I liked Officer Iwamoto, but sensed he lacked a bit of focus. I also wondered if Detective Fletcher agreed with Iwamoto’s philosophy because he rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened leading up to finding the deceased.” Officer Iwamoto clicked a ballpoint pen. “Oh wait, do we have a name or identity for the deceased?” he asked Detective Fletcher.
“Frank Jaffe,” I offered.
“Thanks.” He smiled and made a note. His handwriting was meticulous. He wrote in beautiful cursive as he listened.
I told him about last night’s meeting with the Riverplace Village business owners and everything that had happened before they had arrived. Officer Iwamoto took extensive notes, stopping me every now and then for clarification. My throat relaxed slightly as I told him about Frank’s demeaning attitude and explained my observation that none of the business owners in the village had appeared to be interested in Frank’s offer.
When I finished he asked me to stay put and went to speak privately with Detective Fletcher. I couldn’t help but want to eavesdrop, especially when the detective removed the rose and note from Frank’s coat pocket and sealed it in a plastic evidence bag. Had he read the note already? I’d been so wrapped up in my conversation with Officer Iwamoto that I hadn’t paid attention. I also had left out the part about reading the note. I figured I should probably mention that considering my fingerprints were already on it.
The men spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes. Officer Iwamoto carefully flipped through the pages in his notebook while Detective Fletcher listened. Still feeling off balance I pulled out the desk chair and plopped myself down. Elin’s class schedule was plotted out on an oversized desk calendar. Tonight’s jewelry workshop was slated for seven p.m. I wondered if we would have to cancel the class in light of Frank’s unfortunate death. What about the launch party? It was only two days away. We’d put so much work and effort into preparing, I couldn’t imagine having to cancel or postpone that too.
I sighed and rubbed my temples. What crummy timing. Just as I had arrived to help lighten Elin’s load a tragedy had struck.
“Ms. Johnston?” Detective Fletcher’s deep voice shook me from my thoughts. “I’m Pete Fletcher, Portland PD.” He extended his hand.
I started to get up but he stopped me.
“Sit, sit. You’re fine.” He pushed aside a ceramic vase with an assortment of colored pencils and leaned on the edge of the desk. Unlike his young partner I would place Detective Fletcher closer to my age. He was tall and thin with short russet hair that reminded me of an uncommon rose called Brown Velvet. A small scar ran from above his lip to the tip of his eye. His cheeks held a trace of five o’clock shadow and his eyes a sharp intelligence.
“Officer Iwamoto tells me that you’re new to town, Ms. Johnston.” He focused his chocolate eyes on me so intently that I felt my body pull backward.
“Not exactly,” I replied. “I grew up in Portland, but took a detour to the Midwest for a while.”
“And what brought you back to Portland?”
“My aunt and this shop.” I motioned to the calendar. “She’s getting ready to open this cottage to expand her offerings. She’s teaching workshops and classes here and I’ll be managing the front.”
He frowned. “What’s the square footage in here? Must have cost your aunt a pretty penny to get waterfront space like this. Portland real estate is at a premium.”
Something in his overt attempt to appear relaxed by leaning on the desk and crossing his legs made me wonder if he was driving at something more and trying to put me at ease. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that we have a victim over there who is one of Portland’s most prolific real estate developers. Don’t you find it slightly odd that he ended up dead here in your aunt’s newly renovated property the night after he laid out an offer to purchase the very same property?” He raised one brow and picked up a yellow pencil.
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Detective. Are you saying that you think Elin or I had something to do with Frank’s death?” I sat up in the chair, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. If that really was Detective Fletcher’s theory it didn’t even make sense. Wouldn’t it be the other way around? Frank would have killed Elin for the property. He couldn’t force her to sell, so what possible motivation could she have to kill him?
He tapped the yellow tip of the pencil on one hand. “What I’m saying is that in my line of work—contrary to popular belief—they aren’t that many motives for murder. Money and property are high on the short list.”
