A Deadly Bouquet

by Janis Harrison

  Slowly, I answered, “Because she has hope that her plan will succeed. Perhaps she is suffering but has an urgent need to finish what she started.” I closed my eyes and whispered, “A type of catharsis—a purging of the soul.”

  * * *

  My brain was overworked. I needed fresh air. I went out the terrace doors to have a look at the garden. A smile of appreciation came easily to my lips. Having those old decayed trees gone had made a huge difference in the landscape. Eddie had made a wonderful start on the renovation, and I moved in his direction to tell him. He was alone, a notebook in his hands and a faraway gleam in his eyes.

  I recognized that look. He was plotting my garden, letting his imagination soar over the mundane details. If he concentrated only on the necessary work, what was needed to complete the project, he’d get bogged down. But to stand back and visualize the final results brought a fresh vigor and anticipation to the job.

  Eddie had buried his father that morning. He needed this time alone. I quietly went back into the house. I told DeeDee I was leaving for a couple of hours. I wanted to check on Bailey, but I also wanted to go to the park. Eddie’s big job was my garden. My big job was the Montgomery wedding. Maybe if I went back to the park I could recapture the enthusiasm I’d first felt when Evelyn had outlined her plans.

  As I drove into town, I made a conscious effort to put Claire’s and Lydia’s deaths out of my mind. I lowered the windows and turned up the radio just as a meteorologist gave his weather report: “The Ozarks are ten inches short on rainfall for the month of June. And folks, it looks like we’re going to miss a good shot at precipitation for the weekend. Highs will be in the eighties, with lows overnight in the sixties. If you have plans to go out on our many lakes and streams, take plenty of sunblock.”

  “Sorry, Eddie,” I said with a smile. “No rain on Evelyn’s parade.”

  I pushed buttons until I found a song I liked, then settled back. I didn’t know Nikki, but she was a woman in love, about to marry the man of her dreams. The shipment of flowers had arrived in excellent condition. The weather was cooperating. I could count on Lois and Lew for assistance. My heart gave a little skip of confidence. I had the ability to bring off my part of this wedding with panache.

  Twenty minutes later, I strolled down the path the bride would take. Seeing the shrubs Eddie had planted reminded me that I had to order several cases of gold paint so I could spray the foliage. Just the thought of doing this ridiculous chore made my blood pressure skyrocket again.

  Quickly, I dismissed the foliage from my mind and let the serenity of the park soothe me. After a few minutes the colorful mental pictures that frolicked in my head reaffirmed my conviction. I would do my best to make this a gorgeous wedding. My mood had mellowed, so I even felt a bit more benevolent toward Evelyn. After all, she was the mother of the bride, and she obviously loved her daughter.

  I stopped in the area where the guests would be seated, and squinted at the gazebo. I’d learned early on in my career that for an event to be impressive, the senses—taste, sight, smell, hearing, touch—had to be titillated. The brass and copper baskets would catch the last rays of sun. Five hundred flickering candles would add to the ambience. I didn’t like the idea that my fragrant flowers would have to compete with Dana frying shrimp, but the food-preparation tent was some distance away from the main festivities.

  I pondered each point of the wedding. Taste, sight, and smell would be well covered. Evelyn had hired a woman to play the harp. The lilting music would calm any frayed nerves. I frowned. Touch was the one impression left undefined.

  “What can we do for touch?” I murmured, walking toward the gazebo. Then I spotted an unlikely vision. I hadn’t seen Evelyn crouched on the steps. She hadn’t heard me because she was crying. The sight of this arrogant, self-possessed woman weeping was disconcerting.

  “Evelyn?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  She jerked upright and dashed a hand across her eyes. “I’m a mess. I never thought anyone would be here this time of evening.”

  “I was thinking about the wedding and wanted to have another look.”

  “Me, too, but I let my guard down.”

