Liv rolled her eyes and then rolled up the windows before easing down the alley with her floral cargo.
Inside the shop, Amber Lee moved with amazing speed, filling the self-serve cooler and readying the shop for opening.
“So how did you like the Rawling place?” She wiped a few stray smudges from our glass counter.
“Quite a setup,” I said. “Ever been there?”
“Naw, been trying to get a tour of the place from a guy in my garden club. Says he works there. His name’s Worthington.”
“Worthington? The butler?” Aloe guy.
“He’s a butler? I thought he might be a gardener or something.”
“Do you know much about him?” I asked.
“Only that he lives on the estate in his own private cottage and that he likes to garden. He talks about plants and soil but little else. Should I try to find out more?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, how weird would it be if the butler did it? But I wonder what he might know about Derek’s death since he works with the Rawlings every day.”
“I’m on it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She winked.
I picked up a peach rose discarded because its long stem had broken, then gathered a few more flowers and arranged them into an old-fashioned nosegay bouquet. The thought of going to the police department and possibly facing Bixby intimidated me a bit. But I had an ally there, one who might be able to smooth my way and supply me with a little extra information, and one who was very fond of nosegay bouquets.
• • •
“For me, Audrey?” Mrs. June cradled the small bouquet, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled, a look of sheer ecstasy filling her wrinkled face. “Sure beats smelling sweaty cops all day.” She opened her drawer, pulled out a glass bud vase, poured part of her bottled water into it, and set the flowers inside, placing them right next to the nameplate on her desk, which read “June Hoffman, receptionist.”
Mrs. June had been Grandma Mae’s next-door neighbor. Our grandmother had tried to coax us to address her as Miss June—as is the old Southern custom. But Mrs. June wouldn’t hear of it, claiming it made her sound too much like a centerfold model.
Mrs. June had also received a number of our childhood bouquets. And she’d reward us by telling us stories about the police department—tales of vagrants and counterfeiters and bootleggers that I now wondered if she didn’t get from old Jimmy Cagney movies and not real life. And stories that I doubted Grandma Mae knew about.
Now nearing the typical age of retirement, Mrs. June had outlasted several changes of administration at the Ramble Police Department. She was a rotund, jowly woman with poufy hair she kept dyed a rich “decadent mocha” (I’d seen the box), though it no longer appeared natural. A small pair of readers perched on the edge of her nose, and, like always, she’d dressed up her sweater with a chunky costume necklace and matching clip earrings that made her lobes droop low.
I leaned over and gave her a hug, sniffing in her familiar aroma consisting of a blend of the same perfume she’d worn ever since we met her, now mingled with Bengay. “How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there, kiddo, hanging in there. And thank you so much for the flowers.” Her arthritic fingers stroked the rose. “But I do suspect you’re here about Jenny.”
I reached into her candy dish and pulled out a Hershey’s Kiss. “I brought some things she asked me for and was hoping to visit with her . . . after you and I have a minute to catch up.” I flashed her a smile and sank into her visitor’s chair.
Mrs. June removed her readers and let them fall on the cord that hung around her neck.
“I can make sure Jenny gets her things, but I’m afraid the visit is not going to happen.”
“Isn’t she allowed visitors?” I asked. “Surely Bixby can’t stop people from—”
Mrs. June held up a hand and looked around the room before continuing.
The Ramble Police Department had an eclectic mix of furniture and fixtures. Not being a town given to extravagance, things were replaced when completely worn-out or obsolete, meaning the building was furnished with reminders of many eras. A wall-mounted pencil sharpener that looked like it dated from the early part of the previous century. Battered mustard yellow and avocado desks that screamed the 1970s and were almost in style again. Thankfully they’d removed the seventies paneling a couple of years back in favor of the natural historic brick. Of course, new computers and copy machines looked almost anachronistic against the older furnishings.
She leaned in and continued, softly, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than blaming Bixby. But first of all, we don’t keep prisoners here. We don’t even have holding cells anymore. All prisoners are taken directly to the regional detention center.”
“Then I’ll go there. That’s, what, just ten minutes . . . ?”
Mrs. June shook her head. “It would be fruitless. My niece Brenda works there. Jenny is allowed visitors, but now she claims she doesn’t want them.”
“Doesn’t want . . . ? That just doesn’t make sense. Jenny called me.”
“I know. I know.” Mrs. June’s eyes took on that let-me-kiss-it-and-make-it-all-better expression. “But just between you and me—and I’m only saying this because I know she’s your friend—a lot of things she’s been saying and doing don’t make much sense. If I didn’t know better . . .”
“What?”
“Well, it’s just that . . . when she got here, she fell asleep in the interview room twice. Now, according to Brenda, she spends much of the time pacing her cell. And she’s not eating.”
“Stress? And I know she’s counted calories for a few years now.”
“But her meals are mostly untouched. It’s almost like . . .” Mrs. June trailed off and waited. A dramatic pause. She certainly demonstrated a love for the dramatic, but I was too tired to carry out this guessing game much longer.
