A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Too many questions stared at me from the page of my notebook. I watched Graham write ‘Reed’ on the whiteboard and draw lines radiating out from the name. We would add possible killers’ names to those lines and discuss motive and opportunity.

  Graham sat on the table, his legs swinging slightly as he talked about the names we had already listed as suspects. He announced that he would give a short press conference tomorrow morning. “Now that we know the first victim is Vera Howarth, we can make an appeal for information and show her photo. We’ll do the same with the woman calling herself Vera’s grandmother. Hopefully someone will know what happened and we could get a lead on the grandmotherly woman. I know the original team of officers inquired twenty-two years ago, but possibly the person who knows the elderly woman didn’t see all of the press and publicity at that time. Also, at that time the plea was for information on their disappearance. Now that it’s a murder case, perhaps someone might be brave enough to come forward.” He gave a sort of seated hop off the table and walked over to the whiteboard. “A long shot, I know, but we’ll try. Now. We have Vera’s birth certificate, as you know. I’m going to the church office after we finish here tonight and look through the registry of baptisms. I can guess within a few years of her birth date. It might give me another lead. If this grandmother person reared Vera, perhaps the woman’s name is in the registry.

  “The lab identified the white flower petals found on Reed Harper’s body. They are Leucanthemum vulgare, or the oxeye daisy. Common throughout the country, it grows in dry, grassy meadows as well as in ground that’s been disturbed. A perennial flower, blooming from May through September.

  “The mud…” He paused dramatically. I gripped my pen, wondering what was coming. “The mud isn’t your ordinary garden variety soil. Or even the soil common in that section of wood. It’s what well dressing workers refer to as ‘clay.’ The mud on Reed Harper’s body is a mixture of clay, salt and water.” His gaze traveled around the group, finally resting on me. His eyes were bright with excitement and he leaned forward as he asked, “What does all this tell us?”

  I stared back at Graham, my mind racing. “Someone deliberately dressed his body with the well dressing clay and the flower petals. Someone made a statement.”

  “Someone connected to the well dressing or fete, or a disgruntled gardener?”

  “If flowers were exclusive to the body, I’d say a gardener or florist. But since the clay for the well dressing panels is also present, I’d say a participant in the well dressing or fete.”

  Mark sighed heavily. “That gives us just about half the village, I’d say.”

  Graham said, “Taylor, you mentioned the killer making a statement. Any ideas about that?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t know that we can go with the meaning of the specific flower. Oxeye daisies grow wild but they can also be cultivated. I have some in my garden. Plus, it might be as simple as that was the only flower accessible to the murderer.”

  “Either growing wild or in someone’s garden.”

  “Yes, sir. We also can’t assume the killer has the daisy growing in his own garden. That might be too much of a giveaway to the police. So he cuts two or three from some accommodating garden here in the village. What gardener will miss two flower heads if there are dozens blooming?”

  “Provided no one sees the theft,” Mark said.

  “The daisy is the birth month flower of April,” I said. “That could signify something to the killer or pertain in some manner to Reed Harper. The daisy has a certain significance, too. Like all flowers, it stands for a particular human quality or emotion. Color factors into a flower’s meaning as much as the type of flower itself.” I paused, looking at Graham, wondering if he wanted all this information. But he appeared interested, so I continued. Besides, the more information we had, the better our chance to identify the killer. He might have used the daisy for a particular reason instead of it just being available in his neighbor’s garden. “For example,” I said, rushing on, “the rose. Many people think of the rose as a symbol of love. But that’s the red rose. A dark pink-colored rose means thank you, and a white rose signifies silence, secrecy or charm. It depends on the flower and its color as to what it means.”

  “Are you serious?” Mark shook his head. “If it had been a white rose instead of a white daisy plastered on Reed Harper’s body, for instance, how would we know if we’re looking for a killer who gave a message of silence, secrecy or charm? They’re different.”