  “Nikki is okay?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s fine. As far as I know, everything is falling into place. I should be happy, but what will I do when Saturday is over? I’ve dedicated so much effort to planning and anticipating this day that once the candles are lit, it’s the beginning of the end.”

  I leaned against the railing. “I know what you mean. There’s a letdown after you’ve come through a big event. You want to relax, but you’re still pumped, and there’s nothing left to do.” I paused. “Maybe it will help if you keep in mind that once our duties are over, your daughter will be starting a new life as a married woman.”

  Evelyn sighed. “I lose sight of that sometimes. I keep thinking of what I need to do to make it perfect for her.”

  “It will be perfect.”

  Briskly, Evelyn stood up. She smoothed her dress and tucked a stray black curl behind her ear. “Now, about that grapevine arch. I hope you’ve had the chance to study the picture I left with your employee. I think we should—”

  My earlier feelings of benevolence for Evelyn dissolved into a mist. Nothing had changed. She was still as irritating as bird droppings on a freshly washed car.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The coroner released Claire’s body the next morning. By ten thirty, Harriet Mitchell was at my front counter, placing an order for a spray of flowers to grace her ex–daughter-in-law’s casket.

  “Claire had no family,” explained Harriet. “Her mother died when she was a baby. Her father drank himself to death a few years ago. Claire was always kind and thoughtful to me. Giving her a decent burial seems the right thing to do. My son is throwing a fit, but that’s his problem.”

  “Why should he care?”

  “Money. I have a little nest egg set aside. He has his eyes on it. Claire’s funeral expenses will deplete the balance by several thousand dollars.”

  “It’s very generous of you. I’ve gotten the impression, from things people have said, that Claire admired you. She quoted you often.”

  Harriet blinked. “Quoted me? Whatever did I say that was noteworthy?”

  “Maybe not you per se, but Aristotle.”

  “Oh, yes. I tried to help her. She had a burden on her heart. She wouldn’t talk about it in specific terms, but occasionally she tossed out odd comments. Her most recent observation has stuck in my mind, given the way she died. Claire admitted she didn’t think there’s a God because He allows evil in our world.”

  “In my line of work, I deal with bereavement on a daily basis. Nothing is more heart wrenching than to help a family choose a suitable memorial for a child who’s been killed or a young mother who has died from cancer. Evil people continue to live and wreak havoc on others, and yet the good die young.”

  Harriet’s eyes sparkled. I could see the Scout leader in her emerge before she opened her mouth. “Aristotle believed that reason is the source of knowledge. Each time we see or hear of evil, we use our ability to reason, to use logic to evaluate the situation. If this world were perfect, if everyone lived long, wonderfully productive lives, then where’s the challenge? By allowing us to see others make mistakes, God has given us the chance to learn and grow. As each generation comes along, the lessons learned by the previous generation are passed on.”

  “But what can we learn from the death of a child?”

  “Each tragic event in our life makes us stronger. Are you familiar with the word heterosis?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a phenomenon resulting from hybridization in which offspring display greater vigor, size, resistance, and other characteristics than the parents. A properly developed hybrid will have any weaknesses bred out and optimum values enhanced.”

  “I get the gist of what you’re saying, but where does Claire’s death fit in? What have we learned from her murder?”<
br />
  Impatience threaded Harriet’s voice. “You’re expecting a revelation from one circumstance. You have to view Claire’s death from a general outlook. How her life touched others. How her death affected those around her. How she lived. Where she lived. What she did.”

  “And this will give me insight into God’s plan?”

  Harriet laughed. “Not at all, but it will make you question. We can’t begin to understand the why, but to grow intellectually we have to question, to reason, and to think logically. Events from our past shape the people we are today. If Claire had been raised with a functional mother and father, would she be dead today at age fifty-four? Is this cause and effect? When her parents passed away was Claire’s fate sealed?”

  My brain was spinning. “It’s too early in the morning for this conversation. I’m out of my depth.”

