by Judith Mehl
She said, “I want to be there to get a copy of the note and a photo of the bouquet if they can shoot one right away.”
“You must think Agatha is in real danger to rush over like this.”
Kat, grateful that he didn’t question her devotion to her friends, just nodded. When her friends were threatened, everything else took a back seat. Nick knew her that well after only a year of marriage.
At the police station, Kat scurried into the chief’s office, hoping no one noticed her footwear.
Chief Burrows looked up and motioned her toward a chair as he stood to shake Nick’s hand. “Hill just called in,” he said, retaking his seat. “He saw the Hartman lady safely inside, and is bringing the evidence to the station now. We’ll get you what you need when he gets here. I want your take on the note as soon as you can provide it.”
She smiled in relief. For once she didn’t have to fight him on something. She’d proved useful with her handwriting analysis when the department needed extra help before. He learned from her that it could be a complex task. She thanked him profusely.
Burrows said, “We didn’t save Margaret Hartman’s bouquet. We might have Rosalin Bromfield’s since it was near the body. We’ll get you photos of everything we have.”
The chief knew she belonged to a group of knowledgeable herbalists who could determine meanings and nuances of any poisonous substances, so she didn’t have to explain why she was so interested in a bunch of dead flowers. “Our lab will check for poisons, but I can’t see how the flowers were meant to kill.”
She saw the catch coming, though, even before he pointed his finger at her. “Remember, you report to me.”
They headed home with uplifted spirits. Nick questioned why the car his wife loaned Agatha sat in their driveway. When she eased out of the passenger seat without a word, he followed and reached for her arm as she neared the front door.
The next sign fairly shouted through the closed door—the erratic wailing from radio station WSBG. “Anything you want to tell me?
She took a deep breath, “You mean, like, I invited Agatha to stay with us until we can find the murderer?”
Nick hesitated before he opened the door, then shrugged. “So much for a romantic evening at home.”
Chapter 2
A ‘t’-bar crossed three-fourths up on the stem signifies practical goals. The higher the cross the loftier the goals.
Despite the pop music, Kat and Nick enjoyed their evening with Agatha. They took turns calming her, amusing her, and diverting her fears until she could confront them. Eventually they drifted to the issue of cats.
“My friends are gone,” Agatha said. “When my cat died mysteriously a month ago, I dwelt on old age and young pursuits gone. Then Margaret died. I not only lost her, I had to find a home for her cat, Shy, with a friend who had more time.”
“Why didn’t you keep him?”
Agatha sighed, “There was so much to do with Margaret gone, between the herb farm and the shop I was never home. The woman fell in love with Shy and could be around all day to take care of him. Shy needs a lot of love and attention now while he mourns Margaret.”
“I’ll leave the room now, so you ladies can chat. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” Nick said.
Kat gave him an absentminded goodbye kiss, as she realized that Agatha needed the same loving consideration as the cat. She changed the troubling subject in the hopes of reviving Agatha’s love of her work with herbs. She, Rosalin, and Margaret not only worked together in the shop, they lived for flowers and herbs. Agatha and Margaret had been more than co-owners of the herb farm that supplied the shop, and Kat could see Margaret’s passing had taken a huge toll on her friend. Margaret had lived at the farm. Now Agatha, or whoever inherited, would have to decide what to do with everything.
“Do you know who will own Margaret’s share of the farm? Does that include the house?”
“I don’t know, Kat. She once mentioned leaving it all to me but I didn’t hear after that. I’m still waiting to hear from her lawyer. The police are trying to contact him.”
“I wonder if the bouquets somehow fit in with the herb shop or farm?”
Agatha said she’d wondered the same thing. Neither had an answer.
Kat could see how the future of the herb farm hung heavily on Agatha. Especially what to do with the business now that she was alone. “I know Rosalin was a financial wizard besides being a funny lady,” she said. “We’ll find someone to do her job,” she promised.
