Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  As I replayed my movements he made checkmarks in his notebook. Once I had finished I added in my own observations, explaining how Kirk Jaffe had been at Demitasse and the Riverplace Inn this morning, seeing the strange black van parked across the street, and about the argument I’d overheard between him and Mark.

  Detective Fletcher made note of what I told him, but finished by saying, “Thanks for your theories, Ms. Johnston, but let’s leave the speculation and rumors alone. You’re not trying to go all Jessica Fletcher on me are you?”

  “No.” I didn’t add that having a man killed in my aunt’s flower shop with her shears would most likely make any rational person interested in the case.

  Officer Iwamoto took one final photo of the outline of the body and then joined us. “That’s it, boss. I catalogued them all.”

  “Good work, Iwamoto.”

  “Does that mean we can start getting the cottage cleaned up and open?” I asked.

  The officer who had been guarding the front door interrupted our conversation. “Sorry, sir. There’s a young woman up front who is saying she left her wallet here last night. She wants in, what do you want me to do?”

  Detective Fletcher sighed again. “What do you think I want you to do?”

  “Uh, tell her she has to wait, sir?” the officer replied.

  “Exactly.” Detective Fletcher dismissed him by turning his back.

  “It’s just that, sir, she says she has important information about the case. She’s claiming to be the deceased’s personal assistant.”

  Lawren, I thought. I didn’t remember her leaving a wallet at the meeting last night or seeing one in the shop this morning, but then again I hadn’t been looking for one either.

  Detective Fletcher clenched his jaw and said something undistinguishable under his breath. “Next time, lead with that. If she has information regarding the case, by all means send her back here.”

  Iwamoto stifled a laugh. The other officer turned red and made a quick exit.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I really landed in Portland because everyone around us seems to be operating as if we were in some tiny small town,” he said to Office Iwamoto.

  “Welcome to Portland, sir.” Iwamoto said with a grin.

  “It’s true,” I chimed in. “Portland may be growing, but we’re a small town at heart, especially here in the village.”

  “That’s great, but not when it comes to police procedures.” Detective Fletcher tapped his notebook with the tip of his pencil. “In terms of your question, Ms. Johnston, my team still has work to do. The cottage is going to be sealed for a while. I can’t make any promises, but after we finish sweeping the front, I don’t foresee a problem opening that later. Officer Iwamoto will keep you posted, and in the meantime when I say don’t leave the premises, I mean DO NOT leave Blomma, understood? I’ve informed your aunt of the same thing.”

  “Understood.” I scooted away before he could continue to reprimand me. Did he think I was a suspect, too?

  Lawren was being escorted into the cottage as I left. She looked terrible. Her hair was tangled, her skirt twisted and wrinkled, and her eyes looked bloodshot.

  “Oh, hi,” she mumbled as she passed me.

  I wondered what important information she could have on the investigation. As Frank’s assistant she must have access to his personal files. Did she know who would inherit the company? Could she have proof that Kirk Jaffe was Frank’s sole heir?

  I tried to silence the many questions forming in my mind, but it was almost impossible. Was this a normal response? Having never witnessed a murder or a dead body for that matter, I had no baseline of how to operate or respond. Question after question battered my brain. Who could have killed Frank and why at Blomma? As much as I didn’t want to entertain the thought of someone being out to get Elin, I couldn’t help but wonder if Frank’s killer had intentionally murdered him here to get at her. If that was the case, I would do everything in my power, whether Detective Fletcher approved or not, to clear Blomma’s name and get back to the business of spreading love in the form of flowers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elin had taken my advice and was resting in a cushy chair at the front of the shop. One of the many charms about Blomma’s airy space were the different cozy areas Elin had designed. The sitting area at the front housed four antique plush chairs in eggplant and gray. A low coffee table with notebooks showcasing Blomma designs anchored the space. Elin used it to meet with potential clients, serving brides-to-be and their fiancés, mothers, and bridesmaids tea and scones as they flipped through photos of elegant and earthy displays. There were swatches of fabric and pressings of greenery. Elin believed in the power of touch. She wanted prospective clients to have a tactile experience along with a sensory one.

  She made a mini bridal bouquet for every client she met with, offering it as a token of her goodwill (regardless of whether or not the bride ended up choosing Blomma for her big day) and as a sample of her artistic ability. It was simple, yet personal touches, that drew nearly every person who walked through Blomma’s front door to want to work with her.

  “How did it go back there?” Elin asked, patting the empty chair next to her. “I felt like I was in a wolf den. You wouldn’t believe how many questions he asked me about my shears.”

  “I’m sure it’s standard procedure.” I sat next to her.

  “It’s tough being back there though, isn’t it?” She grimaced.

  “Yeah. It’s unsettling to say the least.”

  She placed her head in her hands. “Oh Britta, how are we ever going to get that terrible energy out of the cottage? I poured so much love into that space, and now this.”

  I squeezed her knee. “I know. I was thinking the same thing while I was talking to Detective Fletcher, but we’ll find a way. Once the police leave, we’ll open up every door and window and fill the cottage with as many calming and peaceful flowers as possible.”

