‘All right,’ replied Harriet with a degree of exasperation. ‘But if you change your mind my offer still stands. You’re more than welcome to come and stay with me for as long as you wish.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Constance, reluctant to accept Harriet’s offer since it could put her life in danger also.
‘I happen not to be working tomorrow,’ said Harriet, filling the void of silence as they drove. ‘I could spend the day with you at the bookshop. I know it’s only the one day, but you’ve had a terrible shock with what’s happened to Howard so, other than keeping you company, I’m sure I can be of some use.’
CHAPTER 8
W hile Betts escorted Constance Parsons outside to her waiting car, Fitzjohn had copies of the manuscript run-off and then returned to his office. Hopefully, these pages will contain a clue as to why Howard Greenwood was so brutally murdered and whether or not it had anything to do with his wife’s death, he thought with a surge of optimism as he sat down at his desk. At that moment, Betts came back into the office. ‘Were you able to convince Ms Parsons to stay with her friend?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so, sir. I got the impression she thinks it could bring trouble to her friend’s door if something should happen.’
‘But that would only happen if her whereabouts were known. Having said that, however, I can see her point.’ Fitzjohn took his glasses off, set them down on the desk and sat back in his chair. ‘Even so, I do wish she’d heeded my advice but all we can do is make the suggestion. And as far as this manuscript is concerned, I wonder if Leo Greenwood knows about it.’
‘If he does, you’d think he’d have mentioned it to us,’ said Betts as he sat down.
‘You’d think so, but as we had just informed him of his brother’s death, I doubt his thoughts were clear. So it’s probably not surprising,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Any news on the murder weapon?’
‘I had a team comb the theatre late this afternoon, sir, but they didn’t find anything. They’ll continue in the morning.’
‘Good.’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘I think we should call it a day, don’t you?’ he said as he placed one copy of the manuscript into his briefcase and closed the lid.
‘You’re not thinking of reading that tonight are you sir? It’s already after eleven o’clock.’
‘Needs must, Betts. I had a copy made for you too while you were seeing Ms Parsons out so you can do the same.’ A groan left Betts’ lips. ‘It shouldn’t take you more than a couple of hours. We can discuss our findings, if any, in the morning.’ With a chuckle, Fitzjohn shrugged into his overcoat, switched off the light and, followed by Betts, left his office.
***
When he emerged from the station, the storm clouds moved swiftly across a full moon, its brightness defused into a milky glow. Fitzjohn settled himself into the back seat of the waiting cab, his mind awash with the events of the day. Adding to this, when at last the taxi pulled up in front of his cottage in the leafy suburban street of Birchgrove, he heaved a sigh when he noticed the glow of an internal light through the stained glass sections of the front door. This can only mean that Meg is here, unannounced as usual, he thought. Hoping she had retired for the evening, he opened the front door and stepped inside as the clock on the mantelpiece in the living room struck midnight.
‘Is that you, Alistair?’ came his sister’s voice from upstairs.
‘Yes, Meg. No need to get up. We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘But you won’t have time in the morning,’ she replied, descending the stairs in her dressing gown, her greying hair in curlers. ‘You’ll be off to the station before I’ve barely woken up and its imperative I speak to you about Sophie.’
‘But it’s midnight and I have reading to do before I go to bed,’ he replied, walking through to the kitchen where he shrugged out of his overcoat, loosened his tie and removed the manuscript from his briefcase.
‘Whatever it is it can’t be as important as your niece’s future,’ said Meg, following his every move.
‘This isn’t about Sophie and Martin Betts moving in together, is it?’ asked Fitzjohn, turning to face his sister.
‘You know about it and you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘I assumed you knew,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘How would I know? Sophie doesn’t tell me anything. I rely on you, Alistair, to keep me informed about what’s going on in her life.’
‘The decision was only made the other day. I’m sure she plans to tell you.’
‘And I’ll tell her I’m against the idea.’
‘Meg, you don’t have any say in the matter,’ replied Fitzjohn in exasperation. ‘Sophie is more than capable of making her own decisions. In other words, it’s none of your business.’
‘Alistair Fitzjohn, you’ve never spoken to me like that before in your life. I’m shocked.’
‘I should have done so a long time ago for your own sake as well as your daughter’s,’ Fitzjohn heard himself saying. ‘And since I’ve started, I may as well continue. You can give your daughter advice if she asks for it but otherwise you have to support her in her life’s choices, not put road blocks in her way because eventually you’ll drive her away. You don’t want that, do you, Meg.?’
‘I’m her mother. I have a responsibility to make sure she doesn’t do something she’ll regret later on.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Sophie is no longer a child. She's a grown woman who is starting her career in forensic science and happens to be in love with my sergeant whom she plans to marry. She’s happy. You should be pleased for her.’
‘They’re putting the cart before the horse, Alistair, and you know it. They should get married first.’ An awkward silence descended on the kitchen before Meg turned and stormed out of the room.
I’ve really done it this time, thought Fitzjohn as he watched her go, aware his words had created a schism between them that might never be resolved. Disheartened, he walked into the conservatory and sat down heavily into a chair, removed the rubber bands that held the manuscript together and began to read.
