Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  “I’m afraid tonight’s workshop will have to be postponed,” Officer Iwamoto replied. “We’re going to do everything we can to get you back in business for the launch party, Ms. Johnston. My mom is planning to come, by the way. But I don’t know about tomorrow either.”

  Elin pursed her lips, but nodded. “I understand. May I come get my class list? I’ll need to call everyone to let them know.”

  “Of course.” Iwamoto shot me a smile.

  While they went to find the class list, I got to work on the corporate accounts. I knew that we had permission to officially open, but I wanted to wait until Elin had finished getting in touch with her clients and we were both ready to face the onslaught. I had a feeling that every person in Riverplace Village would find their way into the shop at some point during the day. And to be honest I wasn’t sure I could face the press alone.

  The first order was for a law firm four blocks away. I reviewed Elin’s notes. She kept copious notes on all of her repeat customers—both personal and corporate. The law firm’s file mentioned that one of the legal aides was allergic to lilies and that they preferred low arrangements for their conference room table.

  I turned classical music on the overhead system and got to work. When I start on any design I let my intuition guide me. Sometimes I might be inspired by a single stem, or perhaps from an intricate lacy vase. From there I add color and texture as the arrangement begins to take on a life of its own. Some florists, in fact most florists, tend to overstuff their bouquets. I think in part because that way clients feel like they are getting the most bang for their buck, so to speak. But I like negative space in my floral designs. If too many plants and flowers are crammed into a vase, none of them have a chance to shine.

  For this arrangement my eye was drawn to an antique silver bowl. Elin’s assorted vases ran the gamut from traditional crystal stems to mason jars and ceramic teacups. I packed the base of the bowl with damp floral foam. Since the law firm didn’t want height in their arrangements I planned to create a cascading design in the low container that would allow for easy conversation around the table.

  I built from the outside, starting by dangling white strawberries from the edge of the bowl. Then I placed three pale pink roses in the center and interspersed more roses, sweet peas, and pink pansies to fill in the rest of the arrangement. When I was done I stepped back to examine my work. Usually the flowers guide me. It’s as if they tell me when they know the arrangement is complete. I liked the subtle pink tones and texture. The antique silver bowl gave the arrangement a nostalgic vibe, while the white strawberries made it feel springlike.

  “Britta, that is stunning!” Elin exclaimed as she returned. She walked over to the cement worktop and studied my arrangement from every side. “See, this is why I’m so happy to have you home. How long was I gone? Ten, fifteen minutes? I can’t tell you how many assistants I’ve trained for years who never could create something like this. I leave you alone for almost no time and you’ve already designed one of the most beautiful arrangements I’ve seen in years. You have the touch, my dear.”

  “Thanks.” My neck felt warmed. I was sure it was probably starting to splotch with red. “Do you think it’s enough? Does it need something else?”

  She held her arms up in protest. “Don’t even think about touching it. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect just as it is.”

  “If you’re sure you like it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Britta, I love it. I wouldn’t let it out the door if I didn’t. What are we going to do to boost your confidence? There used to be a time when you would immerse yourself in flowers and not give a second thought to what anyone else said, do you remember that?”

  I looked at my feet. “Yeah, that was a long time ago.”

  She placed her hand around my waist. “Listen to me, the flowers know. They’re alive. They’re part of us. You are part of them. Don’t you remember when you were a young girl? You would spend hours wandering around the park picking weeds and dandelions and tying them into tiny bouquets with long pieces of grass. You were meant to do this. You have a gift, and it’s your job to share that with the world.”

  My eyes felt damp. “Thanks, Moster. I guess you’re right. I’ve kind of lost my groove. I’ve got to find a way to get it back.”

  “You’ve got your groove back right there.” She released me and pointed to the arrangement. “What did Chad do to you, Britta? I want my strong Scandinavian girl back.”

  “Me too.” I sighed. “Elin, can I confess something?”

  “Anything. You know there’s nothing you can say to me that would ever make me love you less.”

  “I think I did this to me. It wasn’t all Chad. I keep wondering what would have happened if I didn’t catch him cheating? Would I have stayed there and been miserable forever? Why did I stay for so long?” I twisted a piece of twine around my pinkie.

  A knowing smile passed over Elin’s face. “I don’t know, Britta, but one thing I do know is that there isn’t much point in beating yourself up. You’re here now and that’s all that matters. Instead of wallowing in the why, what if you celebrated the now?”

  “It’s a good idea.” I forced a smile. I appreciated her pep talk, but while her theory resonated with me I still had some tough questions to ask myself. I was excited about the now, yet if I didn’t do some serious self-reflection I was worried that I would be doomed to repeat my past. That could wait, though. I wasn’t likely to come to a point of understanding overnight.

  “Good.” Elin picked up the arrangement. “I know one easy way to get you back in the now and build your confidence. You can deliver every single bouquet, arrangement, or special order for the next few days. I want you to see the expression on customers’ faces when you hand them your designs. I want you to feel the joy you’re going to spread through flowers. If that doesn’t get your groove back then I don’t know what will.” She winked.

