Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  “Really?” I was surprised to hear that Frank had been tailing Mark. Had he been putting on the pressure to try to get Mark to sell? From the looks of the high-end hotel, Mark had a good thing going. I couldn’t imagine him wanting to sell, but like the concierge I couldn’t imagine why he would put up with Frank’s tactics. And Mark had been the only business owner to suggest that everyone at least consider Frank’s offer.

  “Yeah,” she continued. “He was such a jerk. Two days ago I had to spend hours consoling a member of the housekeeping staff because Frank yelled at her and made her come clean the baseboards. He’s not even a guest at the hotel. Such nerve.”

  She paused for a moment and turned the edges of her lips down. “His nephew was even worse.”

  “Kirk?” I asked.

  “You know him?” She nodded. “He decided that he should provide feedback on everything we could be doing to improve as a staff. You’re not going to believe this. He delivered a six-page document of every violation he noticed in the hotel. Does he think he’s a city inspector or something? I told Mark that I wasn’t putting up with any of it. In fact Kirk was here about an hour ago, helping himself to free coffee and croissants, and I kicked him out.” Her smile was smug.

  Kirk had been at the hotel as well? Thus far Kirk had been at two businesses in Riverplace Village before most people were even out of their pajamas. What was he doing lurking around? Was he really on a snooping errand for his uncle or could he have killed Frank?

  I thanked the concierge for her help and started down the luxurious hallway to find Mark. Kirk’s early morning activities had my curiosity piqued, but I was equally confused by Mark. Why would he have let Frank and Kirk have the run of the hotel? Could it be that there was more to their relationship that I was missing?

  Chapter Nine

  The ballroom was painted in a rich caramel color with a mahogany chair rail that ran the length of the spacious room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the Willamette and an intricate dogwood vine mural brought a touch of nature inside.

  A crew was setting up round tables and draping them with lavender linens. There was no sign of Mark, though. I knew I hadn’t been gone from Blomma long, maybe ten minutes, but I didn’t want to end up on Detective Fletcher’s Most Wanted list if I wasn’t there when he finished questioning Elin.

  I could come back and talk to Mark later, but for the short term I needed to check the arrangements. As I returned to the lobby the sound of voices startled me. The sound was coming from a small boardroom across the hall from the ballroom. I wouldn’t have thought much of it except for the fact that I heard a man shout, “Kirk, I’ve had enough. I told your uncle the same thing. You need to get off these premises before I make you regret it.”

  Was that a threat? The concierge had said that Mark was too nice, but nothing in his tone sounded friendly.

  “Whatever. I own the company now, so you had better back off before I make you regret it,” Kirk shot back.

  “Get out!” Mark shouted.

  I tried to sneak into the ballroom, but I wasn’t fast enough. The boardroom door flew open and Kirk Jaffe stalked out. He didn’t notice me. I watched him stomp down the hall. He stopped before he got to the lobby and punched the wall. Then he grabbed his hand and disappeared out of sight.

  “Sorry you had to see that.” Mark’s voice made me flinch.

  I looked up to see him leaning in the doorframe staring after Kirk. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” I pointed behind me to the ballroom. “I was looking for you, but then . . .”

  “Then Kirk Jaffe decided to show you just how immature he is.” Mark stepped to the side. “Come in.”

  I hesitated for a second and then followed Mark into the boardroom. It contained one large mahogany table with twelve matching leather swivel chairs. There was a projector in the center of the table and a white screen on the far side of the room.

  “It’s Britta, right?” Mark pointed to one of the chairs. “I’m not always great with names, but your aunt has been talking about you forever. She thinks the world of you.”

  When I sat my body sunk into the cushy leather. “The feeling is mutual.”

  Mark sat and folded his hands on the polished wood. “I’m sorry to hear what happened this morning. You must all be in shock.” With his height he didn’t sink into his leather seat.

  I nodded, internally begging my throat not to tighten.

