

  He turned the first stage of this over to Officer Needham. "Would you burrow through the Internet and find out a couple more things for me?"

  "I'd be glad to." She sat down and opened her notebook and took a pencil out of her pocket. "Shoot."

  "I need, first, to know who is the most rabid, hardworking reporter on the New York Times, and get me his or her telephone number. Or just his extension number there."

  "And next?" she asked.

  "Find out if Australia has a newspaper that's more or less equivalent to the New York Times. Read all over the country, like the Sunday edition of the New York Times."

  "And then?" She had the feeling there was more to this.

  "A copy of the passports for the Welbourne brother and sister. Maybe the hotel where they stayed made a color copy of them. Even if it's black-and-white, we need it."

  Officer Needham rose. "Is that all?"

  "It's plenty, isn't it?"

  "No. I think it will be fairly easy. I'll have to catch the lunch temp at the hotel again. And I'll make a point of wearing lipstick and eye shadow this time."

  She almost bounced out of the room.

  She was back three hours later. "It cost me a double

  chocolate muffin to get a color copy for the lunch replacement. Told him to hide it in his locker so his boss wouldn't smell it lurking somewhere nearby. But I have it. I've also made a list of New York Times reporters. I had to pay by credit card to read their columns. But I found two possibilities. I've written them down. I also found a good reporter in Sydney, Australia."

  She presented the paperwork. She'd made copies of the pieces she'd read by the reporters.

  "You'll be reimbursed for the cost. Fill out the form and I'll countersign it. You've done a good job," Mel told her.

  When she'd filled it out and gone, he sat reading what she'd found. And called to make an appointment with his immediate superior to go over the plan and get an authorization to send the copy of the passport pictures to the New York and Australian newspapers.

  "Are you planning to give the names on the passports?" his superior, John Whitmore, asked.

  "Only to the reporters. They'll be asked not to give the names out, and barely hint at a legacy. Not that her children are getting anything from her estate, but there will be loonies who want to try anything for a little cash and pretend they are the people on the passport pictures."

  "Good idea, but how do the reporters weed them out?" Whitmore asked.

  "By requiring them to spell out their mother's full

  name.

  "Is it a strange name?"

  "Elinor Brooker Welbourne," Mel replied, writing it out in capital letters for the file.

  He got approval for the plan and Officer Needham's expenses. The man who was in the chain of authority ranking right above Whitman had been nagging Mel for months to take over when Whitman retired at the end of the summer. Mel hadn't agreed and hadn't told him why. It was because it was purely a desk job like today's.

  Whitman hadn't left his office for decades to be on the scene of a crime. He never met the suspects or witnesses to get an impression of how truthful they were being. Not that Whitman didn't do his job well. He looked over every single report in detail and had a good memory for following up on the results. But he had grown fat and clumsy. Mel didn't want to run to fat, sitting at a desk all day long.

  The part of the job Mel enjoyed most was the firsthand view of the crime scene, the people — the good ones and the bad ones — that he met along the line of each crime he investigated.

  While Mel was making his calls to the two reporters, Jane and Shelley were at the scene of the murder of Miss Welbourne.

  Before they got to the scene Jane had stopped at the bank for a whole roll of quarters. She put quarters in the parking meter until it refused to take another coin. Neither of them planned to be there for eight hours, but

  it would be a boon to some other driver to find so much free time available.

  They stopped by the community center and read the schedule for the day. There was a class in swing dancing, and a book club meeting, and a bus in front to take mothers and their small children to the nearest l
ibrary from ten to noon.

  Jane and Shelley went across the street to the florist shop and sighed with pleasure at the cool humid fragrant atmosphere inside.

  "I'm Jim Torrady, the owner. Anything special you ladies need? Or just looking around, which you're welcome to do."

  "It smells wonderful in here," Jane said. "I'm getting married in six weeks and I want to order bouquets for myself and for my matron of honor," she said, indicating Shelley.

  "Do you want something fragrant?"