  She gave me a half smile. “You know what flowers best serve that occasion.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do some thinking. I’ve never had to name a flower for a murder scene before, but Blomma is you, and we’ll recapture that vibe, I promise.” I released her knee.

  “Poor Frank.” She stacked a collection of flower magazines on the coffee table. “I never thought I would be saying that about Frank Jaffe, but I can’t shake seeing his body on the floor. Who could have done such a thing? And here, in our village? We’ve had a few disagreements over the years, but nothing like this. Nothing.”

  “I know. It’s terrible.” I considered how I could broach the subject of whether any of her fellow business owners might be holding a grudge against her or Blomma. What about the competitor Nora had mentioned the other day? What if they were trying to set Elin up? After considering it for a moment I decided my best option was simply to put it out there. Elin was a straight shooter and one of the strongest women I knew. She could handle it.

  “And you’re sure there’s no chance that someone could be trying to sabotage the shop?” I asked. “Nora made it sound like there’s another florist in town who has been bugging you.”

  “No, that’s nothing.” She scooted her chair closer and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Although for the past few months I’ve had the sense that someone was watching me when I was working in the cottage at night.”

  “Really?” I thought about the black van I’d seen in front of Torch.

  She nodded. “I didn’t think anything about it. I thought maybe I was being paranoid. There were construction workers coming and going from the cottage and I would often stay late after they finished to review their progress and do anything I could to help move them along. You know how it goes trying to keep a project like that on track.”

  “I can only imagine,” I agreed.

  Elin stared at the garage door window that opened onto the cobblestone walkway. “It’s so light in here. Most days, even when it’s raining I open the garage door and then of course we get light coming throu
gh on the river side too. But the cottage isn’t like that. It only has two small windows. I could swear that someone was peering into the window on the riverfront a couple of times, but by the time I went outside to look around there was no one there.”

  Her words made the tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention. Had someone been stalking Elin? And why was she so dismissive about the florist Nora had mentioned?

  Elin tucked her hands into her fleece sweater. “So many people use the waterfront path—tourists, families out for bike rides, couples picnicking on the lawn, and even the occasional homeless person. I blew it off. I figured I wasn’t used to working in a more enclosed albeit cozy space, or that it was probably just people who were curious about what was going on in the shop,” she continued. “The cottage had been empty for years, as you know, so I’m sure seeing any activity made people interested.”

  That theory made sense and sounded reasonable, but still I felt a sense of cold consume my body. Could Elin have been in danger? What if whoever killed Frank had actually been after her? What if the killer snuck into the cottage expecting to find Elin and ran into Frank instead? Maybe his murder had been a mistake. He could have simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Britta, are you okay? You look as gray as the clouds outside.”

  “Sorry.” I gave my shoulders a shake, trying to drive away the invading thoughts. “You don’t think there’s a chance someone could have really been spying on you?”

  “Well, I didn’t, but now with Frank and everything that’s happened, it has been top of my mind again. I can’t imagine why anyone could possibly be sneaking around the cottage. It’s hardly like we keep much cash on hand or house highly valuable flowers.”

  “True.” When I attended the Floral Institute I had witnessed a handful of knock-down, drag-out fights break out at the wholesale flower market trading floor over highly coveted rare stems. Rare flowers had fetched massive amounts of money in the global market, like the Juliet rose, which sold for nearly sixteen million dollars or the Shenzhen Nongke orchid, which only blooms every four to six years. The rarest bloom in the world is the Kadupul flower, which is actually a cactus. It can only be found in Sri Lanka and it only blooms at night for a few short hours. Catching a glimpse of its stunning, dainty white petals would be like stumbling upon the Holy Grail for a florist. The Kadupul flower had reached almost mythical status in the flower world, and given that it has never actually sold it’s considered priceless.

  But like Elin said, Blomma didn’t stock anything that valuable or rare. No local florist could afford that kind of expense.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Elin repeated. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

  “What about the other business owners in Riverplace Village. Were any of them interested in the property?”

  She considered my question for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. If someone was, no one said anything to me. The cottage had been empty for at least ten years. If someone wanted it they easily could have beaten me to it. It just took me that long to save up.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “You should at least mention it to Detective Fletcher though. It might be nothing, but it could be related to Frank’s murder.”

  She patted my knee. “I already did.”

  “Good.” I smiled. Then I followed her gaze toward the garage doors. The camera crews and reporters were still camped out front. It looked like one of the reporters was accosting every poor bystander for a comment. As the morning had worn on the crowd had grown and the rain became steadier. It fell in sheets and pooled on the cobblestone path. The wind kicked up too, sending wet leaves sailing in the air and raindrops into Blomma’s windows.

  “I don’t know about you, but the minute the police give us the go-ahead to get back to work I can’t wait to start putting some bouquets together and bring some cheer and color to this dreadful day.”

  I understood that Elin’s words contained a double meaning. It had been a dreadful day so far, and it wasn’t even halfway over yet.

  Officer Iwamoto escorted Lawren to the front. If possible she looked even more shaken than before. “Detective Fletcher has given her permission to look for her missing wallet,” he said and then returned to the cottage.

