Murder Most Floral

by Judith Mehl

  The men turned to Hill and waited. “Hey, I don’t have a race car, stunt driver, mechanic brother. It was a Ford Explorer in front of the shop. That’s all I’ll attest to.”

  Now they all looked at her, but with admiration in their eyes. She finished, “I told the detective that someone might be after Agatha. He left before the class was over and didn’t see the SUV return.”

  Hill glanced around the room at each person and realized they were each involved in one case or another, or they were so entangled he’d never be able to separate the strands. But he needed to try.

  “Let’s first hear what Miss Endicott has to say regarding the herb shop incident and move on from there. With any luck we’ll find a thread to tie all this together.” He nodded at Fanny to begin.

  She reiterated what she’d said to him earlier, describing the bald and smiley man as best she could. Nick and Lance straightened noticeably at the description and looked at each other but didn’t interrupt. They’d done the same thing when she mentioned the Ford Explorer.

  When she was finished, Hill turned to Nick, who looked ready to chomp his knuckle in two waiting to speak.

  “Can you now tell us anything you’ve learned regarding your case?”

  Nick stood up to speak to emphasize his points. “The man who set the fires possibly related to our case said that he glimpsed a passenger in the pay-off car with a weird smile. He saw the man as they were driving away, in a Ford Explorer.”

  Detective Hill interrupted. “Before we move from Miss Endicott, we need to let her finish her report. Go ahead Miss.”

  “That was it.” She knocked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’m sorry. I forgot. He said he was Harrison ‘Smiley’ Chandler.

  They all started speaking at once. Hill raised his voice over the others and waved them all back into chairs. Once they settled, he joked. “Looks like we found our threads. They seem more tangled than ever, but at least we see a connection.”

  Fanny Endicott looked puzzled. When Hill realized she missed the beginning of the discussion, he pointed out the cross-over between the two cases—Chandler.

  Kat saw Fanny timidly raise her hand and she cleared her throat loudly to get Hill’s attention.

  “That is the name he gave me in the store.” Fanny said. “And a Ford Explorer left the street shortly after he walked out the door. I can’t place him in it. And, I didn’t see who was in the SUV that tailed me.”

  Kat sat pensively and wondered. If the Tattoo Man was seen by the sisters on the road to the herb farm while going to visit Marta Karprinski, maybe she knew more.

  Chapter 25

  When analyzing handwriting, always remember to consider where and when a person learned to write. Some traits will remain the same, like the rounded capital ‘B’ in Beethoven’s signature, revealing his expressive character.

  Marta clasped her cane in both hands as she maneuvered her hunched body through the gate, twisting sideways carefully to close it behind her without falling over. One gnarled hand clenched the cane as she straightened slightly and shuffled forward, one foot in front of the other. Her head angled downward, fearful of missing a stone or twig that might trip her ungainly body. She knew the exact blue of the sky and the way the sun touched the underside of the leaves in a mild breeze, even though she couldn’t chance a look upward. The path traveled like a comfortable old companion, since she’d traversed it daily for eighty-eight years now. She took the curve in the driveway at a snail’s pace, only lifting her head once in a while to glance longingly at the mailbox in the distance.

  It’s been my job to run and fetch the mail since I was five years old, but the trail seemed more benign in the past. Today it’s treacherous with nature’s debris to destroy my sure step and wobble my legs. She studied them for a second, all shriveled sinews and distorted knees. Once they’d been shapely and kicked out with a punch in three-inch heels. Now they follow my feet in an old dance only they know. She reached her destination, as she always did. Carefully balancing the cane against the mailbox post, she grabbed the door to the box with both hands and pulled. It stuck at first, rusty from the rough winter. She must remember to ask the neighbor boy, Jason, to oil it again. He was so helpful, and such a respectful lad. He loved her chocolate chip brownies; too bad she could barely mix them any more.

