SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery

by Challinor, C. S.

  He found Erik Christiansen in a subterranean garage lined with luxury sedans polishing the chrome on the silver limo. Dressed in black livery, he straightened when he saw Rex. He was about two inches shy of the older man’s six-four without his cap, which hung from the hood ornament.

  “Tell me what you know,” Rex urged the Howes family chauffeur, sensing that a direct plea would elicit more confidence than a bribe. “I sense there’s something more than you let on earlier.”

  “I really don’t know anything. And I don’t want to lose my best client.”

  “Sir Howes is the one who retained my services, so we’re working for the same person. Anything you can tell me that relates to his dead daughter, however insignificant it may have appeared to you at the time, would be appreciated. And, hopefully, helpful in finding the driver who knocked her down.”

  With a brief look around the garage, Christiansen nodded. “But just so you understand, this is a good gig and I don’t want to lose it.”

  “Understood.”

  “So, Friday night, I dropped her parents off at a dinner in Mayfair and was cruising around looking for a place to eat, when I saw her leave Presto’s. I stopped the car and she got in. She said she’d been stood up.”

  “By Gino?”

  “Yeah. She was close to tears, but more angry, you know? I tried to comfort her.”

  “And how did you do that?” The icy Christiansen did not strike Rex as the hugging, soothing type.

  “I kissed her. She kissed me back. She was tipsy, that’s for sure. We kissed for a while. It seemed to make her feel better. Don’t tell Sir Howes any of this. She told me she was going to break off the engagement with Gino. Pride had prevented her from calling him to find out where he was, and sometimes he didn’t answer her calls. I thought this strange. Gino was on to a good thing. Why screw up? Elise was rich and beautiful, with a powerful father. Anyway, she finally told me to let her out of the car. She wanted to walk home.”

  “Did she walk in that direction, or in the opposite direction towards Gino’s place?”

  “Towards her place. I insisted she let me drive her. Her father would have wanted me to. I mean, she was in no state…but she said the air would do her good.”

  “She had no flowers with her at that point?”

  “Flowers? No. Just a handbag.”

  “Mr. Christiansen, how long have you been driving the Howes?”

  “Eight, nine months.”

  “Have you been in London long?”

  “Long enough to know my way around.”

  “Essential in your line of work, I imagine. Is this your only line of work?”

  Christiansen flushed pink beneath his pale skin. “I’m training for the stage. I lived in L.A. for a time doing the valet-acting thing, but I thought I might get further if I came here to study as a Shakespearean actor. I hope to get into the RSC and perhaps go back to the States later.”

  Rex wished him good luck and said he’d make a good Hamlet. The Dane gave the faintest of smiles and got back to his task of sprucing up the limo.

  “By the way, do you know where the Italian Ambassador lives?” Rex asked over his shoulder. “It would save me time looking it up.”

  Christiansen straightened his lean frame, the polishing cloth dangling from his right hand. “Of course. He’s a friend of Sir Howes. He was the guest of honour at the club party that night.” He gave Rex the address.

  *

  Rex waited in line at the coffee house across the street from his borrowed flat. Done out in shades of brown and beige, with a framed floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the polished wood counter, the café exuded a fragrance of French custard and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. He ordered a latte and two pastries, and took his breakfast into the park.

  A solitary green bench in a corner beckoned among the copper beech, oak, and horse chestnut trees. He sat enjoying the watery sunshine, while drifts of creamy white blossoms ruffled in the breeze at his feet, and savoured the moment along with his breakfast before making his first in-person call of the day.

  The previous night after dinner he had spread his notes across the living room table and moved the angle poise lamp from the small desk. He had worked for a while in the pool of light, making annotations and studying photos of the scene of the accident. Then, chewing on his dry pipe as he contemplated the framed posters on the wall depicting red maple leaves in autumnal Beijing, he had considered likely scenarios relating to the hit-and-run, based on the facts supplied by Mr. Whitmore and on his own information. One stood out. Abruptly he had left his work on the table and gone out on a clandestine mission.

  He now watched in distraction while a disheveled old woman, the front buttons on her tweed coat misaligned, rolled a shopping bag made of stiff tartan cloth along the diagonal path through the park. The material bulged with elongated cylindrical shapes. Rex was in no doubt as to what the zipped-up bag contained. Whatever the lady’s alcoholic preference, she appeared eager to get home to consume it and proceeded at a purposeful clip. Would Elise Howes, with her predilection for drink, have ended up the same way? he wondered.