  “Let me help you look,” I said getting up and walking toward the back wall of wine.

  Lawren made a sound like an uncomfortable laugh. Or maybe it was a whimper. I couldn’t be sure. She stared at the wine lined up in neat rows along the wall. Elin had had custom shelves made to house her vast collection of wine. There must have been at least three hundred bottles on display. Wine was organized in four categories—sparklings, whites, rosés, and reds. Each artistic label faced toward the shop, making the wall look like a miniature art gallery.

  “Did you leave your wallet back here?” I asked approaching Lawren.

  She shrank back as if she expected me to throw a punch. “What? No, uh. No, I don’t think so. I mean I’m not sure.”

  I didn’t remember Lawren being anywhere near the wall of wine last night, and I also wondered where she could have possibly tucked her wallet. In between a bottle of merlot and a Malbec?

  She continued to stare at the elegant glass bottles. Her eyes stayed focused on one particular spot.

  “Are you sure I can’t help you look?” I asked.

  “No, I must have left it in the car, or maybe I dropped it on the sidewalk.” Lawren rubbed her shoulders. “It’s chilly in here.” No wonder. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Her T-shirt was paper thin, as were her leggings.

  “We keep it cool for the flowers.” I pointed to the opposite wall where foot-high black buckets bursting with colorful stems were stacked on vintage tables and rustic pallets.

  “Sure,” Lawren replied giving the wine one final glance. “I should go. Sorry to bother you. I’ve got to go.”

  “Not a problem.” I followed her to the door. “We’ll let you know if it turns up here. Are you sure you don’t want some help?”

  “It’s fine.” She raced out the door and ducked her head to avoid the waiting reporters’ questions.

  “That was odd,” I said to Elin as the breeze from the opening door blew in rain.

  “Very odd,” Elin agreed. She motioned toward the back. “Let’s check out the wine. Was anything missing?”

  I grabbed a forest green towel hanging on a low glass doorknob by the door and used it to mop up the floor. Elin kept the towel along with a drinking and treat station for dogs, and an assortment of flower-themed umbrellas by the front door. Dogs were always welcome at Blomma and Elin made sure their drinking bowl was full of fresh water and their treat dish (a ceramic vase with hand-painted blue variegated hydrangeas) was always brimming with crunchy dog bones. The umbrellas were free for any customer to use as they strolled through Riverfront Village. Each business had umbrella return stands at their front door. That way a customer could pick up an umbrella at Blomma and return it the Riverplace Inn at the far end of the village.

  “What was her obsession with our wine?” Elin mused, picking up a bottle of a red blend with a pretty hummingbird label.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. She could have stored her wallet up there, but I don’t even remember her being back here, do you?”

  Elin ran her hand over the smooth label. Her hands had definitely seen years of work. Her fingers were calloused. She had a couple of scars from previous cuts and a few more recent scrapes. There was something symbolic in her hands, as if a trace of every flower and stem that she had snipped lingered in her skin. “No. In fact, if my recollection is correct, she barely made it halfway through the door before Frank was bellowing for her to leave.” Elin returned the bottle to its place.

  “That’s what I remember too.”

  “Then why show up in search of a wallet?”

  Why? That was the question of the moment. Why had Frank been killed? Why was he at Blomma? Why was Kirk Jaffe in Riverplace Village before dawn? Why had someone been
spying on Elin? And why had Lawren really come to Blomma?

  Chapter Twelve

  Waiting for Detective Fletcher to clear us to resume work felt like agony. Sitting around with dozens of questions competing for space in my head only made things worse. Elin wasn’t faring much better. She had started pacing around the shop. I was about to head to the cottage and ask if we could at least walk over to Demitasse for a tea when Officer Iwamoto appeared with a smile and two thumbs up.

  “You are good to go. Detective Fletcher says it’s fine for you to open for business, but he doesn’t want you to talk to the media. They’ll try to get you to talk—just say, ‘no comment.’ And he also said that no one is allowed in the cottage until you hear from one of us directly.”

  “Finally some good news.” Elin sounded relieved.

  “It’s not all good news, Ma’am.” Officer Iwamoto’s face faded. “It sounds like it might be longer than we originally expected before we’re going to be able to give you access to the rest of the property.”

  “What about my class tonight and tomorrow, not to mention our launch event the next day? We’ve invited the press and everyone in the Portland floral and event industries!” In addition to the jewelry workshop Elin had planned on teaching tonight she had scheduled a natural garland class for tomorrow. Garlands had become popular in any season. They were most known for their use during the holidays. Clients came to Blomma at Christmastime for Elin’s gorgeous layered evergreen garlands that she adorned with vibrant holly berries, oranges, lemons, winter herbs, and even ornaments. But recently the trend in Portland’s upscale markets had been to decorate with seasonal garlands. Lavender and rosemary garlands twisted together with twine and dotted with pink sedums in the spring. Fall garlands made from the seasons’ changing leaves and layered with pinecones and acorns. And winter garlands crafted with salal, cedar, and boxwood and decorated with dried tallow berries and larkspur. Garlands could be draped above fireplace mantels, hung from stairwells, and arched around entryways, bringing a festive touch to any season.