  “All I’m saying, Mark, is that the daisy might mean something. It might direct us to the killer. It could be nothing more than a flower. Not everyone knows the meanings of flowers.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, let me know. I’ll be concentrating on something solid.”

  Graham asked what the daisy implied.

  “Several things. Innocence, faith, cheer, friendship and loyal love. There are different colors of daisies, but white symbolizes purity or perfection. I think an old Celtic legend tells of infants who die in childbirth. Their spirits choose daisies to drop over the ground as a way of cheering their grieving parents.”

  “Reed’s daughter is seventeen,” Mark said.

  “But he had affairs with other women,” Graham reminded him. “Besides Clarice, were any of them pregnant?”

  “Stuffing a daisy into his mouth doesn’t exactly symbolize that legend to me,” I said. “It seems more like a comment on the well dressing or fete, anger on the part of the killer.”

  “It would be completely different if a bouquet of daisies lay beside him,” Mark agreed.

  “Maybe it means something totally different,” I said when we had discussed white flowers and brides wearing white.

  “Like what, Taylor?” Graham leaned back in his chair, ready for a new discussion.

  “We’re forgetting the petals, sir.”

  “They’re not signifying the well dressing?”

  “Could do, of course, but there’s the other meaning of the flower. Daisies don’t tell.”

  “Maybe that’s why it was crammed into his mouth.”

  * * * *

  We talked another half hour, then Graham told us to get some sleep. I wasn’t sorry to trudge back to my room. It was just after ten o’clock and I was tired.

  I returned to the pub by way of the village pond. I couldn’t face walking past the southern fringe of the wood—not at this hour, not after poking about in the grandmother’s house and finding it waiting for Vera’s return. The whole setup had the whiff of the fishmonger, as Margo would say, and I was suddenly nervous for the entire CID team—that we were being watched and manipulated like a giant game of cat-and-mouse.

  The last of the workers in the village hall turned out the light and locked the door as I strolled up. The man looked up quickly, startled at the sound of my footsteps on the road. I called out, asking how the well dressing was coming. He met me on the pavement, relaxing now that he knew who was out at this time of night, and said they would be puddling the mud and filling the frames tomorrow.

  “We do all that on the green.” He gestured toward the space south of the pond. “That way we keep all the excess mud outside, there’s not as much cleanup inside the hall, and we don’t have to carry it halfway across the village.”

  “Sounds like someone was thinking,” I said, walking with him toward the pub.

  “Oh, aye. It takes but a time or two to come up with the best way to do all this. We learn quick by our mistakes.” His face wrinkled up in a grin.

  “Did you live here when Vera Howarth and her…” I paused, then decided to continue with the elder woman’s relationship. “…when Vera and her grandmother lived here?”

  “You coppers are investigating Vera’s death. I know. It’s common knowledge all over the village.”

  “Yes. I’m curious if Vera or her grandmother ever participated in the festival.”

  “In dressing the wells?”

  “That, yes, or volunteering with the fete set-up
. Or perhaps donated a cake to the cake booth. Anything like that.”

  The man thought for a moment, scratching the rim of his ear. “I’m fifty. Vera went missing when I was twenty-seven. I remember ’cause it was such a big thing. Horrible, too. Shocked me to hear of Reed’s disappearance, too,” he added, rather reluctantly. “Can’t help thinking the same person’s involved. Responsible.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Our bobby. Clayton. Nothing was ever proved that he had anything to do with Vera’s disappearance—they said he got a letter from her, but I don’t believe it. Not for a second. No offense, but coppers know how to manufacture evidence. How to cover up things, too. Now, I’m not saying Clayton did that, and I don’t honestly believe he did—we’ve known each other forever, it seems, and I count myself a friend. But he could have had the knowledge how to do it, couldn’t he? Like a doctor who’s a murder suspect. I always think they’re the perfect murderer ’cause they know how to muddy the medical waters.”

  I said rather slowly that anyone with skill or information like that could probably manufacture or destroy evidence.