  I returned to crafting more low arrangements for the law firm and mulled over our conversation. I hoped that my aunt was right. She made it sound easy. If only delivering a few fresh bundles could change my state of mind. I did believe that flowers could brighten a mood or bring a calming visual and sensory comfort in times of trouble, but whether or not they were the answer to my personal crisis remained to be seen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Elin predicted, the paralegal I delivered the finished arrangements to gushed over the design. A tiny bit of pride welled inside as she called one of her colleagues over to admire the flowers. Maybe I did have something original to offer.

  I packed up the old arrangements and returned to Blomma with a slight spring in my step. The minute I rounded the corner and saw the buzz of activity and flashing lights I was reminded of Frank’s body and my feet fell heavier on the ground.

  Detective Fletcher and Officer Iwamoto were examining different roses with Elin when I held the door open with one foot and stepped inside. Officer Iwamoto noticed me and came over to help with the damp box of old flower arrangements. “Wet out there, huh?”

  “Just a bit.” I took off my dripping raincoat and hung it by the door.

  “We were going over some rose facts with your aunt.” He nodded toward the pile of blush, violet, and burgundy roses on the concrete slab.

  I showed him where to put the box and then joined them at the workstation.

  “Britta, I was telling Detective Fletcher that you really are much more knowledgeable than me when it comes to roses.”

  Detective Fletcher held a two-toned tangerine rose in his hand. The color made the subtle auburn streaks in his hair look more pronounced.

  “That’s not true. Everything I learned about roses I learned from you,” I said to Elin.

  “I think we have what we need for the moment,” Detective Fletcher replied, smelling the rose. His face shifted as he inhaled the scent. I’d witnessed a similar transformation many times over when customers were perusing the shop. They would stop to smell the roses—litera
lly—and I could almost always predict their reaction. The words might be a cliché, but the act of pausing and breathing in the scent of a flower had the power to positively impact someone’s day. My instructor at the Floral Institute had shared a study that noted people who stopped to smell the roses were happier and reported being more satisfied with life. The simple act of taking a minute to appreciate a flower’s sweet scent or cheerful bloom had a direct impact on health and well-being.

  Maybe you should start sniffing more flowers, Britta, I told myself and then focused on the conversation.

  “I’m leaving you in Officer Iwamoto’s capable hands,” Detective Fletcher continued, stuffing the rose back into a bucket of water. “If you need anything, here’s my card.” He placed a basic white business card on the slab. “I’ll be back later.” He gave me a curt nod and strolled out the front door.

  Officer Iwamoto watched him go. “I’ll get out of your way, ladies.” He started toward the cottage, but Elin stopped him.

  “I have a question. How long has Detective Fletcher been on the force?” Elin asked, wiping down the far end of the counter. “I know your father, of course, and a number of Portland’s police officers from my work with the Rose Festival, and because so many have them have become clients over the years since the precinct is so close. I don’t remember ever seeing Detective Fletcher before.”

  “That’s because he’s new.” Officer Iwamoto stared in the direction of the door. “He moved up from LA.”

  “A Californian, I knew it!” Elin snapped her fingers together. “He has a California look about him.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with her about that. Detective Fletcher’s reddish hair and short beard blended in more with the Portland vibe than California in my opinion. But native Oregonians had had an ongoing debate about California transplants. It first began in the 1970s when Oregon’s governor, Tom McCall, infamously gave voice to the slogan, “Come visit, but don’t stay.” The feud had raged ever since. Californians had raced to buy up property in Portland, which until recently had been a steal. Elin had told me the battle had heightened as the real estate market exploded. Yard signs could be found throughout the city reading, “For sale, except to anyone from California.”

  “Right?” Iwamoto grinned. “It shows, doesn’t it?” He pointed to his earlobe, where there was a tiny hole. “I’m not wearing it now while I’m on duty, but usually I have a stud in. You know, to make a statement.”

  “How?” I interjected, trimming stalks of rosemary. The earthy scent infused the room.

  “It’s how my generation expresses itself. Tattoos, plugs, nose rings. Anything goes. Detective Fletcher, he’s by the book, as we say in the field.”

  I rubbed a sprig of rosemary between my hands. “Don’t you need to be ‘by the book’ when investigating a murder?”

  Iwamoto laughed. “I guess, but he’s more buttoned up. We’re laid back here in P-town.”

  Elin nodded in agreement. “It’s a serious issue, Britta. I welcome Californians with open arms, but the problem is the influx of people moving north has priced so many Portlanders out of the market. It’s complicated, and so far the city hasn’t figured out a solution.”

  “She’s right,” Iwamoto agreed. “My parents keep joking that they want to sell and move to Alaska.” He scratched his head. “I hope they’re kidding. If they sell I won’t have a place to live.”

  “You live at home?” I asked.

  “Yeah, everyone my age does. I couldn’t afford anything in the city on my salary.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe the housing market was so tight. Good thing Elin had invited me to stay with her for as long as I needed.

  Elin returned the single stems to their buckets. The racks of blooms waiting to be made into colorful masterpieces called to me. “It’s reached critical mass, which is yet another reason I was fortunate to get the cottage. Commercial real estate is also in high demand.”

