by Judith Mehl
“I’ll take this photo and samples of flowers to the sisters. If there’s a message in the flowers, they will decipher it.”
Chapter 3
The letter ‘o’ is one of the letters that indicates how one communicates. A loop on the right side of the oval may indicate the writer keeps secrets from others.
Kat breezed in late morning when Lizzie opened the door. She held a small folder and a paper bag to indicate work to be done. “Sorry, I’m late. But I brought photos of both bouquets. Agatha’s we had last night. I got Margaret’s from a police technician early today.”
Kat had called the night before and asked if she could come by. Events of the day stretched the time barrier. Kat had said she couldn’t skip out of her job in university public relations until she’d organized a photo shoot and completed an article on the Chamber Concert scheduled next week. As Delia waved her into the living room, Kat slowed.
Lavender potpourri scented the air. The tasseled lampshades exuded old-world charm. The horse-hair settee surrounded by curlicues in wood, melded with the Victorian appearance of the elderly women. Each item in the home contributed to the nostalgia created by the lovely genteel women. Their mother’s refurbished sofa proudly held her antimacassars that Lizzie always kept clean and starched. Though they were meant to keep oiled hair and dirty forearms from marring the immaculate furniture, these throwbacks to another era looked like oil never touched them.
Familiar with the home, yet feeling the pull once again, Kat glanced around. The jumble of items dazzled the visitor at first, and few knew the origins of some of the delicate pieces and ornate sculpture. Most never asked. Kat was one who did. Lizzie and Delia bonded together and concealed their source. They bickered in public. Well, in private, too, Lizzie admitted. Closer to the ladies then some, Kat knew their joint devotion to each other. The nonsensical bickering in response to those who inquired about the birch lizard, jade bear, or simple seashell was so typical of the sisters that none questioned further.
Lizzie, especially, looked absorbed in her memories, displayed on every shelf and table. Delia recovered first and reached for the folder.
“I love being useful. “I hope we can help identify all the flowers and figure out the clues. It could be just as telling as Kat’s handwriting analysis,” she said, urging Lizzie toward the dining room.
As Kat moved to the table and opened the folder, Lizzie stalled Delia in the doorway with a gentle touch on her shoulder. She whispered, “Do you think I should tell her?”
Delia halted, “I wouldn’t. You know she wouldn’t believe you. You’re so dull, why I don’t even believe it half the time.”
Kat heard them talking but decided to chalk it down to the delicacies of old age. Delia did the silly, frivolous bit and Kat saw it as a masquerade as much as Lizzie did the old eccentric one as a surface veneer covering a depth most didn’t see. Kat didn’t interfere. They were both covering for their true selves. Once Kat analyzed their handwriting hoping to uncover what that was, and found a few knotted ovals at the tops of their vowels. Their extra loops were on the right side of the letter. She questioned them lightly, wondering if her dear friends could have a serious secret between them. They pushed it off as a faulty pen.
Kat opened the bag and displayed the bonus. “My technician friend from the police gathered silk flowers to represent each bouquet for us. She added a note about the missing hemlock.”
They all laughed. They could see why no one would produce silk hemlock.
The women positioned themselves around the table and Kat explained her dilemma. Were the flowers meant as a weapon, or a warning? “The police are testing Agatha’s flowers for toxins. The coroner had provided one photo of Margaret’s flowers in the background of one scene, and several photos of the area in Rosalind’s front hall which included her bouquet. We need to concentrate on the meanings and combinations of the flowers.
Lizzie frowned briefly at the scope of the task but Delia exclaimed, “We’re going to catch a killer. What fun!”
Kat rolled her eyes in dismay, wondering why she decided to involve these giddy ladies. She held aside her concerns and mildly stated, “Well, that may be oversimplified. Still, I’d like for us to try.”
Armed with the photo of Agatha’s bouquet, and her memory of the camellia from Margaret’s and the lilac from Rosalin’s, she hoped the sisters could more closely pinpoint meanings. Hopefully they could identify specific flowers in Agatha’s bouquet from the photo.