***
Fitzjohn rose later than usual the following morning, his thoughts a mixture of what the manuscript had revealed about Howard Greenwood’s life and how he could repair the damage his words had caused between himself and his sister the night before. As he left his bedroom, he was aware of the silence in the house, a rare event while Meg was in residence. With a suspicion she might have returned to Melbourne without a word, he glanced through the guestroom doorway as he passed by. With her suitcase in plain sight, he gave a sigh of relief and made his way downstairs to the kitchen where he found Meg standing at the window with her back to him, looking out over the garden.
‘Good morning, Meg.’ His sister turned, a pained look across her face. ‘I can understand if you’ve taken offence at what I said to you last night. I just don’t want to see a rift develop between you and your daughter, that’s all.’
‘Do you know when she’s moving into the apartment?’
‘It’s this coming weekend,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Then perhaps I could help her,’ said Meg.
Knowing how difficult it must be for his sister to give way to a new perspective, Fitzjohn smiled. ‘I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Now, I just want to check on the orchids before I leave for the station.’
‘What about breakfast?’ asked Meg.
‘I’ll get something at the canteen.’
‘That’s not good enough, Alistair. You really must take better care of your diet.’ Meg hesitated. ‘On second thought, I’m sure you know best.’
Taken by surprise at this response as well as encouraged that his sister might have taken his words to heart, Fitzjohn said, ‘Would you like to come down to the greenhouse with me? I’d really appreciate your opinion on which orchid I should bench at the next orchid society meeting.’
‘I doubt I’d be much help, Alistair. I know nothing about orchi
ds.’
‘But you are able to tell me which plant appeals to you the most. How about it?’
‘Well, I suppose I can do that,’ replied Meg.
With the mood lifted, Fitzjohn led the way down the garden path and into the greenhouse. When they emerged half an hour later, Meg carried the chosen specimen with pride. ‘You know, I think I might take up orchid growing myself when I get home,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a bit late in life to start gardening but, look over there, your neighbour seems to be doing just that.’ Fitzjohn followed Meg’s gaze over the hedge into Rhonda Butler’s garden. ‘And it looks like she’s going about it in a big way for a beginner, doesn’t it?’ That flowerbed is huge.’ As she spoke, Meg came to a standstill as she surveyed its contents. ‘I can’t say I approve of what she’s growing though.’
‘Why not?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Because, unless my eyes are deceiving me, it’s pot!’
‘I assure you, Rhonda Butler would be the last person to cultivate marijuana,’ replied Fitzjohn with a chuckle. ‘She actively campaigns against its legalisation.’
‘Then I suggest you take a closer look,’ replied Meg.
Fitzjohn looked again. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, adjusting his glasses. ‘If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it, but I think you may be right.’
‘I know I am but I wouldn’t worry too much because those seedlings won’t survive out there in the open; the conditions are all wrong.’
Fitzjohn turned to his sister. ‘Since when do you know so much about the cultivation of marijuana,’ he asked before a long-forgotten image came to mind of a young Meg espousing new found freedoms in 1960s London. Probably not the best time to mention her misspent youth, he thought, especially when she’s showing signs of making an effort not to run everyone’s life.
‘I probably read about it somewhere along the line,’ replied Meg. ‘The plants need high humidity and plenty of light. Another cold evening like the last one and those seedlings will shrivel.’
‘Even so, now I’m aware of what she’s doing, I can’t ignore it.’
‘What are you going to do? Send in the drug squad?’ asked Meg with a snicker.
‘I doubt that’ll be necessary. She’s probably not even aware of what she’s growing. I’ll go and speak to her. And it’s probably best to do so now while she’s out there tending her prohibited crop.’ Fitzjohn left by the side gate and made his way next door.
***
‘Good morning, Mrs Butler.’
Rhonda swung around, the spray from the hose pipe barely missing Fitzjohn’s shoes. ‘What do you want?’ she said with a scowl.
‘I’m here in my capacity as a police officer, Mrs Butler. I want to speak to you about your new garden bed.’
‘My garden bed is none of your business, Mr Fitzjohn.’
‘As I said, I’m here in my capacity as a police officer, so it’s Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and as such, your garden bed is my business, at least concerning your choice of plants. Have you any idea what species of plant you’re growing, Mrs Butler?’
‘I don’t need to know. My nephew has entrusted these seedling to me. He’s doing a horticultural class at school and this is part of his project.’ With an expression of pride, Rhonda looked over the bed. ‘He lives with his parents in an apartment tower so he’s not able to grow his plants at home.’
‘It’s admirable of you to help him.’ replied Fitzjohn, eyeing the garden, ‘but there’s a problem. You see, what you’re helping your nephew to grow is marijuana.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous. These seedling were supplied by the school specifically for the project and I don’t appreciate your assumption that my nephew is into cultivating drugs,’ Rhonda screeched.
‘He may be as unaware as you seem to be,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Nevertheless, school project or not, my advice to you is to destroy the plants and start again with something that isn’t illegal, such as sun flowers or geraniums perhaps. And please do so immediately.’
