Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  He placed his glasses on the tip of his nose just above the bandage. “Murder. An actual murder. Here at Blomma. Say it can’t be so.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  “How is Elin holding up?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “She’s okay. I mean I think we’re still in shock, but she’s fine. She’s strong.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Your aunt means the world to me. If there’s anything I can do, anything, you must promise to tell me. I know that Elin is one tough cookie, but I also know that she likes to play her cards close to the chest.”

  I couldn’t debate him on that. Blame it on our hardy Swedish roots, but I knew something about playing things close to the chest too. It was one of the many things I intended to work on about myself now that I was starting over.

  Pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “Have there been any other disturbances around here?”

  “Huh?” I scrunched my nose. “Disturbances?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary?” He scoffed. “Aside from this nasty murder, of course.”

  “No. Why?” I thought about the black van that had been parked in front of his shop. An uneasy feeling assaulted my body. He couldn’t be tied up with Frank’s murder, could he? By all accounts he’d been gone. But what if that was a lie? I studied his calm face. He was attractive, with dark eyes and striking features. He didn’t look like a killer. As if I knew what a killer looked like. My instinct told me that Jon was harmless, and yet until Frank’s killer was behind bars, everyone was a potential suspect. What was the bandage on his nose from? Just a harmless cut? Or could it be from a scuffle or something more sinister?

  For a moment I thought he might say something more. He stared at a cascade orchid that Elin had artfully accented with moss and rocks. “It’s nothing.” He tapped the box of candles. “Is she in the back? I have a delivery for her. She asked for tapers for a centerpiece workshop.”

  “Of course. Head on back. She’s setting up for another class now.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Britta,” he said reaching for my hand one last time. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you more.” He kissed the top of my hand.

  “You too,” I said as he walked into the cottage and I returned to my peonies. My first impression of Jon was that he was warm and funny. He sounded like he was concerned about Elin, and had obviously known her for a while if he knew about me. Why had he asked about the shop? There had to be something that Elin wasn’t telling me. I was probably being paranoid, but was it too convenient that he’d been gone during Frank’s murder?

  He’d said it himself. Nothing happened in Riverplace Village. Nothing happened until he was gone. I knew from our short interaction that surely he must also have a key to Blomma. I wanted to like him, but he had said he had been gone for two days. According to Elin he’d been on vacation for weeks. Was it a simple mistake or could Jon be lying? Had I just met yet another potential suspect on my ever-growing list?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The rest of the morning passed in a blur of fragrant flowers and colorful bouquets. As predicted, the wind kicked up as the day progressed, making it impossible to open Blomma’s giant garage doors. I enjoyed listening to the sound of rain lashing the windows and watching the wind bend the trees along the pathway outside.

  Before I knew it, it was time for my lunch meeting with Pete Fletcher. I checked my appearance in the bathroom before I left. The cream-colored sweater contrasted nicely with my dark hair. My pale skin looked especially white. I dug through my purse and found my compact. Then I dusted my cheeks and added a touch of red lipstick, trying to convince myself that the only reason I was concerned about the way I looked was because this was a business lunch. Not because I had the slightest attraction to Pete.

  My attempts at improving my appearance were futile. The second I stepped outside the wind blew my hair in every direction. Rain pelted my face and coat. I hid under the hood of my red raincoat and hurried down the flooding sidewalk. A moment later a sopping wet pug lapped at my heels.

  The pug had on a black diamond-studded raincoat and paced in front of Demitasse’s sweaty windows. This had to be Sticks, Nora’s coffee-loving pooch. I bent over and petted his soggy head. Sticks responded by licking my hand with slobbery kisses. “Hey, buddy what are you doing outside?” I said to the friendly pup.

  I was about to let him back into the coffee shop, but when I stood up I realized someone was towering over me. Talk about bad luck. It was none other than Kirk Jaffe. Sticks yapped at Kirk’s feet. Kirk responded by kicking him.

  “Hey! Don’t hurt the dog,” I protested.

  “I didn’t hurt him. He’s fine.”

  Kirk’s treatment of Sticks only furthered my dislike of him. I patted Sticks on the head, opened Demitasse’s door, and pushed his rump inside. Then I stood to face Kirk.

  He blocked my path. “So, Snow. Are you another one of Portland’s do-gooders? Out rescuing poor mangy mutts in the storm?” He gave me a lecherous stare. “You know what? Forget Snow. In that coat you’re more like Little Red Riding Hood. Hope the big bad wolf isn’t around anywhere.”

  How did he manage to make everything that came out of his mouth sound sleazy? And why had I bought a red raincoat? It had seemed like a good idea when I was in Minnesota. A bright red jacket to cut through winter’s barren landscape, like a single red rose budding on the vine. But with the way Kirk was leering at me I decided that I might have to ditch the raincoat for good when I got back to Blomma.

  One fairy-tale nickname was enough. I didn’t need two.

  “Listen, Kirk, I’m late,” I said, trying to skirt around him.

  “Late for what? Got a date?” His beefy body took up most of the sidewalk and blocked my path.

  “It’s none of your business, but I’m meeting Detective Fletcher.”