  Iwamoto headed to the cottage and I considered Elin’s words. The Portland real estate market was hot. How could that tie into Frank’s murder? Could he have been killed by an angry client who had been priced out of the market? It sounded far-fetched in my head, but I supposed stranger things had happened.

  At that moment the door swung open and Serene, the wine distributor, burst in wheeling a cart of wine behind her. “My God, it’s obnoxious out there. I thought I was going to be taken down by reporters begging me for a comment. A comment on what? What happened?” She cinched the belt around her tailored gray raincoat. Her hair was tied in a messy bun and her makeup was flawless.

  “You haven’t heard?” Elin said, catching my eye.

  Serene wheeled the cart of wine toward us, leaving a trail of wet tire tracks behind her. When she reached the workstation she brushed rain from her coat and set the cart upright next to the counter. “Heard what? Did you have a break-in or something?” Her eyes strayed to the wall of wine.

  “Worse, I’m afraid,” Elin began.

  “What could be worse than a break-in?” Serene asked.

  Elin looked to me, and then said in a soft tone, “Murder.”

  “Murder?” Serene sounded repulsed. “Here?” She glanced around as if looking for evidence that a crime had occurred.

  “In the cottage,” Elin replied. “Britta found Frank Jaffe this morning.”

  Serene blinked rapidly. “Frank is dead?”

  I couldn’t exactly read her reaction. The rosemary leaves had left a slightly sticky but powerfully calming residue on my fingers. I brushed my hands on my jeans and then held them under my nose to breathe in the scent.

  “Frank Jaffe is dead?” she repeated. Was it my imagination or was her mascara starting to streak? Maybe it was from the rain, but she brushed something from her eye.

  Elin nodded.

  “That’s impossible.” Serene twisted the belt tie on her stylish raincoat. “It’s impossible. I saw him last night.”

  “We all did,” Elin agreed. “It’s a shock, isn’t it?”

  Serene rubbed one temple with her finger. “I can’t believe it. You’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Very sure.” Elin nodded. “Would you like a cup of tea? I know that it’s dreadful news.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Serene waved her off and began unloading bottles of wine. “Do they know who did it?”

  “The police are here investigating now,” Elin said, taking a bottle of pinot gris from Serene.

  Serene’s hands slipped. She nearly dropped a bottle of merlot on the concrete floor, catching it on her hip at the last second. “Frank is really dead,” she repeated almost under her breath.

  I was surprised that Serene was taking the news so hard. She and Frank hadn’t appeared to be particularly close last night. In fact if anything I had gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him.

  “We don’t need to do this now,” Elin offered.

  “No, it’s fine,” Serene replied, holding up two opened bottles of wine. “I brought a number of things for you to taste, Britta.” She looked at me, placed the wine on the counter, and then pulled two more bottles from the cart. “We have to get your wine selected for the launch party.”

  A sip or two of wine might take the edge off this terrible day. However I was more than curious as to why Serene was so on edge. She was trying to keep her composure, but it was evident in her quaking hands and stilted responses that she was upset by Frank’s murder. Was it because like me she’d never known anyone who had been killed in such a dramatic fashion, or could there be something else to her reaction?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elin declined being a part of Serene’s tasting so we left her at the workstation and I helped Serene carry the open bottles over to the wine bar. She stopped in midstride and whipped her head around. “Was someone back here?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?” For some reason I didn’t want to tell Serene about Lawren. I felt protective of the young assistant.

  “It looks like things h
ave been moved,” Serene replied with a frown, but she dropped it and began unloading her cart.

  She was certainly at home behind the bar. She lined up six sparkling glasses and even produced two bowls of crackers and biscuits. “I like to use these with the sweet wine,” she said as she positioned the biscuits next to our tasting glasses.

  Then she poured a buttery white wine into the first glass. She handed me the glass and then poured a taste for herself. Holding her glass up to the base of the chandelier she said, “Isn’t that a lovely color? Get your nose in there and tell me what you smell.”

  I followed her instructions and took a whiff of the fruity wine.

  “You should be good at this,” Serene commented, watching me. “Your aunt says that you’re a flower expert. Flowers and wine have so many commonalities.”

  “This one almost has floral notes to me,” I said, taking one more inhale. “I’m getting peaches and apricots.”

  “Exactly.” Serene untied the belt on her raincoat, removed the coat, and stored it under the distressed wood bar. “Now taste it and see if you pick up anything else.”

  I took a leisurely sip of the aromatic wine. It was sweeter than I expected. I tasted hints of peach and even pear. Serene closed her eyes and swished a bit of wine like mouthwash. “It’s good, isn’t it?” She opened her eyes. “I definitely taste the peach, as well as butter and brown sugar.”

  Passing me the bowl of biscuits, she said, “Now eat one of these and taste it again.”

  I crunched the dry cookie and then took another sip. The cookie had altered the flavor of the wine. It didn’t taste quite as sweet this time.

  “Well?” Serene waited for my response.

  “I like it better after the biscuit. It toned down the sugar and almost gives it a new crispness, like underripe fruit.”