I was about to push back that regardless of any motive, Elin wasn’t a killer. Nor was I. That thought reminded me of the note. “Um, you’re probably going to find my fingerprints on the note that was in Frank’s pocket.”
“And why would that be?” He frowned.
“I read the note. I thought maybe he had killed himself.”
Detective Fletcher placed the pencil behind his ear. “I see. Next time don’t touch any evidence on my crime scene, understood?” His words were firm.
“Hopefully there’s never a next time,” I bantered back without thinking. This made him smile. I was about to explain how his theory on motive had some gaping holes, but at that moment the coroner arrived. Detective Fletcher gave me a curt nod and strolled over to meet him with a parting command not to go anywhere until he was done. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he said, returning the pencil to the holder.
My cheeks felt like they might burst into flames. How dare he insinuate that either Elin or I could have anything to do with this? How experienced was he anyway? Officer Iwamoto had admitted he was new to the job. Maybe Detective Fletcher was too. As soon as we resumed our conversation I was going to give him a piece of my mind. I had stayed silent in my relationship with Chad for too many wasted years. Portland was a fresh start for me and I wasn’t about to let Detective Fletcher ruin that.
While I fumed, another thought crossed my mind—he had just let something major slip. Frank Jaffe had indeed been murdered. And if that was the case what did it mean for Elin?
Chapter Six
Elin arrived as Officer Iwamoto began bagging evidence. She blinked rapidly as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing and tugged off her tailored black raincoat. Light from the chandelier made her hair sparkle, giving her an almost angelic appearance. How could Detective Fletcher possibly think she could be involved in Frank’s murder?
She noticed Frank and put her hand over her heart. “Oh dear.” Then she swooped to pick up one of the roses from the floor. She held the rose to her nose and inhaled. Then a look of sadness washed across her face.
Detective Fletcher held out his arm. “Don’t touch that. That’s evidence.”
Elin stopped an inch away from the rose and stared up at the detective. “Such a waste of roses,” she said with a sigh and stood back up.
“Excuse me?” Detective Fletcher moved away from Frank’s body and toward Elin.
“Where did these come from, Britta?” Elin asked me.
I shrugged.
Detective Fletcher pulled out his badge. “I assume you’re Elin Johnston?”
Elin nodded.
“I understand that you own this property?”
She nodded again. “Yes, what happened to Frank?”
The detective frowned. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” He pointed to the desk. “You can wait with your niece. I have some questions for you.”
“Of course.” Elin glanced at the floor again. “I don’t understand where these roses came from. This isn’t a cultivar that I keep in the shop.” She stared at the scattered stems and velvety buds.
Why was Elin so fixated on the roses? I could tell from the growing scowl on Detective Fletcher’s scarred face that he wasn’t pleased. I wanted to jump in and say something. Between her reaction to the roses and the fact that Frank had been stabbed with her shears I was worried that she was at th
e top of the detective’s suspect list.
“Wait,” he said to Elin. “You own a flower shop. You’re saying these roses aren’t part of your inventory?”
“No.” Elin shook her head. She stared at the roses wistfully. “No, they aren’t anything I stock, but they are beauties, aren’t they?”
“How do you know that these aren’t yours?” Detective Fletcher continued. “I saw the front of the shop. You must have twenty or thirty different colored roses up there.”
Elin tucked her hands into the pocket of her eggplant fleece. One of the things about working with flowers is that it’s always cold. Heat is a florist’s worst nightmare. I had learned from a young age to dress in layers even in the middle of summer. Regardless of what the temperature was outside, stepping into Blomma was always like stepping into a refrigerator. The cottage felt particularly cool this morning.
“I handpick every stem that we sell in this shop,” Elin explained. “There’s nothing fake or processed here. Every living thing in Blomma has been picked with love.”
I couldn’t be sure but it almost looked like Detective Fletcher smiled. He quickly returned to his sober demeanor. “And you’re sure you didn’t order these roses?” He pointed to the floor.