  A sudden gust ripped through the trees sending a new shower of woodsy-scented chestnut blooms onto the grass. Retrieving his black brolly, he rose from the bench. He discarded the coffee container and pastry box in a corrugated iron bin, and exited the park. On the street he hailed a black cab, giving the driver the Italian Ambassador’s address.

  Vittorio Scalfaro was home, confined to a day bed in the drawing room with a professed migraine, and draped in a silk robe of midnight blue. He was almost comically flabbergasted when the Scotsman told him he had found his silver Ferrari in Giannelli’s “other” garage undergoing a touch-up.

  “You found my stolen car?”

  Judging by the decor, the ambassador was a man of refined taste, and Rex felt frumpy by comparison. But Scalfaro was not a good liar, at least not for a diplomat.

  “Not stolen, Ambassador,” Rex said pointedly. “Merely temporarily out of commission. Your private club gave me a list of the valet-parked cars for Friday night. Yours was returned to you withoot a scratch shortly before Miss Howes’ accident.”

  The man’s clean-shaven face sank into blurred lines. Rex decided to cut him some slack. Scalfaro appeared to be suffering enough.

  “You probably did not see the young woman step out onto the street. A van blocked your visibility, and it was dark. Had the wheel been on the right-hand side, you might have seen her sooner and had a chance to break.”

  “Alas, so true!” The ambassador spoke in melodious tones, like Gino’s. “I should have bought a car with British steering, but I planned on driving the Ferrari back to Italy. Signorina Howes leapt out of nowhere! I felt the impact and took off in a blind panic. I didn’t realize at the time that the pedestrian was Sir Howes’ daughter. I thought I should get home right away and seek legal advice. After all, a person in my position… How would it look?”

  “Worse now,” Rex informed him. “The police will suspect you of drinking. And charge you with fleeing the scene of an accident.”

  Scalfaro raised his hands in supplication. “A gin and tonic and two glasses of wine with dinner. It is conceivable I was going too fast—one always does in Ferraris, but traffic was light. I am filled with remorse. But, what can be proved?”

  Not a lot, Rex thought; except that the man was a coward. To top it all, he had diplomatic immunity from prosecution. What, he enquired out of interest, had Scalfaro’s legal advice been?

  “To wait on events. When no one was able to identify my car, my attorney suggested I get it fixed without delay using the utmost discretion. The repercussions as Italian Ambassador to the UK could be embarrassing in the extreme, and Parliament has enough embarrassment to deal with. If only I could turn back the clock of that terrible night!” Scalfaro lamented.

  Aye, thought Rex, but the girl would probably be dead anyhow, at Giannelli’s hands.

  And what did Rex plan to do
with this information? the ambassador asked, rising shakily from the Victorian day bed.

  “Not my decision,” Rex told him, excusing himself with a curt goodbye.

  It was time to confront Gino Giannelli.

  *

  Rex consulted his notebook for the business address Mr. Whitmore had provided, and availed himself of the waiting cab. A shower broke out as they took off down the quiet leafy street and turned onto a thoroughfare. Rex sat back on the worn seat and re-ordered his thoughts. Getting some sort of confession or at least confirmation of his hypothesis from Elise’s fiancé would be crucial to wrapping up the case.

  “But the police searched my premises.” The young Italian spread his arms wide, indicating the breadth of hangar filled with a half dozen imported luxury cars. He gestured impatiently to a mechanic to leave them. The place was immaculate, the smell of new tires and engine oil intoxicating. Rex who, incongruously for his size, drove an economical Mini Cooper, found himself seduced by the sleek long bonnets and sexy rear ends of these gas-hungry predators. Gino caressed the moulded front quarter panel of a cherry red Maserati GranTurismo with almost sensual pleasure. Clearly these machines were his passion.

  “I was referring to a body shop which you omitted to tell the detectives aboot,” Rex enlightened him. “I saw a freshly sprayed silver Ferrari in there.” He had shinnied up a drainpipe the previous night with a pocket torch, a precarious endeavour considering his bulk, but in the pursuit of justice worth the risk of a broken ankle.

  “So?”