If the flower’s meanings were a warning, a message, then these women were the best in the region and could decipher it. Of course, they were the most eccentric, too. Kat was used to that. Despite their natures, they provided her much knowledge and pleasure over the years.
The women bent to their task, keeping the components separate from each other, carefully examining each stem. Kat leaned over Delia, ignoring the shiny red skin showing through the thinning gray hair. Delia frizzed her hair the same way thirty years ago when her husband, John, was alive. Only the amount of hair had changed. Now the two women had lived together so long they moved as one. Kat inhaled the sweet scent of Delia’s aging skin and inquired about their progress.
Lizzie picked up a silk flower from the representation of Margaret’s bouquet and responded first. “The camellia means perfection and loveliness.” She steeped her tea, careful not to spill a drop. The table was lacquered walnut, exquisite with its highly polished surface.
“You wouldn’t think that if you knew how Coco really lived.” Delia, the elder sister by eleven months, said. She slowly poured the boiling water over her tea ball.
“Cocoa? You’re loco. What does that have to do with those flowers? We’ll never solve the mystery first if you start slippin’ away like that.”
Pulling the tea ball from her cup after exactly three minutes, Delia replied, “Well, if you knew more about life you would know I meant Coco Chanel, just the most popular woman around in her day, and the person who put the white camellia in vogue to compliment her fashions.” She sniffed in appreciation as the subtle lemon scent wafted upward.
Kat failed as a referee and merely watched the two sisters bounce their arguments back and forth. She knew some elderly people played it safe, steering away from controversial topics and opinionated remarks. Kat’s two biddies, as she called them endearingly, never sought the demilitarized zone. It was always all-out war, whether in flower talk or the day’s weather.
“Girls, girls, we’re exploring the meaning of these bouquets, hoping to catch a killer. Let’s get back on track.” Kat gently nudged the makeshift bouquet and photos towards the women.
“Is there any possibility that the camellia could mean anything else?”
Delia sipped delicately, frowning. “Well, the red camellia means unpretentious. The white only has the one meaning.”
Kat checked it off on her list. “Okay, Delia, can you track down who had those available and sold any in a bouquet a few weeks ago? Give the dates right around Margaret’s death. We know it must have come no sooner than that week.”
“I don’t know, Kat, there’s the flu going around. I guess I could take some extra echinacea.” The fussy woman pulled a small tonic bottle from her purse and took a sip to ward off the cold and flu bearing airborne germs.
“Delia, stop it with the oil. That stuff only repels mosquitoes and their season is barely started.”
“Huh! That’s catnip for mosquitoes, not echinacea and you know it, Lizzie.”
Kat figured the police would be calling florists with the same questions. “Why not limit your calls to the smaller florist companies you know—the ones only known in your circle?”
In between bickering, the old women examined flowers, studied books and pamphlets and made notes. The poison hemlock bothered them all. Maybe they could find information about its meaning and growth habits to more clearly pinpoint who could put them in a bouquet and why.
“I know the plant is extremely poisonous, more so, the ro
ot. I can’t imagine why someone would put it in a bouquet other than as a scare tactic or a warning. Was there a note with the bouquet that explains anything?”
“There was a note. It explains nothing, but handwriting usually provides connotations and possibilities. If I recall, it oozed cryptic and coy. Nothing truly useful said, other than beware. The handwriting suggested someone who may hold a grudge. It doesn’t exactly provide a name.”
Kat noticed the magnifying glasses the women held ready to study the flowers. She needed to get home soon and use hers to examine Agatha’s note. She remembered it seemed dense in heavy ink. That was scary. Was this person a sadist? Did Margaret receive a note, too, overlooked because the bouquet seemed to hold no significance at the time?
She reverted to the moment for now and could see Lizzie hold back disappointment at the lack of flowers to analyze. She knew the woman had secret depths of knowledge and skill.