“No.” Elin turned to me. “Britta is the rose expert. I might stand corrected, but these aren’t in season, are they?”
“Rose expert?” Detective Fletcher chuckled. “I’ve heard that Portland is known as the Rose City, but I didn’t know I was in the presence of a rose expert.”
He motioned for Elin to join him and walked over to the desk. “So Miss Expert, do tell. Can you enlighten us?”
“I’m not really an expert,” I said standing and pushing the chair into the antique desk.
“She’s being modest,” Elin chimed in. “Britta knows more about roses than most master gardeners. She took first place in high school in a statewide FFA essay contest and won a scholarship to the National Floral Institute with a paper she wrote on Portland’s rich history with roses.”
“Really?” Detective Fletcher made a note.
“That was a long time ago,” I said.
“Essays aside, what can you tell me about this rose?” Detective Fletcher held one of the blooms in a gloved hand.
“It’s called Deep Secret. See how its blossoms are shaped like a teacup?”
Detective Fletcher held the rose out and flipped it over.
“It’s a hybrid tea rose. They are known for their extremely fragrant scent and their velvet petals. They bloom from summer through fall and originate from Asia.” I could have continued, but I wasn’t sure that Detective Fletcher was interested in a history lesson on the crimson rose.
“See,” Elin said with a half smile. “I told you she was an expert.”
“Would you call this rose rare?” Detective Fletcher asked.
“Not exactly. These days flowers are shipped all over the world. It’s a multibillion-dollar industry. The flowers you might buy at the supermarket were probably flown in from Hong Kong or Auckland. Like my aunt said, her philosophy has always been to stock locally grown fresh flowers. That might mean that depending on what’s in season we might not have a particular color, but we guarantee our flowers will last longer and bloom more vibrantly than anything you can find at the grocery store.”
Elin gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Exactly. I’ve always said that we’re in the business of spreading love.”
“It’s a nice sentiment, ladies, but I’m afraid I’m in the business of murder, and unfortunately that’s what’s spreading in your shop this morning.” Detective Fletcher flipped through his notebook. “What was your relationship to the deceased?” he asked Elin.
“Frank?” She moved to see around Detective Fletcher. “He and I weren’t friends, but I’m sorry that he’s dead. Who did it? And why here?”
“My thoughts exactly.” He turned his notebook to a blank page. “Where were you last night?”
“Me?” Elin pointed to her chest and then looked at me. “I was with Britta and the Riverplace Village business owners. We had a meeting here at Blomma and then I went home. Why?”
“Standard procedure.” He scribbled on his notepad.
Officer Iwamoto came over and whispered something in Detective Fletcher’s ear. Then he made eye contact with Elin and grinned. “Hey, Ms. Johnston. Good to see you.”
“You too,” Elin replied. “How’s your family?”
“Fine.” Officer Iwamoto looked like he wanted to say more, but Detective Fletcher cut him off.
“This isn’t the time for pleasantries. You two can catch up later.”
Officer Iwamoto gave us a sheepish smile and returned to his work. Detective Fletcher continued his questioning. “How would you describe Frank last night?” he asked Elin.
“He was his normal pompous self.” Elin stopped herself. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Listen, I’ve known Frank for years. The man is hot air. He likes to hear himself speak, and likes to stir up drama. I can’t begin to count how many times he’s tried to get me to sell. I’ve learned to let him talk. He’ll throw out a lowball offer and threaten that none of us will ever see money like his again and then he’ll go away for a while only to come back a few months later and do the dance all over again.”
“You don’t think that Frank was serious about his offers?”
“Who knows? I think part of it was a game with him, and I heard a rumor that his pockets weren’t as deep as he liked everyone to think.”
“Really?” Detective Fletcher’s eyes perked up.
Elin doodled a picture of a rose on a sketch pad. “It could be talk, but people in the village have been saying that Frank was strapped for cash.”