  The mailbox door flew open and clanked down in a burst of energy, only to leave a gaping hole where the mail should be. Sometimes it was too much, making that daily trek. But today she’d so hoped for a letter from her son. He seldom called or wrote. Just this once she’d needed to feel that connection, the one that said she’d not lived her whole precarious life in vain.

  The letdown at the empty box attacked her nerves, shaking her hands so badly she almost knocked the cane on the ground. A disaster, preventing her return to the warm kitchen and cup of tea? Or a sign?

  Her ninety-three years carried thousands of memories of this trip from her childhood home to the mailbox, back when the driveway sprouted ruts and weeds instead of paved tar, and the mailman drove by in a horse and buggy. Today there should have been mail. She needed it. She’d visualized stuffing those crisp white envelopes into her deep jacket pocket to savor after boiling water and infusing the tea just right.

  She reached for the cane and captured it before it fell, turning around slowly and embarking on the endless road back to the empty house. Today she was too tired to make monumental decisions. And tomorrow there might be mail.

  Once back inside, Marta set the kettle on for tea. And then the door bell rang. It startled her so she almost dropped her cane again. Twice in one day was scary. Maybe she was getting too old to stay here alone like her son said. But the doorbell almost never rang. Anyone would have been startled.

  She made her way down the short hall to the front door. She always kept it locked. But today she’d left it open to catch the fresh breeze. At least she’d latched the screen door. The smiling woman waiting patiently allayed her fears a little.

  As soon as the woman outside saw her approaching she said, “Hi, I’m Kat Everitt. Are you Marta? My dear friends, Delia and Lizzie mentioned you and I hope you can help me. I just have a few questions, and I promise I’m not trying to sell you anything.”

  Marta opened the door. Delia and Lizzie’s friends were all salt of the earth. She knew this woman would be safe.

  “I am Marta Karprinski. Won’t you come in for tea?”

  Marta stashed her cane in the kitchen corner and made Miss Everitt comfortable at the table. She whisked two lovingly-made placemats in front of their chairs, positioned a blue Dresden plate of chocolate chip cookies in the center of the table, and added some spoons. Her gnarled fingers moved deftly to complete the tea process. No instant tea bags for her.

  She seated herself and looked up at Kat with interest. “How can I help you?”

  Kat took one bite of the offered cookies and smiled. “You already have. These are delicious. Just the thing I need right now.”

  She wiped her fingertips and sat back. “But I came to see you because of something the sisters told me yesterday. They said they had visited you just after seeing a strange man on the road. It made me wonder what you might have seen from here.”

  Marta tapped the teapot carefully to check its temperature and then poured the tea.

  “Well, you may have noticed I’m quite a distance from the road.”

  Kat nodded. “However, you have that nice bend in the road that turns around the side of the house. I can see it from here.”

  Before she sipped her tea she smiled like it was heaven scent. She must appreciate the real thing, Marta thought, and gave her full points for the keen observation on the view.

  “What is it you hope I have seen?”

  Marta drank her own tea, but could almost see Kat’s mind deciding how much to say. How delightful she was here. What an interesting twist to my sad day. Maybe there is still some life ahead for this old gal after all.

  Kat presented th
e information about Farmer Jones fire, and mentioned that another farmer’s barn had burnt down about six weeks prior. The sisters had seen a man, covered in tattoos, parked along side the road. They reported he just stood there, leaning on his old truck. Kat said she hoped for more details about what was going on.

  Marta wondered how much she was leaving out of the story but didn’t know how to ask. “Of course. I know Dan Jones. Is he injured?”

  “No. His son was home visiting. He saw the fire and they both got out in time and called the fire department.”

  “That’s good. He’s been here forever. He was friends with my husband. When they were boys, you know. Marek is gone a long time now but Dan seems healthy. Is the farm okay?”

  Kat took another cookie and praised her again. She just nodded and Marta decided she could continue. Other than the sisters, no one ever came to visit anymore. Not even her son, Felix. But this young woman truly seemed intrigued by what she was saying. So she added, “I did not see this man with tattoos, but I can look for him.”