  "By all means. Do you have gardenias?"

  "Of course. They smell wonderful."

  Jane said, "Now this is going to sound silly but there will be a civil wedding the day before the big one. Can I use the gardenias for two days or are they too perishable?"

  "They last fine. Just put them in a big plastic bag with a slightly damp paper towel and keep them in the refrigerator overnight."

  "That sounds wonderful."

  "What else do you want in the arrangement?"

  "What do you suggest? I don't want it to be huge, and I'm wearing an emerald green suit, not a white dress."

  "Small leaves of green and white ivy would be my suggestion. And ivory-colored ribbons to grab to throw it."

  "Now, Shelley, what kinds of flowers do you want to carry yourself?"

  "Do I have to? I don't even know what I'm wearing. We've wasted a lot of time fretting over what you were going to wear."

  "That's true. We do have to sort that out soon. We have plenty of time to come back again. I'll bring along another roll of quarters."

  "A roll of quarters?" the florist asked.

  "Last time I was on the block I didn't notice the parking meters and I was heavily fined. I put in all the quarters the meter would accept this time."

  Jim Torrady laughed out loud.

  So did Jane. She said to Shelley, "I have a yearning to wear a little hat. I wonder if there are still hat stores."

  Mr. Torrady said, "There's one right around the block; it backs up to this shop. She has a good selection. My wife loves any occasion to wear hats and she always buys them there."

  "Let's go look, Shelley. We have seven more hours on the parking meter."

  Shelley came along willingly. "I'd love to wear a little hat, too."

  The shop that backed up to the florist's had dozens and dozens of hats displayed and almost all of them were pretty.

  "Welcome, ladies, I'm Madelyn the Hat Lady. How can I help you?"

  "I'm Jane Jeffry and this is my matron of honor. I'm getting remarried in six weeks and I want a little hat to wear. Sort of a beret, off center."

  "I have those. Let me bring a few to you to consider." She picked out four and Jane tried them on in a three-sided mirror that showed how the hats looked from every angle. The first one was too big. The second too small. The third one was red.

  The red one was the perfect size and sat well on her head with a few bobby pins built-in to hold the hat in place.

  "That's the wrong color, but it would look great if it was the same as your dress," Shelley said. "Let me try it on, too."

  They gushed in unison. "We'll be back with what we're wearing so you can make a color match. Can you do that, Madelyn?"

  "Of course I can. How about coming back the first of

  next week with the dresses so I can find a perfect match." "Done. Shelley, remind me to bring the quarters." "Quarters?"

  Jane explained about the fine for the parking meter.

  "Aren't they obnoxious? I have a parking space behind my shop that doesn't have a meter, but I always remind customers to feed the meters and keep lots of quarters in a jar for them. See you on Monday or Tuesday. Wednesdayis when I take off the afternoon to shop for fabrics and threads and netting."

  "We'll be back Tuesday at the latest."

  They both left the shop happy and Jane suggested they stop by the community center and watch the people dance for a few minutes.

  There were five couples and it was practice not lessons. All of them were skilled. The young women wore short circular skirts under which they wore colorful bloomers. And the young men had sort of slouchy tuxes so they could move around well.

  Jane and Shelley found it fascinating. "I've never seen dancing like that," Shelley said, as one young man threw his partner over his shoulder and back between his feet.

  "Sure you have. It was a rave in the forties musical movies."

  One of the other young men turned his partner in a cartwheel but his hands must have been sweaty and he lost his grip. She fell on the floor and jumped right back up. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and they tried it again, her turquoise bloomers flashing as she spun.

  "That would have at least broken my arm," Shelley said. "I can't take anymore. Let's go shopping at the mall for a dress for me. I'd prefer black, like the men are wearing, if you don't care."

  "Perfect. I'll stand out like a big green parrot,"Jane said with a laugh.