“Hmm.” He made another note and seemed to be considering what to ask next. Before he could formulate his question the coroner came over to confer with him again. “Hold tight,” he said to both of us.
After he was wrapped up in a discussion with the coroner and Officer Iwamoto, Elin leaned close and whispered, “How could this have happened, Britta? Why would someone murder Frank in our cottage? Do you think it could have something to do with last night’s meeting?”
I shivered and rubbed my hands together for warmth. The temperature in the cottage was like ice. “I don’t know, but I think we’re going to have to figure that out, because, Elin, aren’t those your shears?” I asked pointing to the pair of shears the coroner was removing from Frank’s abdomen.
She clutched my hand. “Oh my, Britta, yes.”
Chapter Seven
The rest of the Riverplace Village business owners had gathered outside Blomma’s front door. Officer Iwamoto had been tasked to interview each of them. He allowed us to return to the shop and opened the door for everyone to come inside. Nora was the first one in, and as usual held a tray of Demitasse coffees and pastries.
“How’s it going back there?” she asked me and Elin. “Take a latte. I made them extra strong. I had a feeling that no one would turn down a bonus shot of caffeine.”
I took a warm paper cup from the tray and cradled it in my hands.
“Is it true? They’re saying that Frank Jaffe is dead.” Nora thrust the tray toward me. “Have a pastry, too. I recommend that lavender honey scone. It’s to die for.” She gulped. “Sorry, wrong choice of words.”
Elin took a scone and latte. “Nora, did you see anything this morning? You’re always the first shop open in the village.”
Nora placed the tray on a round table. “No. Nothing. It was dark when I opened Demitasse. That’s the worst part of this time of year in Portland, isn’t it? I open the shop in the dark and by the time I close up after five it’s dark again.”
I sipped the creamy coffee. It coated my throat. For the first time since I’d arrived at Blomma this morning I felt like I could swallow.
“It was my regular o-dark-thirty crew,” Nora continued, breaking off the end of a buttery scone. “The early java junkies are my suits. I like to help t
hem start their morning with a hit of caffeine and some rock and roll.” She shook her petite frame. Her black leather pants were glued to her body and she wore a tight black V-neck T-shirt with a picture of a pug and the words SEX, PUGS, AND ROCK AND ROLL.
She must have noticed me staring at her shirt. She pointed to the pug and laughed. “You like it, honey? That’s my best friend in the whole world, minus your aunt—Sticks. Come by the coffee shop later and you can meet him.”
“It’s funny to think of an artisan coffee bar like Demitasse having a touch of rock and roll.”
“That’s Portland, isn’t it?” She looked to Elin for confirmation.
Elin nodded and smiled as she sipped her steaming latte.
“My regulars—the suits—have high-powered day jobs. They’re attorneys, bankers, city council members, you get my drift. Demitasse is just for them. They feel safe to bring potential clients in for my upscale coffee, but we secretly know that the classical music playing in the background is the Rolling Stones.”
“Wait, you play classical rock and roll at the coffee shop?”
“Every day, girl. Come check it out. Actually one of my regulars got me hooked on the station. He’s a lawyer for the DOJ. You’d never know that every inch of his body from his wrists to his ankles were inked. He wears a three-piece suit to cover up his tattoos, but on the weekends he lets loose and can hang with any hair band.”
“Okay, that is definitely not something I saw much of in the Midwest.”
Nora took another bite of scone and stared at the wall of wine behind us. A strange look passed across her face. “Wait a minute. Now that I think about it, there was something out of the ordinary this morning. You know who came in for a coffee?”
Both Elin and I shook our heads.
“Kirk Jaffe. I almost forgot about it in the activity.” She motioned to the windows, where blue and red police lights lit up Riverplace Village’s sleepy morning streets. “Kirk came in behind my tattoo guy. He ordered two single-shot espressos to go, but he left before they were ready and never came back. Paid and everything. I thought maybe Frank had sent him to scope me out, but do you think Kirk could have seen Frank and attacked him?”
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