***
‘How did she take it?’ asked Meg as she hovered at the kitchen window.
‘Not well but that’s no surprise.’ Fitzjohn recounted his conversation with Rhonda. ‘I doubt she knows what she’s growing although I have my suspicions that her nephew does. In other words, she’s been hoodwinked.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘At this stage there’s only one thing I can do. Hope she heeds what I’ve told her and pray to god I see geraniums growing next time I look.’
‘I think you’ll be disappointed because she’s still watering them,’ said Meg, turning back from the window. ‘What about the nephew?’
‘Well, I can’t stand by and do nothing so a visit to his school to find out what sort of horticultural project he’s involved in might be a start. I’ll put Betts on it.’
CHAPTER 9
T he following morning, Constance unlocked the bookshop’s glass door and, followed by Harriet, stepped into an atmosphere permeated with the pleasant aromatic smell of leather and old books. ‘I think I’ll enjoy being here even under the circumstances,’ said Harriet her eyes sparkling as she looked at row upon row of shelves, brimming with books of every description. ‘Where do you want me to start?’ Constance picked up a fluffy purple duster and handed it to Harriet. ‘Not dusting, surely,’ said Harriet with a grimace. ‘I can do that at home. I was hoping for something more interesting like cataloguing or reordering the fiction section perhaps.’
‘There’s time for that later,’ replied Constance ‘It may seem trivial, but dusting is one of the most important tasks in an old building such as this. You can’t expect customers to return if they choke to death while looking for a book, can you? So, get started and after I’ve turned on the computer system and taken delivery of this morning’s supplies which should be arriving shortly, I’ll make us both a cup of coffee.’
***
As soon as Constance disappeared into the rear of the bookshop, Harriet pranced along the rows of shelving, the duster resting every few moments on her shoulder as her attention was taken by a growing number of titles. That was until she reached “Romance”. ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to read this,’ she muttered to herself as she took the book from the shelf. As she did so, the bell on the front door tinkled. Harriet glanced over her shoulder to see two women walk in. ‘Good morning. Happy to browse are we?’ she asked. With nods from each, her eyes reverted to the book in her grasp whereby she barely noticed the man and another woman who entered a short-time later.
‘Harriet! Still dusting are you?’
Engrossed as she was the book and the duster tumbled to the floor with a clatter at the sound of Constance’s voice. ‘Just finishing up,’ replied Harriet, grabbing the book and shoving it into a shelf before picking up the duster and sauntering into Constance’s view.
‘Thank you, I really appreciate it,’ said Constance, placing two steaming cups on the counter. ‘I made tea instead of coffee. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, not at all,’ replied Harriet, feeling a tinge of guilt as she placed the purple duster under the counter.
‘Any customers while I’ve been out the back?’ asked Constance, her question ending with a sneeze.
‘A few browsers but no sales, I’m afraid. And it’s probably just as well since I’m not that confident on how to operate the till.’ Constance sneezed again. ‘You must be coming down with a cold.’
‘It’s not a cold. It’s that fragrance in the air.’
Harriet took a few short sniffs. ‘It’s the scent of roses. Strange I didn’t notice it before because it’s ever so strong, isn’t it? But where is it coming from?’
Constance did not reply but looked past Harriet towards the front window ledge. ‘What’s that over there?’
‘It looks like some sort of atomizer,’ replied Harriet.
Curious, Constance walked over and bent down to take a whiff of the small container. ‘Well, this
is definitely where that odour is coming from,’ she said straightening up.
‘Which means one of this morning’s customers must have been the killer,’ said Harriet. ‘Oh, Constance. First the roses in your garden cut to ribbons and now this.’
‘It seems to be the pattern.’
‘What do you mean, pattern?’ asked Harriet.
‘The killer’s,’ replied Constance. ‘I read in the morning newspaper that long-stemmed red roses were found thrown over poor Howard’s body.’
Harriet’s face drained of colour and her eyes grew round as she stared at Constance. ‘We’re dealing with a psychopath, aren’t we? I think you should call that detective you spoke to last night and tell him what’s happened.’
‘I hate to make a fuss and bring him on a wild goose chase if that’s what it turns out to be,’ said Constance.
‘It’s no wild goose chase, believe me,’ said Harriet as she lurched across the floor to latch the front door before flipping the sign to Closed. ‘It’s best that no one other than the police enter the building. It could compromise the evidence,’ she said, turning back with a satisfied look.
‘You’ve been watching too many detective shows,’ said Constance, taking her mobile phone from her handbag and punching in the police detective’s number.
CHAPTER 10
F eeling somewhat petulant from lack of sleep and the fiasco concerning Rhonda Butler’s garden, Fitzjohn arrived at the station eager to find out his young sergeant’s thoughts on the manuscript. On reaching the main office, however, his expectation was abruptly thwarted when he found Betts hunched over reading the text. As he approached, Betts looked up with a sheepish expression. ‘I take it you didn’t read the manuscript last night.’
‘I decided my brain is sharper by day, sir, so I came in early this morning. I’m almost finished.’
Rose Scented Murder Page 5