  “Not at all. You have a logical mind, and being a florist augments your capabilities to reason through a situation.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s another of Aristotle’s theories. He defines the imagination as ‘the movement which results upon an actual sensation.’ As a florist, you’re attuned to receiving sense impressions. You see details that others might overlook or ignore. You listen carefully to what is needed and use your talents to deliver.”

  Last night while in the park, I’d had these thoughts about the senses, but had been stymied by one. Curious, I asked, “How does touch come into play with respect to my being a florist?”

  “I’m sure you’ve physically comforted someone by giving them a hug. However, to advance my theory, I’d substitute feel for touch. You feel the pain of others. You feel the need to be involved.”

  She cast me a smile. “You also have good taste. Claire liked bright colors. I’ll leave the choice of flowers to your discretion. Send me the bill.” She turned and walked away.

  “Wait,” I called. “There are five senses. You left out smell. Is it obvious?” I waved my hand to our surroundings. “Flowers have a scent?”

  Harriet cocked her head and studied me. “And good cigars have an aroma. Skunks have an odor. All can be smelled, but a sensory perceptive person will categorize rather than make a blanket analogy.”

  I watched Harriet leave the shop. My forehead puckered with thought. I fingered the lines, smoothed away the ridges, but my mind rippled, stirred by Harriet’s theories.

  I was especially struck by the phrase “cause and effect.” I squeezed my eyes shut so I could recall her exact comment: “Events of our past shape the people we are today.”

  If my father had stayed home, would I have turned out differently? I credited my mother and Carl as having the biggest influence on me. My father’s absence had shaped my life, too. But which had the most effect on me? His leaving or his staying away? I had no way of knowing for sure, even though his abrupt departure had been as traumatic as a death. But even death doesn’t end a relationship. Memories, often scarred and battered from constant use, plague the mind and the heart.

  I opened my eyes. The first thing my gaze landed on was the plant display by the front window. A dracaena had missed getting a drink of water. The leaves were limp, the plant wilted. From experience I knew once it received moisture it would revive, but there was a good chance the leaves would develop brown tips. I could trim away the damage, but the plant would never be the same. Cause and effect.

  “That was quite a conversation,” said Lois.

  I grimaced. “The one in my head or the one with Harriet?”

  “Both. The way your mind works has always been a mystery to me.” She nodded toward the door. “I had a hard time following what she said. I liked the part about a florist using her senses, but she lost me on the scent, aroma, and odor thing. What did she mean about ‘blanket analogy’?”

  I glanced at Lew to see if he was going to jump in with a lengthy explanation. He widened his eyes at me in a fake innocent stare. Well, fine. I’d give this philosophy a shot. If I got it wrong, I was sure he’d bulldoze in to correct me.

  “Okay. Here goes,” I said. “Scent, aroma, and odor are categories of smell. Most people only smell.” I giggled. “You know what I mean—use their noses. They don’t consciously apply the correct word. Harriet says that as florists we classify things more specifically.”

  I thought for a moment. “She’s right, you know. Take, for instance, how we distinguish color. To some, brown is simply an earth tone. As florists we categorize by fine-tuning—cocoa, toast, toffee, and fudge. When I named each one, didn’t you have clear mental pictures of each color?”

  Lois nodded. “I get it, but it sounds to me like you need a snack.”

  I waved away her suggestion as excitement throbbed through my veins. It was as if I’d exchanged a low-watt bulb for a brighter one. It’s funny how an image or an idea will change when a speck of knowledge or a new perspective comes into play.

  “Claire was an artist as well as a beautician. She was creative. She painted that mural on the ceiling of her shop and called it a way of achieving ‘a total sense of catharsis.’ Doing the work might’ve been rewarding, but I’d lay you odds it was the picture that was important and suited her purpose.”

  “And that would be?” asked Lew.