Agatha’s eyes reflected the increasing despair from within. Kat drew on her spiritual strength and proposed, “The Lord will guard your coming and going, both now and forever. Let’s pray, and try to remember his presence.”
“How beautiful. I’m not surprised you work in public relations. You have a knack for such inspiring words.”
“Oh, Agatha, how kind of you. I confess I took it right out of the Bible. It’s in Psalms.”
They spoke briefly of religion and having faith. Both needed that now as they faced the uncertainties of their friends’ deaths and the unknown consequences for the rest of their other friends. They bowed their heads as they prayed for a moment. Then Kat said, “Agatha, let’s search your brain for information that could lead us on our way to some answers.”
With a little nudging, Agatha reminisced about Rosalin and her robust qualities. She reached for her bag of quilting pieces that she’d placed next to the chair. “Do you mind if I quilt? It soothes me and helps me think.”
Kat curled her legs under her and settled back, signifying this was just a pleasant chat and nothing to make Agatha nervous. The flagging woman set out her fabric scraps and needle and thread, and then spoke again.
“Rosalin showed her loyalty to the shop in a variety of ways; she supported our goal to guide the community toward natural products; she attended to details as bookkeeper and led us to higher profits; she anchored our customers to the store because she treated them like friends.”
“That must have been energizing. How long was she with you?”
“We’d been friends for many years. She started with the shop ten years ago. Though profit was never our main purpose, it was nice to have more. Most often we funneled anything we made back into running the shop, or buying something new for the herb farm.”
She aligned two pieces of fabric back to back, pinned them in place and started stitching.
“It was exciting to know we had done so well because people loved our products. Margaret and I rewarded Rosalin’s diligence with a small percentage of the herb farm profits, though we remained the only owners. In this new contract, Rosalin also audited the herb farm books.”
Lining up the next set of pieces, she pursed her lips as if thinking how to explain the situation. “Margaret, even though she was a compassionate and kindhearted soul, couldn’t wrap her mind around the details sometimes, and Rosalin kept the accounts in great order by auditing often and finding areas where Margaret needed to be more attentive.”
Agatha looked up, puzzled. “I don’t understand why I didn’t find a will at Margaret’s.” She shook her head. “Oh well, maybe Rosalin’s work didn’t extend to Margaret’s personal files. They were certainly scattered around a bit.”
Agatha recalled how the day after Rosalin died the police had come to her as co-owner of the farm and the shop and questioned her intensely. “They wanted to know anything I could tell them about Rosalin, her family, her interests, her love-life.”
She added with a cringe, “It was so demeaning, Kat. And sad that I didn’t know much, other than her ties to England and her kindness to others.”
“Didn’t they talk with anyone else in the shop?”
“Yes, mostly to find out more information about Rosalin’s life. I wonder what will happen now. The police never really tied Margaret’s death, a seemingly natural one from heart failure, and Rosalin’s. But with all three of us getting bouquets? That changes things, doesn’t it?”
She dropped
her quilting work and leaned her head back toward the comfort of the sofa back. “Oh, Kat, I miss them so.”
Kat let her settle with her eyes closed a minute, then offered. “Would you like to try to sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning?”
“No, it helps to talk. It just grabs me once in a while and takes my breath away. I do want to find out what’s going on.” Agatha turned once again to her stitches.
Kat said, “I only met Rosalyn briefly when I shopped at the store. She seemed so cheerful. I’m sure she exhibited extreme efficiency for you to provide her a percentage of the farm. However, it complicates matters.”
“She easily became involved in all of our lives. I know that doesn’t help the investigation, but her loss created holes in all of us. Now with Margaret gone, too, the grief keeps overriding what I need to do.”
“Could I help?”
“Mostly I need to decide how to handle the farm labor and all the details that Margaret managed every day. I know there was a will somewhere. Her husband, before he died, divided the farm between Margaret and me. I never saw Margaret’s will, so who knows what happens next? She mentioned that I would inherit, but that was a while ago and we never discussed it again. We both loved our work. That was enough.”