  “It made me curious and more than a little suspicious, especially when I saw the diplomatic plate. I traced it back to a Vittorio Scalfaro whom you sold it to in March. Your personal assistant was very helpful when I called this morning posing as a potential buyer. As was the house agent who found you the new premises.” And Mr. Whitmore, of course. The solicitor had identified the Ferrari as belonging to the Italian Ambassador, a friend of Sir Howes’.

  “Your point?” Gino demanded, showing impatience.

  “The ambassador came to you for a repair job—a little quid pro quo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’d been dining in Mayfair and left the club shortly before the accident, in which he has admitted his involvement. Perhaps he saw you at the scene.”

  “He didn’t. Nobody saw me.” Gino fell silent, realizing his error. His hand struck the two-door coupé he’d been fondling. “Merda!” he swore.

  “Say It with Flowers stays open late at the weekend. The girl at the shop told me a man fitting your description paid cash for a bunch of chrysanthemums just before closing. Mums?” Rex asked emphatically, raising an eyebrow.

  “They were a peace offering for being late,” Gino explained—warily.

  “Roses are more romantic, not so?”

  “The roses were drooping and sad. I liked the look of the golden balls. So sunny, so alive! I got them on the way to her place.”

  “Spur of the moment?”

  “That is how I am. Impulsive. They told me at Presto’s she had left not long before. I saw her on the street and called out her name.”

  “What then?”

  “I explained I had overslept from a nap and was coming over to her flat to surprise her. I offered to walk her home, but she was having none of it. She was angry, and a little drunk. She only accepted the flowers when I threatened to throw them in the gutter. The next thing that happened was an accident. She stepped into the road still shouting at me over her shoulder. The driver took off in a hurry, and I couldn’t make out the number plate. It happened so fast.”

  Giannelli mopped his brow with the cuff of his spotless blue overalls. “I knew Elise’s father would blame me, even though it wasn’t my fault, so I left when I saw another person coming to her aid.” Rex felt sure he would have fled anyway. “Later, when Vittorio dropped off his Ferrari, I had my suspicions. A yellow petal was stuck in the grille.”

  “But you couldn’t be sure he hadn’t seen you, so you did the repair, no questions asked.”

  Giannelli made no reply.

  “The good Samaritan heard Elise say ‘Chris’ and ‘Jean’ with her dying breath. I suspect she was trying to say “chrysanthemums” and managed the first part of your name, Gin-o. The chrysanthemum in your country represents death. The flowers you gave her were a death warning. Not true?” A sous-chef at Presto’s had supplied this interesting tidbit when Rex asked if chrysanthemums were popular in Italy, thus confirming what his suicidal ex-girlfriend had told him.

  Gino shook his head derisively, going so far as to tap his temple to indicate the Scotsman’s lack of sanity. “You are reading too much into all of this.”

  Undeterred, Rex continued his theory. “You heard the powerful engine of a speeding car and pushed Elise in front of it, not realizing it was Scalfaro’s Ferrari. The left-hand drive may have afforded the ambassador less reaction time as Elise ‘leapt’ onto the street, as he described it. A wee push by you in her inebriated state would have sufficed.”

  “Vaffanculo!” Dark fire flashed in Gino’s eyes. While Rex did not understand what had just been said, it sounded obscene nonetheless. “Why would I want to kill her?”

  “Several reasons. First, you saw her in the limo with Christiansen and got jealous.”

  “I admit I saw her with the chauffeur, but she got out soon afterwards, and I followed.”

  “Even though you were cheating on Elise, you didn’t like seeing her kiss another man. But you had planned to kill her anyway, before she could cancel the cheque for your business. Hence the Ecstasy, which Shannon saw you take with you and which you would have rammed down Elise’s throat once you got her home, and then made it look like suicide. But she blew you off on the street, and her indiscretion with the Dane served to add fuel to the fire. You saw another opportunity for murder when that Ferrari came tearing down the road. Impulsive and spur of the moment,” Rex added with a mirthless smile. “Is that not how you described yourself?”

  “You can’t prove any of this!” Giannelli said, echoing his compatriot.

  Maybe not, Rex thought grimly. It was all circumstantial, but the accusations had certainly got the wind up the hotheaded Italian. And he wouldn’t be giving Shannon any more roses.

  *

  Rex called the solicitor upon leaving Gino’s garage and made an appointment to report his findings.