  “She used Missouri wildflowers for the hair. The girl looks sweet, innocent. Her eyes are closed as if she’s sleeping. But I can’t figure out where the tragedy fits in.” My mouth dropped open. “Oh my gosh. She’s not asleep. She’s dead.”

  Lois gasped. “Claire painted a dead girl on her ceiling? That’s morbid.”

  “Not that kind of dead. She looks angelic.” I bit my lip. “I have to see that painting again.”

  “How?” asked Lois. “According to the story in the newspaper, Claire didn’t have a partner or any family. The shop will be locked up. It’s a crime scene.” Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t thinking about breaking in?”

  “Of course not.” I fluttered my eyelashes. “I have more sense than that. If I were in jail, you and Lew would have to do this wedding by yourselves.”

  “God forbid.” Lois sighed. “I suppose we could do it, but I’d probably end up your cell mate. I’d kill the woman.”

  “Evelyn isn’t so bad,” said Lew. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Why is that?” demanded Lois.

  He lifted a shoulder. “We’ve had extra people help at holidays, and they make mistakes. Evelyn walked in the door, watched me take an order, and took five more without a problem. She thrives on challenge. Once this wedding is over, I think the woman will fall apart.”

  I nodded. “She said as much to me last night when I saw her in the park. In fact, she was crying.”

  “That’s just great,” said Lois. “When a woman cries, that means someone’s gonna pay. You just wait. It’ll be us. Before this day is over, Evelyn will be in here wanting to add something totally off the wall to this wedding.”

  I went to the phone. “That’s an excellent reason for making myself scarce. I talked her out of the grapevine arch. But if she has another brain cramp, tell her she’ll have to discuss anything new with me.”

  “Are you calling Sid?” asked Lois.

  “No way. I don’t want him glaring at me while I study that painting. Besides, he’s county. I’m calling River City’s police chief, Jean Kelley. She’ll be a bit more tolerant.” I crossed my fingers. “At least, I hope she will.”

  Once Chief Kelley was on the line, I said, “This is Bretta Solomon. Would it be possible for you to meet me at Claire Alexander’s beauty shop?”

  “What for?”

  “I want another look at that painting on the ceiling. I’ve had a couple of thoughts.”

  “And they would be?”

  Her indifference gave me an inkling as to how the conversation I hoped to initiate would be received. She might not be as blunt with her contempt as Sid, but I doubted she would be enthusiastic at the idea of exploring Claire’s sensory perception.

  Beating around the bus
h, I asked, “Could this wait until I’ve had another look at the painting?”

  Reluctantly, Chief Kelley agreed, and we settled on a time. After I’d hung up, I dialed another number. When Eddie answered, I said, “This is Bretta. Can you meet me in half an hour at 3201 Marietta Avenue? I need your expertise in identifying some Missouri wildflowers.”

  “Guess I can. That’s down in the old part of town. I don’t remember any garden plots.”

  “This is a painting.”

  “Hell’s bells. I don’t know nothing about art.”

  “But you know flowers, and that’s what I need.”

  Eddie grumbled and groused. I cajoled and cajoled until he finally agreed to meet me. I hung up the phone and said, “Boy, the things you’ve got to say and do to get a little cooperation really bite.”

  Lois pointed to the front of the shop. “I see a familiar white BMW pulling into a parking spot.” She huffed on her fingernails and polished them on her shirt. “Golly, I’m good.” She leaned across the counter, peering intently. “Oh, hell. Evelyn is carrying another magazine.”

  I sprinted for the back door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “This better have some bearing on the case, Bretta,” said Chief Kelley, getting out of her car. She crossed the sidewalk to the door of the beauty shop. “I’ve got a pile of paperwork that needs my attention.”

  “I think the painting is important, I’m just not sure how.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” she said, inserting a key in the lock. She turned the knob. “I’d hate to think you had all the answers.”

  “Not even close.” At her hard look, I added, “But I’ve got a couple of theories, if you’ll be patient.”