“You are good.” Serene tapped her fake nails on the bar. “Should we move on?”
“Sure.” The sip of wine had warmed my throat. While Serene poured tastes from the second bottle, a dry Riesling, I decided to see if I could prod a little on the subject of Frank. “You sure know your way around here. How long have you and my aunt been working together?”
“Oh, let me think, at least six years, but maybe even seven by now.” She handed me the next glass. “As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, everyone in Riverplace Village adores your aunt.”
“I got that impression.” I took the glass and repeated Serene’s tasting instructions. “Except for Frank.”
At the mention of Frank’s name Serene spilled a splash of wine on the bar. She looked flustered for a moment, but dabbed the wine with a paper cocktail napkin. “Why do you say that?” she asked, holding the wine bottle steady with both hands as she poured.
“The meeting last night. Frank was pretty aggressive.”
Serene didn’t meet my eye. She studied the Riesling in the light. “That was Frank. He was like that with everyone.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Me?” She stuck her nose in the glass and then shook her head. “I guess I knew him as well as anyone. He had me do a few special orders and private tasting parties for his high rollers.”
“That must have been a lucrative account.” I tasted the Riesling, picking up backgrounds of fresh-cut grass and green apples.
“Not really.” She clutched the stem of her wineglass as she spoke. “Frank was notoriously cheap. He liked to put on a big show to impress his clients, but he would make me funnel less expensive bottles of wine into expensive bottles. He didn’t pay for anything.”
I could hear the bitterness in her tone. “Did he do that because he was cheap or do you think that he was in some kind of financial trouble?”
“Where did you hear that?” Her voice was sharp. She dabbed the corner of her eyelid with her pinky. It looked as if she was trying to readjust one of her fake lashes.
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “The police have been floating a bunch of theories around this morning. I know that they mentioned they would be reviewing his business account.”
She knocked back her Riesling and set her glass on the bar with such force that I thought it might shatter. “If Frank was broke I know who is to blame for that.”
I finished my wine and waited for her to pour the next. “Who?”
“His nephew—Kirk. Kirk blew through cash. He was constantly spending money. Frank liked to look like he was spending money, but Kirk actually did spend money.”
The next wine was a pink rosé. It even smelled slightly like roses. “Really? What did Kirk spend money on?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? Everything. Wine, women.”
I puzzled this over as I drank in the rosé. If Serene was correct and Frank had been cheap and Kirk was a spender, how did that play into his murder? The piece of Frank being frugal matched what I had learned at the Riverplace Inn. That could be why Frank hung around the hotel, munching off of Mark’s complimentary European breakfasts and afternoon happy hour, but what did that mean in terms of Kirk? Could Kirk have killed his uncle because Frank had cut off his spending?
Serene and I finished our tasting session. She stocked the wine bar with the other bottles she’d brought. I still wasn’t convinced that she’d been entirely honest with me. Her reaction to Frank’s death was surprising. But the more I learned about Kirk Jaffe the more convinced I was becoming that he must be the killer.
Chapter Fifteen
It was midafternoon by the time Detective Fletcher returned. Serene was on her way out when he arrived. She rolled her wine cart toward the front door, and called good-bye to Elin and me.
“I’ll be by tomorrow,” she said with a wave. “Unless I get a case of that Walla Walla blend in early. If it arrives I’ll swing by tonight and stock the bar.”
Detective Fletcher had been holding the door open for her. He frowned and held up his index finger. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, and who are you?”
“Serene,” she replied with a subtle bat of her lashes. Was she flirting with him? Nora had had the same reaction to the detective. Sure, I had to admit that he was handsome, but flirting with a stranger wasn’t my style, especially the lead detective in a murder investigation.
He closed the door and stepped inside. Serene looked put out. “I’m going to need more than that,” he said removing his badge and flashing it at her. “Especially because it appears that you work here.”
Serene shook her head. “I don’t work here. I just supply Elin with wine and sometime I use the space to host private tasting parties.”