  “Premeditated murder is not easy to prove in this case,” Rex concluded at Mr. Whitmore’s office. The solicitor sitting at his desk was a fussy little man with womanish hands. “Giannelli caught a lucky break if his intention was to O.D. his fiancée. A reckless driver beat him to the punch, with perhaps a little help from Casanova. Elise Howes was drunk and probably distracted to-boot, so it was a perfect opportunity. Pure coincidence it was one of Giannelli’s cars.”

  “Ye-es,” Mr. Whitmore said ruminatively. The tapered fingers, on which glinted a bejewelled wedding ring, drummed the mahogany surface of the antique partners’ desk. “Well, we had better just stick to the facts. Sir Howes can draw his own conclusions. It won’t be the news he anticipated, of course. What a devastating thing to have happen. Vittorio Scalfaro’s reputation will be ruined if this gets out. However, that Sir Howes’ prospective son-in-law was cheating on his daughter will come as no surprise. But I would have credited Shannon with more sense.” The solicitor checked his gold Rolex and grabbed a hat and umbrella from the coat tree behind his door. “Sir Howes is expecting us. There’s a car waiting outside.”

  The cabinet minister resided at Wilton Crescent in a grand terrace house five stories high, a frill of black iron balconies adorning the stone clad façade. He received his guests once again in the rich wood-panelled library and offered them sherry, barely able to disguise his displeasure when he heard the results of Rex’s investigation. It soon became clear he intended to make public Vittorio Scalfaro’s involvement in his daughter’s death.

  “What a can of worms,” he growled, turning to Rex. “And Gianne
lli sold him that Ferrari. Bloody stupid, if you ask me, bombing around in one of those dangerous toys. And then my future son-in-law left my little girl to die on the street. He might’ve well have just killed her himself.”

  Rex privately concurred.

  *

  Several weeks later at his chambers in Edinburgh, Rex received a call from Mr. Whitmore to the effect that Gino Giannelli had overdosed on Ecstasy. He had been found by his cleaning lady drowned in his bathtub, naked among a sprinkling of floating petals. A card in Italian found on the tile floor, and subsequently leaked to the press, thanked Gino for making the sender’s time in London more pleasurable; however, in view of Gino’s past connection with the Howes family and the “unfortunate accident,” the flowers were being sent not only as a token of tender affection but of regretful adieu. Signed, “Vitto.”

  There existed no possibility in Rex’s mind that a lovelorn Gino had committed suicide, still less that he was homosexual, as the message and flowers insinuated. The Italian Ambassador had vehemently denied sending either, as, in the mind of the public, he would. Rex could not suppress a wry smile of appreciation at the apt and subtle revenge exacted on Gino and Vittorio Scalfaro. “A curiously Shakespearean concept,” he remarked to Mr. Whitmore, reflecting on the watery grave and ironic floral touch.

  “Quite,” replied the Howes family solicitor, adding that his client had made it quite clear that he did not require Rex’s assistance in this particular case.

  “Mum’s the word,” the Scotsman acknowledged, appropriately, he thought. However, as a man of the law, he felt somewhat conflicted.

  Apparently Sir Howes, with the aid of his loyal Danish factotum, had prescribed justice to his full satisfaction.

  Please be kind, review!

  http://www.amazon.com/SAY-MURDER-WITH-FLOWERS-ebook/dp/B00E8OCMVY

  BOOKS IN THE REX GRAVES MYSTERY SERIES:

  Christmas Is Murder

  Starred Review from Booklist:

  The first installment in this new mystery series is a winner. The amateur detective is Rex Graves, a Scottish barrister, fond of Sudoku puzzles and Latin quotations. In an old-fashioned conceit, Challinor begins with a cast of characters, along with hints of possible motives for each. Although set firmly in the present, this tale reads like a classic country-house mystery. Rex and the others are snowed in at the Swanmere Manor hotel in East Sussex, England. Being the last to arrive, Rex immediately hears of the unexpected demise of one of the other guests. By the time the police arrive days later, additional bodies have piled up and motives are rampant, but Rex has identified the murderer. At times, it seems we are playing Clue or perhaps enjoying a contemporary retelling of a classic Agatha Christie tale (And Then There Were None, or At Bertram’s Hotel) with a charming new sleuth. A must for cozy fans.