Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  Elin finished her scone. “How did either of them get in? We locked up last night, right, Britta?”

  Before answering I played out last night’s events step by step. After everyone had left Blomma Elin walked me through her point of sale and pricing systems. Since Blomma sold flowers by the stem, we didn’t have any set prices. Elin believed that every bouquet that passed through Blomma’s front door should be organic and unique. She’d ask each customer for their budget and then two or three questions, like what was the occasion for the flowers and whether the recipient had a favorite color or particular scent they were drawn to. From there she would design an arrangement on the spot. Last night she had given me background on the corporate accounts I would be working on, and then like she said to Nora, we locked up and headed for home.

  “Yeah, I definitely remember locking up.” I scanned the shop. The abundant sherbet bouquets stuffed in the glass cooler and tiny twinkling lights overhead seemed out of place against the backdrop of murder.

  Nora sighed. “Well do you think there’s any way that Frank could have gotten his hands on a key?”

  “No!” Elin appeared to surprise herself with the force of her response. “Sorry, but no. How could he? That would be illegal, for starters.”

  “Right,” Nora agreed. “I don’t trust Kirk. There’s something about him that is seedy.”

  “Seedy?” Elin asked. She walked to the workstation, picked up her spray bottle, and began misting the plants. “I’m listening. I have to do something, though.”

  Nora nodded. “I got you, and I don’t mean seedy as in seeds that you plant. I mean cagey. Don’t you think so too? He’s cagey. I thought that last night. He kept moving around, trying to push the plans on us. Even Frank seemed annoyed with him. Maybe Kirk wanted more power that his uncle wouldn’t give him. I wonder who stands to inherit Frank’s business now that he’s dead.”

  Nora’s question made the three of us stop and ponder. Who would inherit? Kirk? Like Detective Fletcher had said earlier, there weren’t many motives for murder, but money was high on the list. What if Kirk killed his uncle to take control of his company? A chill ran up my arms and not just from the cool air blowing out the vents overhead. That could be a clear motive for murder. I was confident that Detective Fletcher would be considering every angle given his professionalism, but when he questioned me again I would have to remember to mention it.

  As if on cue, Detective Fletcher appeared from the cottage and strolled over to us.

  “Yowza, he’s a hot one,” Nora said a bit too loudly. “If only I was your age, Britta, I’d be all over that hunk of a rocker.”

  “A rocker? He’s a detective,” I replied, smoothing my turtleneck and twisting my ponytail higher.

  She winked. “Trust me, honey, I know a rocker when I see one.”

  I had a feeling that Nora thought that everyone she met was a secret rocker, but I didn’t say more.

  “Latte?” Nora asked Detective Fletcher, grabbing the tray and pushing it on him. “I’m Nora. I own Demitasse, the best and oldest artisan coffee house on this side of the Willamette.”

  “Nice shirt,” Detective Fletcher said, taking a coffee. “I used to have a pug.”

  Nora batted her eyes, which were lined in black and dusted with silver shadow. “Thanks. You should come by and meet my little four-legged friend, Sticks. He’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. I call him my handsome little devil because the canine loves caffeine.”

  “Caffeine?” I interrupted. “Sticks drinks coffee?”

  “I don’t let him, but if I’m not watching he’ll try to slug down the stuff.”

  “A pug who drinks coffee. Now that I have to see.” Detective Fletcher caught my eye and winked. “Sorry to break up the party, but I need a few minutes of each of your time.”

  “Ooooh, I’ll go first,” Nora said, looping her arm through the detective’s and winking playfully at me.

  Detective Fletcher held his coffee cup up to me in a form of acknowledgment and led Nora to the cottage.

  “She’s hilarious,” I said to Elin. “I can see why you’ve been friends for so long. I would guess there’s never a dull moment when Nora is around.”