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  J

  ane had driven them today. She knew her cautious driving drove Shelley crazy, just as Shelley's driving scared Jane to death. When they got back to Jane's Jeep, there wasn't a car parked behind them, so Jane could back up a little to pull out into the street. As she did so, she stopped.

  "Why are we just sitting here?" Shelley asked.

  "There is no traffic behind me except a small red car pulling into where I was parked. I want to watch him as he goes to the parking meter."

  Sure enough, the man got out with presumably a couple of quarters in his hand, looked at the meter, and then at Jane's Jeep. He approached the car and Jane rolled the window down.

  "Are you the one who almost filled that meter up?" "I am."

  "That was generous. I've gotten two parking tickets here. It's a regular stop I have to make once a week. I'll do the same favor for someone else," he said with a smile.

  "Sort of like borrowing a cigarette from a stranger, knowing you'll do the same thing for some other stranger someday. It evens out," Jane said.

  "Exactly. Thanks again," he said, departing on his errand. Jane drove off smiling.

  Shelley said, "That was a nice man. And you are a nice woman. In spite of driving at a turtle's pace."

  While Jane was driving them home, in her own sedate way to protect her Jeep, she said, "If you want to wear black, why not try on that black skirt and jacket I bought. We're about the same size, and you don't have to buy something new."

  "I'd love buying something new," Shelley said, "but if it fits me, I'll take you up on the offer. Saves me a trip to the mall and trying on lots of clothes I'm not crazy about."

  The long black skirt and short, fitted jacket looked just as good, if not better, on Shelley than it had on Jane.

  "We'll share it,"Jane said. "What sort of blouse are you going to wear?"

  "A gardenia-colored silk chemise," Shelley said. As she was taking the outfit off, the phone rang.

  It was Ted Jeffry. "Jane, Mother has just been moved

  to the nursing home. I know you wanted to send flowers

  to the staff. Here is the address."

  "Wait a sec. I won't remember it if I don't write it down in my address book."

  He gave her the address and added, "It's Suite 315. I know you said you wanted to send flowers to the staff that's forced to take care of her."

  "I just found a wonderful florist. He's making my bridal flowers. I'll call him right now. He gave me his card. And I'll keep sending arrangements every two weeks until — well, until she is gone." Jane didn't want to say "dead." Not that she thought it would have deeply offended him.

  "I'll visit again tomorrow late in the day and report on the flowers," Ted said.

  While Shelley was putting her clothes back on, she asked once again if Jane had remembered to ask Mel if they could see a copy of the notes Miss Welbourne had made for the last meeting they'd expected to attend.

  Jane slapped her head. "I think I asked him. And he probably forgot."
She paused for a moment. "On the other hand, maybe I forgot to ask. I'll call him right after I call the florist."

  The florist they'd visited had given Jane his-business card, so she rang him up to place the order.

  "My mother-in-law has had a stroke and been moved from the hospital to a nursing home and I want to send flowers to the nursing home."

  "What sort of flowers do you want?"

  "I was thinking of fragrant lilies just coming into bud, and the same with roses. A bit of ferns, perhaps, to fill in.""I can do that today. What is the address and her name?"

  Jane gave him the address and the suite number of the nursing home, added that she wanted the delivery to be to the staff taking care of her.

  "That's a bit odd, Ms. Jeffry."

  "Not really. She's a nasty woman, and a full-fledged bigot. The people who will have to take care of her won't enjoy doing so."

  "I understand. My late mother-in-law was the same sort of woman. I'll have the flowers delivered today."

  "Let's make it an every two weeks renewal until she's no longer alive. Are you ready to take down my credit card number?"

  Her next call was to Mel. "Did I remember to ask you if you could share Miss Welbourne's notes about the next meeting with Shelley and me?"

  "You did ask, and I forgot. Want me to fax them to you right now?"

  Jane and Shelley read through the notes and found them fascinating. The theme was American Flying Tips. She said first, don't buy a black suitcase. Ninety percent of bags coming off a plane were black. Buy a brown or red or bright blue bag and make a pompom.