“Well, it’s back to the hemlock, then,” Lizzie said. “We need to release whatever clues it holds. If I recall, that particular plant toxin has no antidote. That may be significant. I can’t imagine someone assuming she would eat it, though.”
Lizzie added, “We know that the natural growing region and time of year the plant is available will determine if it was specifically grown for the bouquet.” “Why don’t you pursue that, Delia, and I’ll hunt up growing conditions?”
Delia delicately crumpled her forehead as she rose from the table. “I have a book on growing most plants here somewhere. Where did I put it?”
She strode off, leaving Kat to answer the door when the bell chimed.
“Girls, you remember Madeline Girard from Mountain View University? Maddy’s my dearest friend, and came to say hello. She’s been away.”
Lizzie chirped, “We love a party. Dig in.”
Delia returned. Silence reigned for only a few minutes. Then Lizzie glanced at her watch. “Oh, let’s get jumpin’ here. I need to fix my hair before bingo.”
“What’s the fuss?” Delia moaned as she sat down and paged through one of several books she brought to the table.
Lizzie preened a little, swiping her hair from her forehead, attempting to straighten its already perfectly coifed appearance, “I heard two new stud muffins from Blackberry Street were there last week. Gotta check em’ out. I’m lookin’ to snag me a new beau.”
Kat saw Maddy swallow her giggles at the eighty-year-old woman’s enthusiasm. Both women were a delight. She whispered to Maddy, “They obviously enjoy making progress on identifying the flowers in the bouquets and possible meanings. Whether that will help find the killer is yet to be seen.”
She gave Maddy a quick hug. She hadn’t seen her in weeks. Maddy’s leave of absence to spend time with her fiance sliced into their friendship like the guy’s super serve. Ted Wright not only walked away with the tennis tournament trophy, he stole Maddy’s heart. That was last fall. Kat had yet to reconcile the loss and was grateful for whatever time her friend could spend with her.
“Look at this,” Delia shouted, pointing to a place in her book. “Ingestion of poison hemlock can cause death; unfortunately, the dose is unknown.”
She looked up and her eyes signaled she’d arrived at the important part. “It can cause respiratory paralysis.” She smirked. “I think the person was sending a clue. Maybe a warning that he’ll take Agatha’s last breath.”
“Great job, Delia.” Kat patted her on the head. “The bouquets must be important. I’ll look for more flower information from the police regarding the other ones.”
Kat pulled Maddy into the kitchen to talk in secret. She feared the lack of details in her faked bouquets might slow down the search for meanings and clues. “Let’s check out the scene of Margaret’s death and look for another angle. We can meet at the Mountain View University parking lot and drive together. Agatha loaned me her key.”
Maddy slipped out and Kat returned to the sisters.
“I must leave now for a while. This is great work. Crucial work. If these flowers can kill by touch or scent, or if their meaning is a threat, it will serve as clues to the police. The question is: were these lethal bouquets?”
Chapter 4
Someone with thin loops on lower case ‘t’s and ‘d’s is a worker at maximum ability. Someone who works toward perfection, error free.
If the flowers delivered the blow, then Kat held hope the notes could drive them to the killer. Right now, Kat strangled the grab bar of Maddy’s car, more concerned about her deadly driving. The Kinney Herb Farm bordered the edge of town to the south, a welcome reprieve from the sprawling suburbia to the north and east. Maddy’s driving triggered Kat’s survival instincts, despite the countryside atmosphere that normally soothed the spirit.
The two women reached the turnoff in one piece and the crumbling road served as a welcome brake. Maddy parked down the road from the farmhouse.
“Hey, friend. I haven’t seen you in ages. You took that six-month sabbatical to follow Ted Wright and I’ve barely seen you. Are you sure you want to kill me before we even catch up?”
“I came back to spend some time with you, maybe take you to tea, but, no, you embroil me in another murder before I can pin you down. If your receptionist hadn’t directed me to the biddies I wouldn’t even be talking with you now.”