  Elin nodded. “It’s true, but don’t let her feisty exterior fool you. Nora is a steadfast friend. She would do anything for me and for Riverplace Village for that matter. She’s been here longer than any of us. Nora knows every square inch of the village and every storefront. She’s been a lifesaver more than once when I’ve had deliveries to do and been short on help. Nora will let herself into Blomma and bring in packages or grab an arrangement for Demitasse. We trade coffee for flowers. Actually we all trade. It’s wonderful to be part of such a caring community. Everyone has keys to each other’s shops. We jump in and help whenever we’re needed. Like Valentine’s Day last year. Half of the village was here taking walk-in orders and tying last-minute bouquets for me.” She squirted a hanging fern and moved toward a collection of potted plants near the garage doors.

  “I’m so glad you’ve made long-lasting connections,” I said, following after her and feeling a twinge of sadness. Why had I wasted so many years in a loveless marriage and a place I didn’t love? I wanted what Elin had.

  She must have picked up on my wistfulness. “How are you holding up, Britta? This must be awful for you. I’m so sorry you had to be the one who found Frank this morning. It should have been me.”

  “No, don’t even give it a thought. I’m fine. I mean, I’m shaken, but I’ll be okay. You couldn’t have known something like this was going to happen.”

  She attempted a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No, not something like this, but I’ve had a bad feeling about Frank Jaffe for some time now. I should have acted on my instinct. If I had, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  Now it was my turn to console her. “You can’t blame yourself, Elin. Whoever did this to Frank is responsible.” I paused, a thought forming in my mind. “You don’t think that anyone in Riverplace Village could have intentionally tried to set you up, do you?”

  She looked shocked. “No, why?”

  “I don’t know. It seems too convenient. Frank was trying to force you to sell. You were vocal about holding your ground, and then he’s murdered in your shop.”

  Her face blanched to match a bunch of white lilies. “Who would do something like that to me? I can’t imagine anyone in the village wanting to do anything to harm me or Blomma.”

  I felt bad for bringing it up. Elin was obviously distressed, so I changed the subject and polished off my latte. The Riverplace Village owners certainly seemed to be a tight-knit group, but was there a chance that one of them had it in for Elin or Blomma? I was going to do everything in my power to protect my aunt and the shop I had already fallen in love with, even if that meant digging into who had been leaving her the dead roses and if there was a connection with Frank’s murder.

  Chapter Eight

  “Well, he’s all business,” Nora said with a sneer when she finished her questioning session with Detective Fletcher. “Never trust a man who doesn’t flirt.”

  I laughed. “But I thought he was a closet rocker?”

  Nora ran her fingers through her spiky platinum hair. “Oh, he is, but he refuses to admit it. Don’t you worry, I’m going to make it my mission to get him to take off his tie and let loose. Mark my words, when I’m done with Pete Fletcher he could body double for Mick Jagger.”

  Mick Jagger? Detective Fletcher couldn’t resemble anyone less than the aging British rocker. He reminded me more of an older Prince Harry, but Jagger—no.

  “Listen, girls, I’ve got to get back to Demitasse,” Nora said picking up the empty tray. Her lattes and scones had been devoured. All that remained were a few crumbs and a couple of recycled paper napkins. “If you need anything, just holler. And good luck with Mr. Suit, see if you can get him to unbutton the top button of his overstarched shirt. That would be an early win.” Her flippant tone
changed when she kissed Elin’s cheek. “I know this is terrible, but we’ve got your back. Don’t you worry.”

  With that she shimmied her narrow hips and danced toward the front door. Elin walked behind the workstation and began misting each flower stem, even though they were already submerged in buckets of her love juice. I remember when I was a kid Elin used to say that a spray bottle was a florist’s best friend. She gave each plant and flower a healthy spray at least fifteen or twenty times throughout the day.

  “What do we do now?” I asked following after her, and studying the buckets of single-stem roses that she was spritzing. There were pale lilac roses with variegated edges, brilliant sunny yellow roses, and peachy roses with deep red tips. I knew that each rose had its own meaning and significance. To send someone a bouquet of cream roses indicated charm and thoughtfulness, making them perfect for saying, “Thank you.” An orange rose symbolizes passion and romance. As a purveyor of flowers I had always believed it was my responsibility to understand each of their meanings, and was surprised that so many of my fellow florists didn’t bother to steer clients toward a rose that perfectly captured the message they intended. Blomma’s stock of roses was vibrant and intoxicatingly fragrant, but as Elin had explained to Detective Fletcher, there wasn’t a single Deep Secret rose in the bunches.