  Was it my imagination or did he look scared? He moved to the side. “Have fun. That dude is a barrel of laughs.”

  I didn’t want to risk getting stuck in a conversation with Kirk or chance his coming up with yet another annoying fairy-tale reference to describe me, so I continued on.

  “Hey!” Kirk called after me above the wind. “I know you’re trying to play it cool, but women can never resist the Kirkster. When you’re ready for a real date, let me know and we can swap digits.”

  Had I been out of the game too long? Swap digits? The Kirkster? Is that really how people talked now? And come to think of it, who told Kirk that I was “back on the market”? I tried to shake off the rain and the thought of spending even a minute alone with Kirk and continued on to the Riverplace Inn.

  The doorman ushered me inside and encouraged me to warm up in front of the fire. I thought he was simply being kind, but then I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the lobby mirrors. My ponytail had been teased by the wind and looked like a hairstyle from a fifties movie. I didn’t need to worry about my skin lacking color. My cheeks were cherry red and splotched from the rain and wind. I did my best to tame my locks and wipe the rain from my face.

  Pete was waiting for me at a table against the window when I entered the rustic dining room. The décor matched the rest of the hotel with natural and distressed wood, huge potted ferns and evergreens, Edison-style light bulbs, and hand-loomed rugs. Our table offered a floor-to-ceiling view of the waterfront path and Willamette River. Although the clouds were so thick that it was impossible to tell where the path ended and river began.

  “Did you swim here?” Pete stood and pushed out my chair for me.

  “Thanks a lot.” I tried to brush my wet ponytail knowing it would do little good. Then I removed my coat and hung it over the back of my chair. “It’s wet out there.”

  He sat and smiled at me. “So I’ve noticed.”

  The way that Pete looked at me made me feel off-center. Unlike Kirk he was completely subtle. It wasn’t anything I could exa
ctly pinpoint. Maybe the fact that he held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, or how his scar indented when he smiled. Whatever it was made my hands quiver and my stomach flop.

  “I meant our view.” He tapped the window with his left hand.

  “Got it.” I grabbed my napkin and dried my hands on it before placing it on my lap. I tried to tell myself that my hands were clammy from Portland’s weather, not because of Pete’s broad shoulders and brooding eyes.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked handing me a lunch menu that had been printed on recycled wood paper.

  “Water’s fine.”

  “Don’t let the badge stop you. I indulge in a lunchtime wine when I’m not on duty.”

  “No, really I’m fine. My head has been fuzzy ever since I found Frank. I had a half of glass while we were cleaning up the cottage last night and I feel like my head is still spinning.” Or could it be the fact that I caught a hint of his cologne? He smelled like the forest—a bit like pine and a wafting campfire.

  Stop it, Britta, I commanded, digging my fingernails into my napkin. What was my problem? Was this a natural reaction to getting a divorce? Maybe the fact that Chad had cheated on me had me hungry for male attention. Whatever it was I couldn’t stop staring into his intensely brown eyes, which in this light appeared flecked with gold.

  “I assure you, Ms.—I mean—Britta, that what you are experiencing is completely normal.” He ran his hand along his auburn stubble.

  “Really?” I twisted my napkin on my lap, hoping that Pete wouldn’t notice.

  “Absolutely. If you weren’t thrown off by stumbling upon a murder you would quickly ascend to the top of our suspect list.” He offered me a kind smile that made tiny beads of sweat form on the back of my neck.

  “Can I ask you something?” I scooted my chair closer to the table. “I know that I’m here to talk to you about roses, but I keep obsessing about Blomma and maybe you can help put me at ease.”

  He filled our water glasses from a carafe on the table. “Shoot. I can’t promise I’ll be able to share anything pertaining to the case, but if your question falls into the realm of public domain I’ll give it my best shot.” His gunmetal gray dress shirt made his skin appear slightly tan.

  “It’s about the key. When I opened the shop that morning there was no sign that anyone had tried to break in. Same for the cottage. There were no broken windows. No signs that the door had been tampered with. Whoever killed Frank must have had a key, right?”

  “That’s one theory,” he said and took a slow sip from his glass.

  “Are there others?”

  “Britta, you appear to be a quick thinker. I’m sure you must have formulated a few other theories.”

  I wished he wouldn’t hold my gaze so intently. It was unnerving. “Well, I did wonder if Frank had a key.”

  “Yep. That’s another theory.”

  “What’s the other? You said you had a few.”

  He unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt and leaned back in his chair. “In my line of work everything is on the table until we have solid evidence to prove or disprove it.”

  “Like?”

  He strummed his fingers on his chin. Again I wondered how he’d gotten the scar on his cheek. “One possibility is that you didn’t lock up.”

  “But, I . . .” I started to protest, but he cut me off.

  “I know you report having locked up, but it happens. People are so used to going through the motions that sometimes we forget.”

  I wanted to retort that I wasn’t used to going through the motions. I was still learning the motions. And that I knew Elin and I had locked the doors, but he continued. “There’s the possibility that you or your aunt let Frank in.”

  “What?” I gasped. “You can’t really think that.”