  Kat stiffened. “Please don’t approach him if you see him. Call me right away. He could be dangerous. He is in jail now but I don’t know for how long.”

  She handed Marta her card and wrote her home number on the back in large numbers. “Call with anything you see that seems abnormal to you.”

  Marta took the card and tucked it in her pocket. She patted it to make sure it went all the way in and wouldn’t fall out.

  She said, “You want to know about my neighbor, Gunther? The farmer with the burnt barn? Now Gunther down the road was different than Dan Jones. He was old. You know, old in the head. He never kept up with the new, what you say? Ways of farming. As he got on in years he not work so hard. Too cheap to hire someone, I think.”

  “Did you talk to him before he moved?”

  “Sure, sure. He was not a bad person. I felt sorry for him.”

  Marta fixed more tea. This young woman was good to talk with. She didn’t moan about her ailments. Probably didn’t have any. So fresh. Makes me feel younger just talking with her. I wonder what I can do to help her? What more could she say about Gunther?

  “Gunther Ackermann was his name. It means farmer. We joked he should have been named Bauer. It means peasant farmer.”

  “Dan Jones’ farm seems successful. Maybe he was able to move more into this century. Gunther may have clung more to the old ways because that is what he knew growing up.”

  “I believe you are right. When his barn burned, he gave up and sold out,” she said as she placed another steaming teapot on the table. “He had no one to leave the farm to. He didn’t want to put up with that man’s pestering any longer.”

  Kat perked up. “What man?”

  “There were two of them. Always. They kept asking him to sell.”

  “Did they ever ask you to sell?”

  “No, no. I don’t let them in the door. I not hear the door when I don’t want to. I’m an old lady, all alone.” She winked.

  Kat moved the cookie plate further away, straightening the table as if to realign her thoughts. Marta watched. She steered Kat back to Gunther.

  “He told me about the men. He just talk at first. Later, he complain. I thought his barn burning down was suspicious. Gunther shook his head when I say that.”

  “That’s strange. Did he say why he thought that?”

  “No, he did not want to hear what I had to say. He said, ‘I an old man. No heir. I sell and move to nursing home by the sea.’”

  She laid her palms flat on the table in front of her. “That was it. He was gone. I think he left many things in the house. Those two men come around the property. I can see the road in from here.”

  Kat asked. “Has anyone else come by to talk with you?”

  “Yes, another man come. His face was honest. I could see through the curtain. But I no open door. He look young and strong. Nice, but a strange man, still.”

  Kat smiled. Her eyes brightened. “Well, I think if the tattoo man, or any of them showed up you just might be able to take them on. But, please don’t try. Do you have any family?”

  “I have a son, Felix. He wants me to move to the city with him and his family. What do I know of the city? I grew up here.”

  Kat nodded as if to say I understand, but said nothing.

  Marta continued, “He has a family of his own and a nice wife. But they are busy and set in their ways. They don’t need an old woman around. I will stay here.”

  She rose to see Kat to the door. “I will keep my eyes open. I promise to call if I see anything. I will not tackle this man.”

  She laughed with Kat and said goodbye.

  As she watched Kat drive away, she studied the empty road, yet felt invigorated by the young woman’s visit. She would be vigilant.

  Chapter 26

  Overlarge spaces between words tend to make the words appear to be detached from one another. They often indicate the writer is isolated from relationships.

  “So where do we sit with leads in the case?” Kat asked Burrows, from a comfortable distance, over the phone.

  “What case would that be?”

  “Burrows, even you can’t be that cold.”

  Kat, we both know how helpful you’ve been in protecting your friends and seeking angles to pursue on who killed Margaret Kinney and Rosalin Bromfield, but . . .”

  “Save the ‘but stay out of this investigation’ talk. Do you want this new information I have for you or not?”