“Like?”
“Audrey, I’ve been doing this job for a long time, and I’ve seen suspects come and go—not all the time, mind you. But even in Ramble it happens. And back when we used to hold our own prisoners, I saw all kinds of reactions to the stress of being locked up. But this kind of reaction? I’ve seen it before.”
Another dramatic pause. Mrs. June was a shoo-in for the Ramble Drama Guild. I waited this one out.
“And you know her pretty well. Could she have been—I hate to say it—doing drugs of some kind? Because it almost seems like she’s suffering some kind of withdrawal.”
I stood and did some pacing of my own. A few years ago, I would have sworn that Jenny could never be involved in drugs. But did I know the new Jenny? I knew that some women take illegal drugs to help them lose weight. Did I know for certain she hadn’t been involved in drugs? Or hadn’t killed Derek, for that matter? Could people change that much over such a short period of time? “You know, Jenny told me she had taken a sleeping pill. Could that have done it?”
“It’d have to be a pretty powerful sleep aid.”
“You mention your drug theory to Bixby?” I asked.
“He saw everything I saw. But I certainly don’t have to draw any conclusions for him.”
“Good. If Bixby thought she’d been on drugs, that would give him all the more reason to suspect her guilt.”
“I wish I could get her regular doctor to go see her, but there’s no other sign that she’s sick. I think she’d be much better off in a hospital.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Maybe ask around. See if anyone knows what she was taking. Perhaps then we’d know how to help her. Our guys didn’t find any drugs in her apartment during the search. Meanwhile, I’d pray for the little thing. Brenda said that she seemed so lost, you know what I mean.”
“Will do, Mrs. June. I guess I’ll run these by th
e regional center anyway.” I lifted the Walmart bag.
“Actually, you can leave these things here with me. Lafferty has to run a drunk-and-disorderly over in a few minutes. He can take them with him.”
She reached out for the bag, then looked through the items. “I’ll make sure they clear these to her right away. Perhaps that would help her mood a bit. And I’ll keep asking Brenda about a visit. Maybe she can work on Jenny to let you go out and see her. If she agrees, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks.” I sat silently in the chair for a moment, wondering if I should ask the next question. I loved Mrs. June and wouldn’t want to needle her for a favor that made her uncomfortable or to do anything to compromise her employment status.
“You’ve got something else on your mind, Audrey.”
“I think Bixby’s dead wrong on this one.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” It wasn’t that Mrs. June held Bixby in disdain because of any particular incompetence. But I knew she idolized a longtime chief of police who had served several administrations ago—her father—and no one had measured up since. At least in her eyes.
My gaze traveled to the wall, to the framed oil painting of her father in uniform. “I also don’t think he’s going to look for anyone else while Jenny’s in custody.”
“What are you getting at?”
“She needs help.”
“She has a public defender, but I heard she barely said two words to her. Helping that child is not going to be easy.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on her desk and my chin on my tented fingers. “Mrs. June, are you privy to information on the case?”
She glanced to the empty desks behind her but leaned in closer anyway. “I might be. After all, someone needs to make sure case reports are legible, filed correctly, and photocopied. I guess it would depend on what you were after.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened after Jenny left the flower shop. I know she had the knife and the bouquet when she left. And that looks bad—she and Derek in the car with the bouquet and the knife. If they had a violent argument there, it’s everything in one tidy package—means, motive, opportunity. But they didn’t break up in Derek’s car. Jenny’s roommate said Jenny and Derek were talking in the apartment—that Derek left and Jenny went to bed. I guess I’d like to know more about the crime scene and what Bixby found in the car.”
Mrs. June wheeled on her chair to a credenza behind her desk and sifted through a number of folders before wheeling back toward me.
“I won’t show you the crime scene photographs,” she said. “They’re pretty gruesome. But there’s an inventory sheet here of everything found in the car. And a report describing the scene. I shouldn’t show you that, either, though.”
“Okay, don’t show it to me. But they found a bouquet in the car, right?”
“Yes, or rather, the remnants of one. It looked like it was tore up pretty good. Petals everywhere.”
“That doesn’t make sense to me. Who would vent their rage against flowers? Except maybe a displeased bridezilla or two I may have encountered over the years.”
“Or maybe a bride who just called off her engagement.”
“Oh, that doesn’t look good for Jenny, does it?”
“The weird thing was that someone tore it up after Derek was murdered. But not long after.”
“How could they tell that?”
“There was blood underneath the petals, like they were tossed on top of Derek’s body—and on the stems where the killer grasped them.”
“The killer’s hands must have been covered in blood, then. How could he get away without being seen?”
“That’s why Jenny is a prime suspect. The theory is that after her roommate went to bed, Jenny sneaked out and killed Derek—who was still in the car in front of her place, for some reason. Then she went straight back into the apartment, changed, cleaned up, disposed of the incriminating clothing, bleached everything, then went to sleep and waited for the police to show up, thinking that her roommate could alibi her.”