“Which means that I assume you have a key or some other way to access the property during non-business hours?”
“Yeah.” Serene looked to Elin and threw her hands up in disgust. “I’m not sure I understand your point, Detective.”
“I’m sure that you are aware there has been a murder here and I’m going to need you to come with me and answer a few questions.” He motioned to the cottage with his thumb.
Serene stood her ground and protested. “Right now? I have other deliveries to make.”
Detective Fletcher didn’t even blink. “Right now.” His brow furrowed, making his scar more pronounced.
Serene’s heels clicked on the concrete as she trailed after him. Her ever-changing demeanor bothered me. When I first met her she came across as polished and a consummate professional, perhaps even a tiny bit snobbish. Today she seemed on edge and bitter. Maybe it was simply her way of responding to stress, but it left me feeling unsettled. The other thing bothering me was how many people had access to Blomma.
At the workstation Elin stood back and appraised a bouquet of morning glories and purple fuchsias. “Does it need something more?” she asked as she took the flowers out of a vase and placed them into a mason jar filled with clear pebbles.
I studied the wall of blooms. The arrangement was lovely but needed some height to add a touch of drama. “How about these?” I reached for a bundle of grapevine and offered it to her. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Yes. That is it!” She placed three of the earthy branches into the mix. “Ask away.”
“How many people have keys to Blomma?”
“What do you mean?” She looked thoughtful.
“Hearing Detective Fletcher ask Serene about having a key got me wondering how many other people might have keys.”
Elin set the rest of the grapevines on the counter. “Hmm. Let me think. Nora of course. Serene. I believe Mark has a key. Come to think of it, most of my fellow shop owners have a key. We’ve all swapped them over the years.”
She had said something about that earlier but I hadn’t realized how important that could be. Nora, Mark, and Serene each had keys to Blomma, which meant that in theory any of them could have let themselves in, killed Frank, and slipped out unnoticed.
“What about the Jaffes? You said that Frank didn’t have a key, but what about Kirk?”
“No.” Elin scrunched her face. “Never.”
I had suspected that was what she would say, but found myself disappointed by the news. Kirk Jaffe was my number one suspect, but he was also the only person who didn’t have a way in to Blomma. However I reasoned that he could have easily swiped someone else’s key. It sounded like common knowledge that the business owners in Riverplace Village had granted each other access to their individual properties.
“Too bad it isn’t that simple.” Elin finished adding the reedy grapevines. They gave the bouquet height and a woodsy texture which contrasted beautifully with the dainty fuchsias and delicate morning glories.
What if it was? I mused internally. Everything I had learned thus far pointed to Kirk. The rest of Elin’s colleagues all seemed genuinely supportive of one another. I couldn’t picture any of them killing Frank. Then again, maybe one of them was lying or putting on an act
.
I tried to concentrate on designs. I had to find a way to get out of my head, and flowers were the only solution. There was still plenty of work to be done before the launch party, so I threw myself into making wrist corsages out of pink champagne rosebuds and hops. Concentrating on creating something beautiful helped, but as the morning wore on I became more and more distracted. Elin decided against opening the shop. “Do you think it’s even worth it, Britta?” she asked when Detective Fletcher showed Serene to the door. “I don’t think I’m up for it. Not today.”
“Me neither,” I agreed. “Why don’t we finish these orders and call it a day?”
“I like that plan.”
We worked in relative silence, snipping stems and tying raffia ribbons. Within an hour we had twelve arrangements boxed and ready for delivery.
“I’ll check in with the police,” Elin said as she placed the last bouquet in a cardboard box. “We can drop these on our way home. I don’t know about you but I could go for a hot bowl of soup and a bath.”
“That sounds divine.” I swept a handful of discarded flower debris into a recycling bin. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”
Elin returned less than five minutes later. “They said they would be here a few more hours. We’re free to go. Detective Fletcher will give us an update in the morning.”