  “The Jaffe family must be upset. I tried to give Kirk the benefit of the doubt this morning. I know that grief can make people act in ways they might not otherwise, but he refused to listen to reason.”

  “I heard him say something about owning the company. Do you know what he meant by that?”

  Mark sighed and unfolded his hands. “Who knows? Kirk likes everyone to think he has power. He could just be saying that. Or I guess it’s possible that Frank left the company to him. As far as I know Kirk is Frank’s only living relative. If that’s the case then with Frank dead, Kirk would stand to inherit everything.”

  My mind flashed once again to my conversation with Detective Fletcher. Could there be a bigger motivation for murder than “inheriting everything”?

  “But you’re not here to have me loop you into my personal drama, are you?” Mark offered a half smile. “Many apologies. I promise that we are typically very professional here at the Riverplace.” He looked the part of a professional hotelier in his crisp navy slacks and white dress shirt with the Riverplace Inn logo stitched on the breast pocket. His dark hair was slicked back with styling gel and his cheeks cleanly shaven.

  “Not to worry. I’m impressed with the hotel. It’s stunning. I remember it being fancy when I was a kid, but you’ve added such lovely touches.”

  This time Mark actually smiled. “Thank you. It’s been a labor of love. We went through an entire overhaul two years ago. We redesigned everything from the shower curtains to the light fixtures. We want our guests to feel at home, pamper them, and give them a real Northwest experience.”

  “I think you’ve succeeded.” I nodded at the Oregon pine curtains that framed the windows.

  “You’ll have to stop by for happy hour one afternoon. It’s an open invitation to any of our fellow business owners in the village. We pair Oregon wines and cheeses with locally sourced nuts and meats from a butcher who smokes everything in house.”

  My stomach rumbled. “That sounds amazing.”

  “Come by. It’s free and we host happy hour for guests every day of the week.” He cleared his throat. He ran his hand over the polished tabletop. “Aside from Kirk and our delicious wine tastings, what can I do for you?”

  “Right. Elin wanted me to let you know that we might not be able to deliver your arrangements today. We’re not sure if we’ll even be allowed to open, but while I’m here I’ll do my best to give each arrangement a quick refresher.”

  “Don’t even worry about it. I’ve told your aunt a million times that Blomma’s bouquets last ten times longer than any other flowers. We could easily go for another week before they need to be swapped out.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. We pride ourselves on having the freshest flowers. I know that my aunt guarantees every bouquet she creates.” It felt odd and comforting to talk about Blomma as if I was part of it. It had been a long time since I was part of anything I was proud of or excited about. Now I was. And despite the crazy events of the past few hours, knowing that I was welcomed and would be encouraged to put my creative energy to work was heartwarming. Maybe after all of those frozen Minnesota winters my heart would start to thaw. I knew that I wasn’t speaking out of turn when it came to Elin’s guarantee.

  Since she opened Blomma over twenty years ago she had a weekly tradition of going to the Portland Flower Market. Every Wednesday she would wander the halls and chat with local growers, picking only the most beautiful and bountiful organically grown stems. Then she would return to the shop, where she would process each stem by hand. This involved snippin
g off the end to give the stem a fresh cut. Then it would be dipped in a bucket of warm water enhanced with floral food. This had to be done within five to ten seconds, otherwise the flower would form a scab. From there she would peel off any greenery so the water didn’t produce rotten bacteria, and allow the stem to drink heavily.

  Processing was the most important part of owning a floral boutique, according to Elin. Many shops sold “lab flowers”: lifeless, stale stems that had been bred in greenhouses the size of small cities. These mass-produced flowers were flown from continent to continent and trucked to neighborhood flower shops. Not at Blomma. Processing was a labor of love. It required dedication and took hours of work but the results were evident in every bunch of flowers or bouquet that left Blomma’s doors. Flowers purchased from a mass-market shop might begin to droop and wilt after a few days, but Blomma’s arrangements stayed fresh and vibrant for a week or more.