  “There was a lot of finger pointing at Clayton at the time, and a lot of whispered accusations, but that was all. And now Reed…” He wiped the back of his hand against his chin.

  “How long did all those whispered allegations last? Clayton still lives here, I see.”

  “Not long. Things die down quick in a village. Nothing was ever proved against him, and Vera was never found. I think Clayton took it well, those few months. Some folks said they’d seen the note Vera sent him, but I never did. Wasn’t really my business. I think Clayton showed how tough and innocent he was, withstanding all that gossip. But living with the suspicion, seeing the look in people’s eyes, knowing they believe you guilty…of something—” He broke off and sighed deeply. “But that was then and this is now. History repeating itself, in a ghastly kind of way, with the police here again. Anyway, you asked about the well dressing. Vera may have put in an hour or so helping in some way. I can’t recall. Can’t recall about her granny, either. You know how it is,” he said, sighing as though he were apologizing. “Things happen the same way, year in and year out. Same people involved, same jobs of work to get done. Angela with her master of ceremonies job, Perry Bowcock snapping photos, Jenny Millington writing up the speeches, the same lads each year soaking the panels and setting them up. Everyone knowing and doing his job so long that’s it’s become automatic. So you don’t necessarily keep score of who shows up what year and who does what.” He shrugged and apologized.

  “If you do remember, would you ring me?” I fumbled in my trousers pockets for one of my business cards.

  “It’s important, then.”

  “Yes.” I handed him a card. “If you’d feel easier about talking to me in person, I’m staying at the pub. Room 11.”

  “Well, I’ll cast my mind back, but don’t hold your breath. I wasn’t involved in the decorating of the panels proper, you know. I soaked the frames in the pond and stirred up the clay. Did that then and I’m still doing it. It’s my job of work.”

  “So you don’t recall that Vera worked on the panels.”

  “No. But there’s others that might. We’ve got photos of the workers for most years, too, if you want to look through those.”

  “Where would I find them?”

  “In one of the cupboards in the village hall. They’re probably put into scrapbooks or something. You can ask anybody who’s working on the panels tomorrow. We all know where they are. Years ago the snaps would be displayed in a kind of Village Fete Volunteers spread, but we don’t do that anymore. Too many years we had to scramble to cover up the display when it rained.”

  “And where is the fete proper to be held?”

  “On the east side of the old school.”

  “The building that’s converted into the youth hostel?”

  “That’s she. Good, big area for the rides and booths and such. ’Course, we don’t have many of the bigger rides that the large villages have, but we have a nice selection. Anyroad, the favorite events tend to be the cake booth, big wheel, fortune teller and the flea market.”

  “The vicar allows a fortune teller?”

  “We all know she’s not one of them professionals. Just a woman from Upper Hogsley who dresses the part. It’s more for amusement than anything else. We return the favor and give Upper Hogsley a fortuneteller for their fete. Kind of a harmless competition.”

  “Do these two women just say general things?”

  “Oh, aye, but they also get a bit of village gossip to slip in.”

  “Gossip? Like what?”

  “Nothing malicious, mind you. So-and-so’s going to be married this year; someone else will retire. You know.”

  “The fortune tellers must know the people well, then, in order to pull that off.”

  “Aye, they do. Been doing it so long that they know people by sight. Anyway, we’re not that big a village so it’s not a sea of faces. Besides, many villagers don’t go to the well dressing or the fete. You can count on the same folks showing up year after year. Not hard.”

  “I suppose the fortune teller can always state some generality if she’s unsure who she’s speaking to, like a tourist.”

  “She can that. Got rather good at it, too, from what I hear. A real talent, that. Well,” he waved to me as I opened the pub door. “Stop in the hall and see how we’re doing. We’ve got the three panels to decorate by Friday.”

  I promised him I would and bade him good night.

  * * * *

  I did try to sleep when I got to my room, but Sam’s predicament, the flower significance and the possibility of Vera’s connection to the well dressing kept me awake. I thought of seeing if Margo were awake, wanting to talk over this information, but decided to let her sleep. So I did what I usually did when I was restless: take a walk.