“But that’s idiotic.”
Mrs. June gave a halfhearted nod. “Nevertheless, that’s the working theory.”
“Did they find anything in the apartment to corroborate that?”
“No bloody path leading to Jenny’s bedroom door, if that’s what you mean. And no bloody clothes. Only recent evidence of bleach in the tub and on the floor. And a suspicious spot they cut out of the rug and sent off to the state lab for testing. But there’s no law against cleaning with bleach, or all of our grandmothers would have ended up in the clink years ago.”
“The thing that I don’t understand, though, is . . . the knife being in the car.”
“Oh, Audrey, dear. I can understand that would be disconcerting, since you gave it to Jenny. But you can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t.” At least I hadn’t until Mrs. June suggested it. “But I gave Jenny a bag full of tools and a bouquet. The bag is in her apartment; the shears are in the apartment. How did the bouquet and knife end up in the car if Jenny is not the killer?”
Mrs. June’s brows furrowed before she leafed through her file again, licking her fingers to help her turn pages. “Audrey, did you give her a roll of green florist’s tape?”
“Yes, but I don’t recall seeing it in the apartment.”
“It’s on the inventory list of items found in the car.”
Shortly after, I exited the brick government building back onto Ramble’s sunny Main Street. I was still shaking my head. Even if I had read Jenny all wrong, and she had gone back out to kill Derek after Sarah went to bed, why would she take the bouquet? And why in the world would she take the florist’s tape?
Chapter 8
“I’m sure everything will be stunning.” I referred to the tropical bouquets and centerpieces as my latest bridal client signed her check for the deposit. I was less sure how a beach-themed wedding with leis and tiki torches and a whole pig roast would go over in Ramble, almost one hundred miles from the nearest beach. Or how trucking in and dumping all that sand would be looked upon by the staff of the couple’s chosen venue, the exclusive Ashbury Inn, where, according to Kathleen Randolph, local historian and owner of the restored historic inn, George Washington once slept. And where his ghost was reported to walk the halls, rattling doors and stealing the pricey hand soap out of the guest rooms.
For a moment, I even pondered how our esteemed first president would view the wedding frenzy created by today’s brides, each demanding her perfect day, regardless of the cost. But I drove that thought from my head. Part of that frenzy would pay my gas bill this winter so I wouldn’t freeze like the revolutionary troops at Valley Forge.
I rose to escort the beach-bunny bride out of the consulting nook when clanking on the iron steps announced another visitor.
“Audrey, I demand to speak with you.” Ellen Whitney, eyes bloodshot and gaze unsteady, stood at the top of the steps. Her color of the day was lime green. Or maybe it was yesterday’s color because Ellen was quite in disarray, clothing wrinkled, makeup nonexistent, and hair, well, her beautician would be mortified. And while I can’t say I’d been in many distilleries to make an accurate comparison, she smelled as if she’d taken the grand tour of one and knocked back a vat or two when the guides weren’t looking.
“Of course. We’ve just finished here.” I turned to the startled bride, smiled, and shook her hand. “Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.” She giggled and tucked her receipt into her purse before squeezing past Ellen.
“Yeah, congratulations.” Ellen’s slurred voice echoed through the store. “Enjoy your little wedding. Maybe I’ll come. You’ll know me. I’ll be sitting in the back wearing black. You know why?”
Ellen waited for an answer, but the bride wisely exited the store. I caught a glimpse of Liv mouthing “Sorry” to me.
I glanced at the perfectly flat area of floor and practiced customer service with a smile. “I’ll take care of it. Now, what can I do for you today, Mrs. Whitney?”
She staggered over to the table and collapsed into a chair. “I came to get my money back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitney. If you had called, I could have saved you a trip. You see, I already gave Jenny her money back when she canceled the order.”
It took Ellen at least twenty seconds to process what I’d told her. “All of it?”
“All but the nonrefundable portion.”
“Well, give me that, then.” She pounded her fist on the table for emphasis, then winced. Not a good thing to do on a fieldstone table.
I considered defining “nonrefundable” for her, but since twenty-five dollars wouldn’t send us into bankruptcy, and the family had been through so much . . . Besides, twenty-five bucks was a small price to pay to get a drunken, belligerent Ellen out of the shop. As she staggered behind me to the counter, I insisted she sign a receipt for the money. I doubted she’d remember I gave it to her. Not in this state of mind.
“There you go, Mrs. Whitney.” I counted the bills out for her and watched as she tucked them into her purse, along with her copy of the receipt. “Have a nice day.”
“Serves you right, you know that.”
I smiled and hoped she’d turn and leave. Fat chance.
“And do you know why?”
Here we go again, I thought.
“All that hoopla about those magic bouquets of yours. Well, it didn’t work this time, did it? It didn’t work for my Jenny.” Her voice cracked with pain. “Why, Audrey? Why didn’t it work for Jenny?”
Bloom and Doom Page 9