  Kat could hear his chair clatter back down on the floor even over the phone. She could just picture him, casual feet propped on his desk as he leaned back in the chair. Now that she said something to hold his interest his body jumped to attention.

  “Katharine, what have you been up to?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me what’s happening.”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing has been happening. The boy that delivered the flowers is out. The suggestions from Agatha lead nowhere and a few of the sordid customers mentioned can’t be found.”

  Kat, comfortable at her own desk in the public relations office at the university, felt compelled to lean forward herself. This was a surprise. Was he just exaggerating the lack of information?

  “That boy that delivered the flowers—does he have a name, by the way?”

  “Not to you he doesn’t.”

  She grinned. Caught again. “So we’ll call him BOY. He knew nothing?”

  “He knew he was supposed to wear the gloves the guy gave him and not touch the flowers. The bouquet was wrapped in tissue paper with a foil doily around it—decorative and protective too. He didn’t pay attention to the make of the car, and his description of the man fits every male over 25. The guy could have gone back to Kalamazoo by now for all we know,” Burrows practically shouted. It didn’t sound so much in disgust as in discouragement.

  Then he added, “Now your turn missy, before I lose my cool. What do you have?”

  She shifted her phone to the other hand and organized her thoughts.

  “I’m not sure where this fits in with the Bittersweet Herbs murders, but it may help with the fires and the developers. Marta Karprinski told me a lot about the men trying to buy up land around here.”

  After the inevitable interruption of ‘who’s she,’ Kat continued. “Remember the sisters saw Tattoo Man standing around off the road? They were on their way to see Marta. Who just so happens to live on the same road as the suspicious fires.”

  Detective Hill canvassed the area right after the Jone’s fire—Mrs. Karprinski’s included. There was no answer.” Burrows harrumphed, then said. “Detective Hill sent a man first thing that morning to speak with Ms. O'Neary and Mrs. Ort, who provided no new information.

  When Burrows told her this in consternation, she soothed him by saying how loyal the sisters were to their friends. “They probably didn’t want Marta bothered.” She relayed what information Marta provided that morning. Of course, she didn’t mention that she encouraged the dear old w
oman to look out her window often and call if she saw anything.

  “So now, your turn again. Nothing on Gloria Kessel and Professor Lawrence Peterbolt?”

  “Dr. Peterbolt won’t talk without an attorney and we have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. The men still haven’t found Ms. Kissel at home. Sure strange for a woman who says her hair is so ugly she can’t be seen in public.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t answer the door to strangers. Mrs. Karprinski made a point of telling me that, so if you send someone to see her, make sure they arrive in a police car.”

  Kat felt it would be a judicious time to say goodbye. She needed more information from Agatha on either of those two suspects. It looked like another secretive visit was in order.

  This time Kat parked in the employee lot of the hotel and borrowed an apron off the peg in the employee lounge. With a feather duster in hand, she rode the employee elevator up and scurried to the agency suite. One knock on Agatha’s door and she was in.

  The more she learned about this friendly businesswoman, the more she liked. She could tell she carried the necessary discerning analytical skills to run the herb shop. She also provided the warmth needed to treat all the customers like family. That she admired. Agatha exuded nonconformity, in a little old grandmotherly way. She was individualistic, as were her other friends who were killed.

  It seemed like Agatha absorbed people—their desires, their needs, their fears. She did so now, as she urged Kat in the door. She soothed and comforted her and made sure Kat was seated in the best armchair.

  “You look like you’re managing fine with that ankle now. When did the doctor say you could ditch the cane?”

  Kat reddened. “A maid doesn’t usually work with a cane. Didn’t want anyone to notice me. I just accidentally left it in the car.”

  Agatha calmly exclaimed, “What day was that, dear?”

  They both smiled then, recognizing kindred spirits.

  They talked about the store in general. Kat reviewed everything from marketing techniques to customer management. Neither of them could think of anyone in past weeks who would want Margaret, Rosalin, and Agatha killed.