  It had just gone half past eleven when I climbed the hill and came up to the church. A black silhouette against a dark backdrop of darker trees and hills, the church sat silent, as though brooding with me. The tombstones appeared to hover above the ground, pale gray forms dotting the inky ground. I paused at the lych gate, solid enough in this moody landscape. One of the picket gates stood open. Surely Graham was not still in the church office. I pulled the gate closed and was momentarily startled by the squeal of its rusty hinges. The sound flushed a tawny owl from its perch somewhere overhead. It flew silently to another tree bough and settled into the darkness, perhaps peering down at me, wondering who had disturbed him. I was grateful I hadn’t heard its call, for the wavering whoo at end of its song would have been enough to unnerve me.

  As I stepped from beneath the lych gate, footsteps crunched on the gravel path in the churchyard. I called into the blackness, in the direction of the sound. A cheery, puzzled voice floated back to me.

  “Taylor?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Graham.” I hugged the edge of the gate, making certain it was he before I stepped into the open. The cloud slid off the face of the moon and white light filtered through the tree boughs. Graham walked across a patch of dappled earth, sidestepped around a tombstone, and pulled the gate open. The hinge again complained and the owl flapped quietly through the shaft of moonlight to disappear into a dark expanse of trees.

  Graham closed the gate and walked up to me. The scent of his aftershave mixed with the aromas of crushed pine needles and damp moss, bringing police work and the outdoors together in one strange fragrance. Standing next to me in the shadow of a juniper, he spoke barely above a whisper, yet his voice sang in my ear and I could hear every breath he took.

  “Out awfully late, Taylor.”

  I nodded, not caring if the gloom might have made my movement imperceptible.

  “We’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he added, as though intimating I should trot back to my room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  We both stood by the gate, not moving, letting the night sounds wash over us. Final
ly, Graham took a step from me, in the direction of the Harper house. Dry chert crunched beneath his shoe and he turned toward me. “You coming?”

  “I’m not really sleepy, sir. That’s why I took a walk.”

  “Pre-wedding jitters, or is the case bothering you?”

  “Little of both, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe you need to sleep on it.”

  I wasn’t awfully good at figuring out when Graham joked some times, but I was certain this was one of them. I smiled and replied that I should have thought of that.

  “Have you tried warm milk or listening to music? The mind has an amazing ability to sort through things while we sleep. Or isn’t it that simple?”

  “It should be, shouldn’t it? You want to get married; you’re in love. Why shouldn’t it be as simple as standing up and exchanging vows? Why does everything have to be so complicated for just a quarter hour service?”

  Silence fell between us as I tried to think of some noncommittal subject to talk about, but I blurted out the question before I realized it. “You’ve heard nothing more about Sam, have you? I mean, he’s still all right…” I tried to see Graham’s eyes, to read the unspoken message that he might lie about or try to diminish its severity, but the shadows concealed his features and any hint of his response. I added when Graham didn’t reply, “Roper hasn’t done—”

  “No, Brenna. Roper hasn’t done anything. Nor has anyone else. I’m sorry now that I told you.”

  “Oh, no, sir, that’s quite all right. I-I need to know about Sam. It’s such a horrible situation he’s in…sister of a cop, a police informer.” I took a breath, not trusting my voice. “You don’t think that will get around the prison, do you? About Sam’s relationship to me, I mean. I—it’s hard enough for him in prison without…” Again I couldn’t finish my sentence. I guess my imagination worked too well. Or I knew first hand of too many ‘accidents’ that happened to inmates such as Sam.

  Graham’s voice floated over to me. “Sam’s no fool, no matter if he was fool enough to get into that business with Roper. Sam will be on his guard. And even if Roper does have mates in Full Sutton, your brother can be moved again. It will take Roper a while to find him right now, anyhow, never mind another move in the future, if that’s warranted. There are a lot of prisons in England and Wales.”