  “Is there anything you need from me?” Mark asked in a subtle dismissal. I saw him glance at his watch.

  “No. I’ll let you get back to work. I just need a sink and some water.” I patted the supply bag I had brought along containing plant food, shears, and twine.

  Mark stood and showed me to the door. “Straight down this hallway and third door to your right you’ll find a utility sink. If you need anything, holler and my staff will help.” He held the heavy door open for me. “And please tell Elin that I’m here for whatever she needs. I’ll be by later to check in.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a wave and headed to the lobby to get the first arrangement. There are a few simple tricks for preserving cut flowers. The first is keeping them out of the heat and away from windows where they will bake in the sun. I always tell my floral clients to store their bouquets or fresh cut flowers in a cool basement or garage at night. That alone can extend their bloom for a few extra days. Another professional trick is to replace the water in the vase every few days. Any greenery left on the stem can produce a rotten bacteria and fungi that smells disgusting and creates a slime on the stems. Fresh water, a dash of floral food, and a quick trim of the stem can bring new life to a wilting or drooping bouquet.

  I picked up a massive arrangement of Stargazer lilies and carried it to the utility room. The water in the clear glass vase had turned murky and terrible. I carefully removed any dead stems, dumped the water, and replaced it with clean water mixed with floral food, or as Elin says, “love juice.” We include a packet of floral food with every sale and recommend that clients use half of the package when they initially place their blooms in a vase and save the other half for when the water begins to get gunky.

  Floral food can easily be made at home by adding a teaspoon of sugar, bleach, and lemon juice or vinegar to lukewarm water. Tepid water allows the stems to drink heavily. The only exception to that rule is when working with tulips and a handful of other spring bulbs that much prefer ice-cold water.

  I continued the process with each arrangement in the lobby, dining room, and ballrooms. It didn’t take long before each stunning display looked bright and cheery. Mark was right, with a little TLC the flowers could easily last for another four or five days. Pleased with the results, I packed my supplies back in the pouch and said good-bye to the concierge.

  As I made my way back to Blomma I noticed that the ambulance had left, as had two of the squad cars. Only one police car and one unmarked vehicle remained. I assumed the unmarked black sedan must belong to Detective Fletcher. Three satellite vans blocked the sidewalk and competing news reporters stood with their microphones at the ready in front of Blomma.

  Fortunately the black minivan that I’d seen parked in front of Torch was gone. Crime scene tape had been stretched across the entrance and a small crowd gathered across the street trying to get a glimpse of any action. I waved to Nora as I passed Demitasse. The windows of the coffee shop had begun to sweat as more onlookers had congregated inside. Coming closer I could hear one of the reporters rehearsing her intro.

  She paced on the cobblestone walkway, checking her appearance on her phone and repeating, “Flowers turn fatal this morning at historic Blomma in Riverplace Village. Portlanders know the artisan flower shop for its charming location and involvement in the Rose Festival every year, but today instead of the aroma of fragrant flowers this idyllic village has the stench of death.”

  Stopping in midsentence she turned to her cameraman. “What do you think? Is that too much?”

  I didn’t wait to hear his response. My stomach dropped at her dramatic intro. Now more than ever I was convinced that Frank’s murder was going to be bad for business. Really bad.

  Chapter Ten

  “How is it out there, Britta?” Elin asked when I opened the front door. The reporters had yelled after me when I ducked under the police tape and hurried toward Blomma. I ignored their calls and showed the officer positioned at the front door my ID.

  “Uh . . .” I glanced out the window. “It’s a little crazy. The press are here.”

  “I noticed.” She frowned.

  “You’re done with questioning, I take it?” I walked to the back counter and placed my supply pouch on the concrete slab.

  She took her eyes off the reporters. “Yes, he said to send you back as soon as you returned.” Her voice sounded faraway, as if she wasn’t even connecting with her words.