“We’ll tackle each issue separately. So far, there’s no evidence that either woman was murdered, but we both think so. Let’s see if we can offer the police more information to help track down the killer. Though both of them were involved in the farm and shop, there’s still no obvious lead as to why either was killed.”
Kat knelt next to Agatha and admired her combination of fabric pieces. Kat and her friends didn’t quilt. The craft seemed connected to the elderly crowd, as if only aged brains could comprehend the process. As yet unclear as to where the pattern led, Kat felt the intrigue. The thought of patterns brought her back to those that could lead to a killer.
“Maybe if the police knew of their joint involvement in shop and farm it could urge them in a different direction. Do they know that Rosalin also received profits from the farm?”
The woman set her needle down and thought. Her scrunched up eyes and pallor indicated a weariness beyond lack of sleep. Kat waited, not moving, in a patience that offered quiet support.
Agatha opened her eyes. “No, I don't think it was asked. I didn't mention it.”
Kat arose, found a pen and paper, and began a list of information to offer the police. Rosalin's share could hold much significance.
“Since both women were actively involved in all sides of the herbal operation, maybe the murders did involve either the shop or the farm. Was there something in one of those areas that you can think of to help give us direction?”
Agatha jerked her head. “There was something! Rosalin was distracted the week she died, but never gave any details. She mentioned seeing something near the farm that she wanted to investigate before telling anyone else. The next morning Bertha McLeod found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.”
Agatha recalled when Rosalin received her bouquet. “Maybe it’s nothing, though Rosalin stressed out over it shortly before she died. It’s not something you forget, because most people don’t quibble about receiving flowers, even anonymously.”
“Rosalin wasn’t just finicky about the bouquet,” Agatha said. “She was fearful because of the lilacs. She puzzled over who would hate her enough to send her lilacs.”
Kat knew the narcotic perfume of lilacs, especially white lilacs, and that they were deemed an unlucky plant in certain parts of the British Isles. She said, “Hospital patients consider it the least welcome flower. Rosalin was British to the core and followed every piece of folklore without fail. Rosalin’s tirade made sense in that light.”
After making Agatha comfortable, Kat spent a restless night, worrying about faceless killers and concerned for her friend’s life. Eventually she burrowed next to Nick for mental warmth and slept.
They all shared a pleasant breakfast, but Kat could see that behind their cordial masks lurked a restlessness and fear. Nick had taught her self defense and how to handle a gun for his own peace of mind. Experience proved her promise to keep herself safe could be swayed by anxiety for her friends’ needs. She saw his worry now, and without a word reissued her promise with the tightness and length of her hug.
Agatha revealed less strain than last night, though shadows smudged below her eyes. She gamely addressed Kat after Nick left, “What’s our plan of attack?”
Kat pulled out a copy of the note that came with Agatha’s bouquet. Detective Burrows immediately made it for her before sending the original to forensics. Kat’s efforts at analyzing it may help them in their search for this mysterious adversary. No crime had been committed against Agatha, yet. The connection between three women, three bouquets, and two deaths did need to be explored.
The note read:
Agatha, you sat on the sidelines, but erred even then. Where was your support for one in need? Now you’re the last of three; is the third time the charm? Alone, to whom will you turn? May these flowers lead the way. Soon.
“Though this note gives some direction to the type of person who wrote it, the intent is obscure to me. It appears to be a threat, but does the reference to your error mean more to you?”
Kate saw only wide-eyed dismay in Agatha’s eyes and no recognition of any past association to the words. She switched to another approach, in hopes of calming her down.
“Agatha, are you aware of my work with graphology? How it provides a window to view others through their handwriting?”
Kat saw the elderly woman settle back, Maybe an interest in something new would loosen her fear.
“Tell me more. How can it help here?”