We loaded the flower boxes and turned off the lights. Despite Blomma’s inviting spaces and evergreen floral displays the space felt different. Had it only been this morning that our floral oasis had been turned upside down? I thought about finding Frank’s body, the dead black roses, the mysterious note, and the cottage that Elin had worked so hard on designing being left in complete disarray. Everything felt out of balance. I hoped the feeling was temporary. Today had been awful. Tomorrow we could start fresh.
Chapter Sixteen
The drizzle continued the next morning, although the rain had let up a bit. Elin and I shared a leisurely breakfast of Swedish pancakes smothered with homemade lingonberries and a pot of dark coffee. Elin always joked that she drank her coffee as black as a Scandinavian winter sky. I sensed that we both shared the same feeling of trepidation about returning to Blomma.
“Would you like another cup, Britta?” Elin asked holding up the empty coffeepot. “I can make us another.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I’ll be shaky all day,” I teased, wiggling my fingers. “I’d forgotten how much coffee Portlanders consume. It might be hard to trim roses with the caffeine shakes.”
Elin smiled, placed the coffeepot in the sink, and then wrapped a creamy blue and red blanket scarf around her shoulders. She was a striking woman with her pale hair, tall and thin stature, and intelligent eyes the color of cornflowers. “I suppose that means we have to face the music, doesn’t it?”
I got up to help her clear the breakfast dishes. “Well, we could hide out here for the day, drinking copious amounts of coffee, but I don’t know about you, I think just sitting around worrying about Frank’s murder would be worse.”
She rinsed the plate that I handed her and put it in the dishwasher. “Yes, you are so right. I wish you weren’t, but you are.”
With the dishes cleared and loaded she squared her shoulders and looked at me. “Ready?”
“Let’s go spread some joy.”
“Yes.” We looped arms and headed for the Jeep. I had dressed in layers again, opting for a pair of well-worn jeans, a red long-sleeved T-shirt, red and black plaid vest, and my rubber boots. Not having to bundle up in my faux fur parka or have a biting wind and blowing snow hit my face every time I stepped outside was a welcome change. The drippy sky didn’t even bother me. Neither had missing Chad. That had to say something, didn’t it? I was still angry with him for betraying me, but other than questioning why I had stayed when I’d been unhappy for so long, I didn’t miss anything about my old life in Minnesota. In fact I couldn’t wait for Chad to sign the divorce papers. I was ready to put him and my past behind me and fully embrace Portland.
The damp evergreens and muddy, swollen waters of the Willamette River might have appeared dismal and gloomy to some people, but to me there had never been a more welcoming sight. This was the only home I’d ever known. The only place where I felt free to be me. I reflected on my choices—determined not to repeat the same mistakes—as Elin navigated through Portland’s one-way streets. Bike commuters whizzed by in the shared lanes, which were painted green to alert drivers of two-wheeled traffic. Royal red banners announcing the Rose Festival hung from light posts along Front Street.
Everywhere I looked there were cranes and massive construction projects in the works. Sleek modern buildings made entirely of glass and eco-friendly high-rises manufactured with recycled wood were sprouting up along the waterfront. Known as the bridge city, Portland had recently christened its newest bridge, the Tilikum Crossing. The bridge connected the east and west with tracks for light rail, bike lanes, and pedestrians. Its brilliant white pentagon-shaped suspension cables lit up with rotating colors at night based on the flow and temperature of the Willamette River below.
When we turned into Riverplace Village I felt an immediate sense of relief. The police cars and media vans were gone. Yesterday’s crowd had dispersed and Blomma sat in a peaceful early morning slumber. Nor was there any sign of the creepy van that had spooked me. I wondered if Detective Fletcher and Officer Iwamoto had finished their investigation in the cottage last night. Maybe today really could be back to business as usual.