  I wanted to console her. I couldn’t begin to imagine how she must be feeling. Having only been home for two weeks I was reeling with the tragedy at Blomma. Elin had invested her entire life in being an integral part of her clients’ lives. She wasn’t just a florist. She listened with an open ear and an ever-ready box of tissues during the darkest days of her clients’ lives like planning arrangements for funerals and pick-me-up bouquets to be delivered to sick children in the hospital. She was with them at their weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, and baby showers. She knew each client by name and often knew every generation of the family. Blomma wasn’t a shop—it was her home.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, patting her back.

  She brushed a tear from beneath her eye. “I’ll be fine.” She turned away from the window. “It’s unsettling, seeing so much negativity around the shop, you know.”

  “I know.” Without hesitating I wrapped her into a hug.

  We held each other tight. I could smell a hint of tea and her honey lemon soap on her skin. “What would I do without you,” she said finally releasing me and wiping more tears from her eyes.

  The sound of someone clearing his throat made us both jump slightly. “Ladies, sorry to keep breaking you up like this, but I have some further questions for Ms. Johnston.” Detective Fletcher had opened the door leading to the cottage and motioned with his index finger for me to come with him.

  “I’ll be back in a few,” I said to Elin. “Why don’t you go sit down? Maybe make yourself another cup of tea.”

  “Britta, I’m fine.” Elin gave me a reassuring nod. “It’s not every day that someone ends up murdered, that’s all, but having you here is going to make getting through this much, much easier.”

  Detective Fletcher cleared his throat again. “Ms. Johnston.”

  “Coming.” I gave Elin a final once-over to make sure she wasn’t in any danger of passing out or something and then went with the detective.

  To my surprise Frank’s body had been removed from the cottage floor. A chalk outline, like I’d seen in police procedurals on TV, was left in its place. Small yellow numbers were scattered throughout the floor and on the barn door worktable. I surmised that they must be marking evidence. Officer Iwamoto circled the room with a digital camera and snapped a bunch of shots.

  “What possessed you to leave my crime scene, Ms. Johnston?” Detective Fletcher said pulling out his notebook.

  “What do you mean?”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “What do you think I mean? You seem like a reasonable and intelligent adult. In fact Iwamoto seems to think you’re the most reliable witness he’s ever seen, and yet I tell you no
t to go anywhere until I give you the all clear, and I learn that you’ve taken it upon yourself to sneak out of my crime scene to go fix flowers?” The disdain in his voice was evident.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I started to reply, but he held up his index finger to stop me.

  “Not another word. I don’t want to hear any excuses, especially anything pertaining to flowers. Now if you were a heart surgeon I might give you a pass, but in what world do you live in to think that checking on a bunch of daisies warrants leaving the scene of the crime? You know I could arrest you right now.”

  My heart pounded in my chest. I could feel sweat start to form on my brow. Detective Fletcher made a fair point, but it wasn’t as if I went far. I thought about telling him that daisies weren’t in season, but one glance at his severe face made me bite my tongue. “Sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t have left. I’ve never been on the scene of a crime before. I assumed you meant don’t leave the village.”

  “I didn’t.” He scowled, but I caught a hint of amusement in his steely eyes. “If you try anything like that again, Ms. Johnston, you’re going to get yourself a ride in the back of one of my squad cars to the station, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Officer Iwamoto stepped over a pile of roses. He caught my eye and winked, then made a goofy impression of Detective Fletcher. I ignored his antics. I was already on the detective’s bad side, I didn’t need any more help in that department.

  Detective Fletcher flipped through his notebook and landed on the page he wanted. “Now, let’s go over the timeline once more. I want you to walk me through every step you took from the time you left Blomma last night until the time you called EMS this morning.”

  I wanted to remind him that I’d already gone over the timeline with him and Officer Iwamoto, but instead I repeated everything I had told them earlier. Why was he so fixated on the timeline? It must be important, or maybe it was his strategy to try to catch me in a lie. I knew that I wasn’t lying, but he didn’t know that. Perhaps criminals slipped up in multiple retellings.