“Okay, point made. You don’t understand the urgency. I’ve got Agatha camped in my home, too scared to open the curtains. What’s a friend supposed to do?”
Maddy snorted as she climbed out and closed her door. “Most friends don’t go sneaking around looking for murder clues to help a friend. I guess I should be used to it. Who else read Nancy Drew instead of fashion magazines?”
Their lengthy history allowed Kat to realize Maddy was exaggerating. She promised a chocolate delight and coffee or tea as soon as she could. Maddy, after all, always had her back when she needed it. Kat swiveled around so her feet were out the passenger door to change into her trusty pink sneakers then realized she was in Maddy’s car, not hers, where the sneakers resided. She shrugged. It was an indoor search. She’d be fine.
They slipped in the front door of the house after checking that all the herb farm workers were gone for the day. They wanted no witnesses to their snooping. Kat stressed the urgency of proving Margaret was murdered before Agatha was also found dead by the same, unknown killer.
Their inability to find handwriting clues stifled her progress and she hoped to find more today. Kat knew the police pursued their own leads. She feared they didn’t have much to go on except toxicology reports that were weeks in coming. She needed to help Agatha now. She had the one clue from Agatha’s brief note: the message, and the writing leading them in one possible direction, but with very little information to provide certainty.
Kat saved the kitchen for last, knowing there’d be only a few places they could look for signs of an intruder. The police had already scoured the place when Margaret died. “Our only hope is to look for something they passed up—like handwriting samples that appeared irrelevant at the time.” She found the junk drawer “Ah, Maddy. Here we go. The drawer every woman seems to have in the kitchen.”
Maddy laughed. “The drawer with the best and the worst. Well?”
Kat quickly riffled through it, disappointed when it released nothing of worth. The phone book drawer, on the other hand, held a hodgepodge of notes and scribbles off to the side. The one on top stopped Kat’s breath. “Look.”
Kat knew what it was as soon as she saw it so near the front of the drawer. It sat on top of a receipt from the date before Margaret died. She’d give it to Chief Burrows and hoped he would seek her advice on the analysis, which she would complete later.
She lifted the note with the edge of her blouse and hunted frantically through the drawer for something to preserve the note. She found a small, unused envelope and tucked it in.
The message was elusive in its words. Not its impact. It had to be the note that accompanied the bouquet. It even looked like the same
writing as on Agatha’s note.
As they pursued an organized search through kitchen drawers for further writing samples, a sharp sound in the hallway by the front door startled them into silence. Stunned into inaction as footsteps approached, Kat scanned the room for the knife rack.
Before they could retreat or defend, Delia and Lizzie tramped into the kitchen. “We figured you’d need some help. Thought we’d stop by, even though you failed to invite us yourself,” Delia sniffed.
Lizzie settled right into the task, asking “Where do you want us to look first, and for what?”
Lizzie’s question allowed Kat to ignore Delia’s miffed remark. “Over here. Start by looking for anything with handwriting. Margaret’s, so we can keep hers straight from everyone else’s. Especially anything that looks like the handwriting in this note that came with the bouquet.”
Kat shook the paper out of the envelope to share the note. She motioned all hands away to avoid fingerprints, and read the note aloud:
A bouquet for you in remembrance of past loveliness, though your loveliness was insincere. In the bud of life you were as a camellia in and out, but you remembered me not, when love was needed. What you have rendered you cannot right. Hopefully, life has been as rich as desired; nothing lasts forever.
No one spoke. They all waited for Kat to say something.
Still in awe at the softness of the threatening words, she glanced up.
“What?” Kat squeezed out of her closed vocal cords.
Maddy patted her on the shoulder. “That’s ominous.”
“Give it a break, Maddy, she’s already dead,” Lizzie said, hands on hips.
“Okay, it’s frightening, or should have been, to Margaret. I wonder why it didn’t trigger fear of some kind when she saw it. Or had it?”