  “I didn’t say that I did. I said it was one of many theories that are currently on the table.” He reached for his water again. “Frank could have stolen a key. He could have been meeting someone who had a key. The list goes on and on. Like I said, none of these ideas have legs until we find proof.”

  The waitress came by to take our orders. I decided on split-pea soup and a side garden salad. Pete ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and sweet potato fries.

  “Do you think someone could have intentionally set Elin up?” I asked after the waitress left.

  He tilted his head from side to side. “I suppose there’s an outside chance that could have happened, but the crime scene says otherwise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re implying that someone planned this murder, but nothing about the crime scene points to that. This is off the record, and it doesn’t go past this table, understood?”

  I nodded, hoping my face looked solemn.

  He leaned in. I tried to steady my breathing as I caught another whiff of his cologne. “My guess is that this was a crime of opportunity. I don’t think it was premeditated. There aren’t any signs of that, and the way that the victim was killed also implies a moment of passion versus something that was well thought out.”

  A sense of relief flooded my body. If Pete didn’t think that the murder had been premeditated it was unlikely that someone had been trying to sabotage Elin or Blomma.

  “But why Blomma?” I asked, still puzzling over how the killer got in.

  Pete shrugged. “Who knows? Everything we discussed still applies. It could be that our perp and victim met at Blomma, maybe more than once. Maybe your aunt was unfortunate in that the killer found a way into the cottage and used it as a secret meeting space.”

  I immediately flashed to my conversation with Elin where she had mentioned feeling watched and being convinced that someone had been peering into the cottage’s windows.

  “Britta, is there something you’re not telling me?” Pete asked narrowing his eyes.

  Was he a mind reader too? “It’s probably nothing,” I answered flattening my napkin in my lap. “Elin mentioned that she thought someone had been snooping around, and Nora brought up something about a competitor who has been feuding with my aunt. But every time I ask her about it she blows me off.”

  “Snooping around?”

  “Yeah. She was sure that someone had been peeking in the windows, but every time she went outside to check there was no one around. She figured it was probably teenagers, or maybe the occasional tourist who was curious about construction in the cottage, but now I’m wondering if maybe there was more to it? What if the killer was checking to see if the cottage was empty?” My mind spun like crazy.

  Our food arrived at that moment. My split-pea soup was as thick as the wall of clouds outside. It was loaded with salty bacon and tender carrots, and topped with house-made herbed croutons. Pete’s grilled chicken sandwich and mound of sweet potato fries looked equally appetizing.

  “Please, dive in.” He nodded to my soup.

  I stirred it and stared at the tumultuous thundering skies. Who could have been using the cottage? Nora, Mark, Jon, Frank, Kirk, Serene? Everyone in the village was a possibility. But why?

  “There’s no chance I’m getting this conversation back in control, am I?” Pete broke a steaming fry in two pieces and grinned at me. His scar transformed into a deep canyon when he smiled.

  “What do you mean?” I blew on my soup.

  “You’re in another world, now. I can tell.” He popped half a fry into his mouth. “I see it all the time with green cops. You get locked on to one idea.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He munched the other half of the fry. “Yep.”

  “Sorry.” I took a bite of the dense savory soup. It was warm and hearty, the perfect antidote to the crummy weather.

  “Don’t give it a thought, but maybe a change of subject will help.” He reached behind him to his black overcoat which hung on the back of his chair. Then he removed a plastic bag containing one of the Deep Secret roses. “What can you tell me about this rose?” He slid the bag across the table.

  I picked up
the bag and examined the rose. “Like I told you when I found Frank, it’s called Deep Secret. Although you should know this rose is different from the dead ones at the scene. I don’t know if that’s significant, but someone had to have spent a lot of money on the Deep Secret roses. Why would they put dead roses in the mix? It’s almost like they were two separate bouquets.”

  He had taken out his notebook and sat with a pencil poised awaiting my response. “Hmm. Good point. According to Officer Iwamoto and your aunt, it sounds like you know all there is to know about roses. Is there any way to tell if they were part of the same bouquet?”

  “No. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  “Okay.” He scratched his beard. “The question is why this rose? Why is it called Deep Secret? Could the rose hold a secret clue to why our victim was killed?”

  That was a complicated question. Every rose had meaning. I started to tell him as much but his cell phone buzzed. He answered it and replied, “Okay, I’m on my way,” and then hung up.

  He stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled on his coat. “Sorry I have to cut our lunch short. Something’s come up. Keep the rose. Think about it. I’ll be in touch.”

  With that he practically sprinted out of the dining room, leaving me sitting alone to ponder over roses—dead and secret roses.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I finished my soup in silence and watched the storm outside. Could the roses scattered around Frank’s body hold the clue to who killed him? Red roses signified romance and love. They were synonymous with passion and deep affection. Since ancient Greece the red rose has been a recurring symbol of love in mythology and literature. Red roses were tied to Venus (the goddess of love), found in the classics like Shakespeare, in poetry, and even in Alice in Wonderland. I thought of the scene where the queen declared that her card soldiers be beheaded for planting white roses and painting them red to try and fool her.

  There was one person I knew who was obsessed with fairy tales—Kirk. Again and again I came back to him being the most likely suspect.