“Through handwriting you reveal much about yourself, in knowing what, you can gain a better self-perception and also, understanding of others. Certain combinations of traits can provide clues to a person’s integrity, talkativeness, or deceit and secretiveness.”
Kat handed Agatha a piece of paper and a pen and indicated she should write a couple of sentences. The woman finished and handed them to Kat with some hesitation.
Kat smiled in reassurance. “Take a look at how you cross your lower case ‘t’s. A ‘t’-bar crossed three-fourths up on the stem signifies practical goals. The higher the cross the loftier the goals. People with ambition cross high; dreamers cross well above the stem.”
Agatha took it back and held it up in the air like she couldn’t believe it. The writing showed she had practical goals. “That is so me.”
She set it down and took a deep breath. “How can this help us? What can we learn from the note? Does it tell us enough to find the person?”
As Kat cleared the breakfast dishes and loaded the dishwasher, she suggested Agatha focus on one question at a time. It thrilled her to see someone interested in handwriting analysis, yet she didn’t want her friend to think this would send them directly to the person who killed Rosalin, and, probably, Margaret. She knew it would take weeks for the toxicology work to come back from the lab. Even then, she wasn’t sure the police would share that information.
She crouched down next to Agatha, who was looking back and forth between the note and her own handwriting sample. “Graphology can help us learn what type of person wrote the note, or at least, give us an idea of the person’s propensity for violence; maybe a view of his or her attitudes towards many things. One note isn’t enough for a clear picture but I’ll do a full analysis later and it may provide subtle clues to who this is.”
Agatha expressed impatience.
Kat explained, “Handwriting analysis is a science and a skill, requiring time and accuracy. It also helps to have as much of a sample as possible. Now that you’ve received your bouquet, the police will search Rosalyn’s house for one. Two samples would provide me much more specific information.”
Placing the papers carefully on the table, Agatha kept them separate. Kat saw it as a defense mechanism, an attempt to keep her handwritin
g from being tainted by the killer. There was no proof, yet, that anyone had been murdered, but Kat feared the worst.
Agatha interrupted her thoughts. “What can we do?”
“First, do you remember any of the flowers in Margaret’s bouquet?”
“I’m sorry. Just the camellia. And I think there was a lone foxglove. Strange combination. I was overwhelmed with finding Margaret on the floor. Didn’t really pay much attention to the flowers.”
“That’s okay. The coroner’s office always takes photos of everything in a situation where a person dies alone. Detective Burrows gave us photos of your flowers. Hopefully, we can get a copy of photos of Margaret’s and Rosalin’s flowers, or a list of the flowers from the police.”
Agatha frowned in frustration. “So what can I do?”
“I remember a couple of the flowers in your bouquet. There was Queen Anne’s Lace, wasn’t there? Any special meaning to you?”
“No, none. But I shudder when I think of the poison hemlock in there. What could that mean? “Besides, the plant doesn’t flower this time of year.”
“Great point. Maybe we are looking at someone who owns a greenhouse. We’re making progress.”
Kat gathered her voluminous bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I have to leave. Think about the note and its possible meaning. And reminisce about your past and people you knew.”
Agatha sipped the last drop of coffee and rose, enveloping Kat in a hug, tight in its strength, but obviously from fear and not exuberance.
Kat said, “You stay hidden. Don’t answer the door to anyone. Feel free to use anything in the house and eat whatever you find in the kitchen. We just stocked up so you should be fine.” Kat stopped for a minute, feeling like a drill sergeant. She smiled, then couldn’t resist adding, “Work on your quilt. Keep the doors locked and you’ll be safe here.”
Kat needed help and had invited the best for advice: the oldest and brightest of the Mountain View Flower Club. Two topped the list: Elizabeth Ort, called Lizzie, and her sister, Delia O'Neary, widowed long–ago. Lizzie was calm and steadfast, and appeared to be the quiet, boring sister. Delia exuded giddiness and looked for fun. Their flowers had won the flower show so many times they opted out of future entries.