  “I suppose the only thing we can do is wait,” Elin said as she examined the stem of a two-foot-long pussy willow.

  “Should I get started on the corporate arrangements?”

  She glanced toward the doors leading to the cottage. “I think we had better wait until Detective Fletcher gives us the all clear. I’m not even sure that he’ll allow us to open today.”

  “I didn’t even think of that.” Would Frank’s murder have an impact on Blomma’s business? What if customers were put off or nervous about coming into the shop when they heard the news?

  Officer Iwamoto appeared at the doorway and waved to Elin. “Detective Fletcher is ready for you now, Ms. Johnston.”

  Elin placed the spray bottle back on the concrete slab countertop. “Would you do me a favor, Britta?”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Could you walk down to the Riverplace Inn and let Mark know that we might not be able to deliver new arrangements today? Maybe you can even spruce them up. Take out any dead stems and change the water?” She handed me a plastic caddy with a set of shears, twine, floral tape, and packets of love juice.

  “Of course.” I grabbed my knee-length brick red raincoat from the hook near the front door and pulled the hood up. The cobblestone pathway was slick with rain. A bank of heavy gray clouds hung overhead. Gray stretched from the sidewalk to the sky. The only thing breaking up the dreary mist were the line of emergency vehicles parked along the pathway. Their lights cut through the gloom in rhythmic flashes.

  I glanced at Torch, the candle shop across the street, which was still dark. Elin had mentioned that the gentleman who owns it was on vacation. As a candle fanatic I couldn’t wait for him to return. Torch’s window display with taper candles hanging from invisible strings had been tempting me since I’d returned home. A black van with tinted windows was parked in front of the candle shop. Maybe it was just my frayed nerves from finding Frank, but I got the feeling that someone was watching me from behind the tinted windows. I paused for a second and squinted to see if I could make out who—or if anyone—was inside.

  Was that movement in the driver’s seat? Or was my imagination playing tricks on me?

  A shiver ran down my back. While I could rationalize that I was most likely being paranoid, a man had been murdered. What if the killer had returned to the crime scene?

  I wasn’t about to take any chances so I picked up my pace and continued on past Demitasse, where Nora waved from behind the espresso bar. A handful of businesspeople with briefcases and coffee to go ambled along the sidewalk, but it was too early for families or tourists to be up and moving. Rain dripped from the red-and-white-striped awnings of Gino’s, the Italian restaurant. I wiped a drop from my nose.

  The four-story Riverplace Inn sat at the end of the river walk. Yellow antique street lamps and hardy green oak trees flanked the path that led to the marina. A few of the six-paned windows, some with iron balconies, glowed like welcoming beacons on such a dismal day. Otherwise the majestic hotel had cocooned its guests in a gentle slumber.

  Rose City red bikes with wicker baskets and old-fashioned bells were parked in cheery rows in front of the hotel. Guests could hop on a bike and explore the riverfront path on two wheels, or if they preferred they could curl up in one of the many wooden rockers on the marina side of the hotel with a cup of tea and watch sailboats drift by.

  A doorman greeted me with a half bow and opened the door for me. Inside, the lobby was warm and inviting. Low orange flames burned in a stone fireplace surrounded by hickory bookcases, an arrangement of comfortable high-back leather chairs, and a massive log coffee table. There were touches of the Northwest everywhere, from tapestries to framed clippings of native Oregon plants like pink flowering cherry blossoms and leafy ferns. Plush Pendleton carpets and blankets were scattered throughout the spacious lobby, as were Elin’s arrangements.