“It looks like the novelty of a murder must have worn off,” Elin commented as she pulled into an angled parking space reserved for her Jeep. “That’s a relief.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” I unloaded stacks of empty delivery boxes from the Jeep. Elin was a conservationist. She, like the vast majority of Portlanders, believed in recycling and composting. It was an important part of working in the flower industry. She had seen firsthand how fragile plant and flower ecosystems were, and how easy it was to throw things out of balance. For example declining honeybee populations had had a direct impact on the wholesale flower market. Flowers aren’t simply beautiful, they are an integral part of the ecosystem, attracting birds and insects that pollinate the flower itself, releasing seeds, and even providing shelter.
Elin supported small growers and family farms, and was fanatical when it came to recycling and reusing whatever she could in the shop. Like the delivery boxes. Many florists left the boxes they used to transport flowers with the arrangement, but not Elin. She reused the boxes until they fell apart or disintegrated. Many of her clients knew this about her and would leave their used vases on Blomma’s front doorstep or bring her old spools of yarn or used garden art. Thanks to her eye for design and artistic talent she would find a use for everything her customers left for her. Portland had become known for its green policies in recent years, but Elin had been silently leading her own movement of protecting the city’s natural resources for decades.
She went in first. I stopped to pick up an empty turquoise vase, assuming it had been left by one of her clients. When I peered inside the vase I nearly dropped it. Another black rosebud was tucked inside. There had to be a connection with Frank’s murder. And I knew there was something Elin wasn’t telling me. Someone had to be stalking Blomma. Why did she keep blowing me off?
I decided that I was going straight to the police with this one, and shoved the dead bud into my vest pocket before following her inside.
Elin turned on the overhead lights and went around the room plugging in strands of twinkle lights. Then she immediately filled her spray bottles and began spritzing the plants and flowers. I stored the boxes under the workstation and reviewed the day’s orders. In addition to fulfilling a few corporate orders there were two birthday bouquets, an anniversary, and a baby shower delivery. There were also two consultation sessions scheduled. One with a bride and another with an event planner. “Are you going to do custom mini-arrangements for today’s meetings?” I asked.
She squirt
ed a potted fern. “Oh, right. I almost forgot about potential client meetings today. Yes, I’ll do those if you want to tackle the corporate accounts.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” I noticed that police caution tape had been stretched over the cottage door. I guessed that was Detective Fletcher’s way of telling us they weren’t finished with their investigation.
Elin flipped the chalkboard sign on the front door from CLOSED to OPEN. The open side had the word Blomma written in a pink and green flowery script with bunches of open tulips. The closed sign was the same, only the tulip blooms were closed. Then she rolled open the garage doors, allowing fresh air and the early morning chill to roll in.
She erased the chalk sandwich-board sign and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, this is the one,” she said, reaching for a piece of chalk and writing on the board. When she had finished she turned it to face me. The quote read: “The Earth Laughs in Flowers” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson.
“It’s perfect, but how do you keep so many quotes in your head?” I asked placing the new pair of shears Elin had given me on the workstation.
She smiled and shrugged. Then she placed the board on the cobblestone sidewalk and brushed her hands on her jeans. “Are you ready for this?” she asked, coming back inside and turning on classical music and warming a kettle of tea. “I have a feeling we are going to be in high demand today, and I do mean we, not our flowers.”
“Yeah.” I searched through her collection of containers before deciding on five cobalt blue glass vases for the corporate order. It was for a bank on 5th Street and Broadway. The note mentioned that their colors were silver and blue. I thought I could use pale blue hydrangeas as my starting point and accent the arrangement with Convolvulus cneorum, also known as silverbush, a small evergreen shrub with silvery leaves and white trumpet flowers.
The door burst open as I started filling vases with warm water and “love juice.” Nora led a parade of business owners in who pounced on Elin for details. “The cavalry has arrived,” Nora announced, balancing a tray of Demitasse coffees and shortbread. “Fika!”
Natural Thorn Killer Page 10