  In a small room adjoining the entry a side table had been set up with silver tea and coffee kettles, packages of spicy Oregon chai, and a kaleidoscope of assorted teas—peppermint, chamomile, and Oregon berry. There were baskets of airy croissants and a bowl of organic fruit. Newspapers, magazines, and travel brochures were stacked at the end of the table. What a wonderful way to start a morning, I thought as I imagined myself with a steaming mug of tea, flipping through the paper in front of the earthy, crackling fire.

  Alas, I had a job to do and more questioning to face when I returned to Blomma, so with a wistful glance at the lobby I made my way to the reception desk.

  “Is Mark in yet?” I asked the concierge.

  “Mark who?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  To be honest I didn’t know Mark’s last name or what his official title was. “I think he’s the owner—maybe general manager. I’m with Blomma, and I need to talk to him about the floral arrangements.”

  “Oh, you mean Mark Sanders.” She typed something into the computer and then looked around the lobby. “I don’t have him signed in yet, but I swear I heard his voice a few minutes ago. He may be in his office. Let me call up there.”

  I studied a black-and-white photo dated from 1912 of a family in a Ford jalopy while she placed the call. The women in the vintage photo wore bonnets of roses and every inch of the car was draped in garlands and wreaths of pine boughs, ribbons, and roses. Only the tires and headlights were visible beneath the showy display of Portland’s most abundant flower. Someone had handwritten a note at the bottom of the photo that read: Annual Flower Fete, Portland, Oregon. The photo was from one of Oregon’s first Rose Festivals.

  The Rose Festival was Portland’s grand party of the year. When I was growing up it rivaled Christmas and Halloween. The festival takes place in early June and draws over a million visitors to the waterfront for the Starlight Parade, dragon boat races, carnival, fireworks, and the pièce de résistance, the Grand Floral Parade, featuring jaw-dropping all-floral floats along with marching bands, Royal Rosarians, dancers, and elegant equestrian riders.

  The Parade took center stage at Blomma from late winter through spring. Elin would transform the shop each year to match the theme of the festival. She had consulted on float designs and always volunteered to decorate the floats, and had been the florist of record for the Grand Marshal’s and Rose Princess’s corsages and boutonnieres. I had missed the Rose Festival for too many years, and the thought of getting to participate again almost made me forget about finding Frank’s body.

  “Mark’s not answering,” the concierge said as she hung up the phone. “You might try the ballroom. They’re setting up for a conference, and he could be in there.” She pointed down the hallway.

  “Thanks, and if I can’t find him I’ll
go ahead and give the arrangements a little spruce-up, so don’t worry if you see me plucking old flowers out of vases.”

  She chuckled. “Sure. Have at it.” Then she craned her neck and peered out the front lobby windows. “Is it true that someone died at Blomma this morning?”

  So much for getting swept into the fairytale of float design for Rose Festival. My throat swelled. Was I having some sort of Pavlovian response each time someone mentioned Frank’s murder? I tried to swallow but my mouth dried up like a sponge. “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s terrible. Were you there?”

  I nodded.

  She bit her bottom lip. “Wow, I would probably lose it if that happened to me. I’m impressed that you’re upright and functional.”

  “It’s kind of a blur. It doesn’t even feel real,” I admitted.

  “Did you know the person?”

  “Not exactly. My aunt did, but I only met him for the first time last night.”

  “Who was it?” She offered me a sheepish grimace. I wondered if she felt bad for asking. Was it human nature to be curious at times of tragedy? I also wondered if I should say anything. Detective Fletcher hadn’t said not to, plus I had a feeling that Nora was probably peppering all of her customers with details about Frank’s demise. Unless things had changed dramatically, news—or gossip—in Riverfront Village spread faster than the winter ice on a Minnesota lake.

  After thinking about it for a moment, I replied, “Frank Jaffe.”

  “Good riddance,” she said in a high pitch. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound crass. That’s terrible that he’s dead, but that man was a nightmare. He pranced around here like he owned the place. I can’t tell you how many times I had to warn him not to reprimand staff. And for the record, he didn’t own the place. He was constantly hounding Mark too. Followed him around like a jail warden. Poor Mark, he’s too nice. I told him not to put up with it, but Mark seemed to think that Frank was hot air.”