Edwin frowned. “I still say the whole thing sounds crazy. Bland can’t possibly expect to keep the show from airing forever. They’ll just get another artist for a future show.”
“But he’d be buying escape time, wouldn’t he.” I thought of my conversation with Delft. “Like he did twenty years ago.”
“Yes.” Edwin’s voice fell. “That he would.”
In a somber mood, we walked out to the front porch. “Call me as soon as you know anything.” Edwin gave me a little smile. “I’m betting we’re worried over nothing.”
Sliding into my car, I placed my purse on the passenger seat. Edwin stood on his porch and waved as I drove off. When I was halfway down the street, my cell phone rang. Oh, great. It seemed too soon for any news on the package. Was this Stephen? Had he already managed to get himself in trouble with his friends? I pulled the phone from my purse and checked the incoming number.
Detective Chetterling.
Holding my breath, I clicked on the line.
Chapter 11
My heart beat a little too hard as I pulled into the parking lot of the Sheriff Department’s North Station. “Annie,” Chetterling had said on the phone, “we’ve run down a lead on that gift of yours. Can you get over here right away? Got someone coming in I think you’ll want to see.”
Lacking the time to explain, the detective left me with many questions. One thing I did know: he was going out on a limb in allowing me to be present during any questioning.
Chetterling met me outside the door of Delft’s office, the sergeant at his side. “You’re just in time.”
My eyes widened at the sight of both men. “Did you find somebody that links to Bland?”
Delft held up a hand. “We don’t know all the connections yet. But we’ll soon find out. We’re going to let you watch the interview through a one-way glass. You’ll be able to hear everything in the interrogation room. The walls are thin.”
They led me to an inside window of a small room containing a table and three chairs. A young man in faded jeans and denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves perched in one of those chairs like a trapped jack-in-the box, eyes darting around the room as if searching for a hand to turn the crank. His hands gripped the seat, both legs jiggling. He jumped when the door opened. Chetterling and Delft introduced themselves and sat down. The young man managed a meek hi.
Chetterling recited the Miranda rights and ensured that the young man understood them. “All right. You are Sam Borisun of 2853 Declan Way. You are twenty-six. And you work in the Roses by Redding florist shop, correct?”
I glanced at a video camera mounted in the room’s upper corner. Chetterling’s introduction was probably for the benefit of a rolling tape.
“Yeah.”
“And you understand you’re here to tell us about the, uh, flowers you delivered to a Ms. Annie Kingston on Barrister Court?”
“I didn’t do anything, really.” The words tripped over themselves. “I mean, I delivered the package, but I don’t know any more than that.”
“Okay. First tell me about the florist shop. Who is the owner and what hours do you work?”
Stuart Welsher owned the shop, Sam replied, along with a second store on the other side of Redding. Welsher went back and forth between shops during the week, leaving Sam in charge at his location every Saturday.
“And these shops deliver normal flowers, right? Live, pretty ones.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s legs continued to bounce. “Most of the time. But last summer I came up with the idea for the dead ones.”
Last summer. Surely there was no correlation to Lisa Willit’s murder. All the same, my skin pebbled.
“I was trying to get sales up, you know? Mr. Welsher was trying this and that. But I’d read about it being started somes where, maybe like in New York. How one guy delivered dead flowers as a joke, like when a guy had been jilted by a girl and wanted to get back at her. Anyway, the idea caught on, and now lots of florists send dead flowers. Some people order them for gag gifts when a person turns forty. Or lots of people like them around Halloween. At first Mr. Welsher thought it was a terrible idea, but then I showed him all the circumstances it could be used for, and how I’d market it and tell all my friends. So he let me try.”
Chetterling nodded. “How are your dead flowers advertised?”
“We have a sign in the florist shop. And we included it in our ad in the yellow pages of the new phone book. Also it’s on our Web site.”
Delft and Chetterling exchanged a glance.Web site.Anyone in the country could have found the service.
“Okay.” Chetterling flattened his large fingers against the edge of the table. “You took the order for Ms. Kingston’s flowers, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How? And at what time?”
“It came by phone.” Sam popped his knuckles. “I think it was about ten forty-five.”
“Was anyone else in the shop?”
“Bettina Gregory. She works weekends.”
“Would she have heard your side of the conversation?”
“Yeah, she was standing right there.”
“All right. The person on the phone. Was it a man or woman?”
“A man. With a raspy voice.”
“Raspy?”
Sam shrugged. “He said he was losing his voice but hoped I could understand him. I said I heard him just fine.”
“Okay. What happened then?”
I closed my eyes, praying that what we heard in the next few minutes would convince me—convince us all—that the delivery had been nothing more than a sick hoax. Sam’s voice whirred through my head, flashing the scene of him standing at the florist counter with the phone to his ear . . .
“I’d like to play a joke on somebody,” says the caller. “You got any dead roses around, like you advertised?”
“Sure do.”
“Can you deliver them today?”
“Right now if you want.”
“Good.” The man states the recipient’s name and address. “You can include a note, right? Here’s what I want to say.”
Sam grabs a pen as the man speaks the words slowly. “Got it.” He reads the words aloud, just to be sure. “Sounds kind of sinister. You sure that’s okay? What does the second line mean anyway—‘Like this case’?”
The man grates a chuckle. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it? I want her to have to figure this out.”
This is nothing new. The clients who order dead flowers tend to have warped senses of humor, like Sam. Utmost stealth is a part of their game. “Yeah, okay. As long as she gets the joke. I don’t want her mad at us or anything.”
“She won’t be mad. She’s such a prankster, she’ll love it. But make her work at figuring this out. Use an envelope without your shop address, can you do that? And leave the box on her porch, ring her doorbell, then leave in a hurry.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not as if the flowers are going to die, right?”
“Right.” Sam laughs, and the caller emits a sound like metal scraping over rock.
“So.” Sam readies his pen. “I’ll need a credit card.”
“Don’t believe in them.”
“Then how would you like to—”
“Look outside your shop, to your right as you walk out. See that pot with the red flowers? Check underneath it. You’ll find twenty-five dollars. I believe that covers the cost, as you advertised.”
“Uh, yeah.” Man, this guy really has his scam down. “Hold on a minute, okay?”
He covers the mouthpiece and asks Bettina to check outside under the potted geraniums. She returns with a twenty and a five-dollar bill. No envelope. Sam twists his mouth at her in an ain’t-people-strange expression.
“Okay, we have your money.” He opens the cash register and places the bills inside. “You’re all set.”
“Good. Oh, and one last thing. Just as a favor between you and me.”
“Shoot.”
“She’s g
oing to track this thing down like a real detective. So if she finds you, tell her something for me. But you have to say it exactly. You ready?”
Sam picks up his pen again. “Ready.”
“Good. First, say this: ‘Fourteen moves in twenty years drives a man to desperation.’” He pauses. “Got that?”
“Wait.” Sam finishes writing the sentence, his mouth moving with the syllables. “Yeah.” He repeats the words.
“Here’s the second part, very important. This is kind of like that game Clue. Tell her: ‘It happened in the study. Don stood by the desk. Peter fell over on the couch.’”
Sam writes once more, flicking a bemused look at Bettina. Wait till she gets a load of this. “Okay, let me read it back to you.”
The man listens. “Yes. You have done well.”
Sam laughs at his formality. This guy is really nuts. “Thanks. And, uh, anytime you want to send dead roses again, you know where to come . . .”
Sam Borisun’s voice faded, and the scene shimmered away. I found myself staring at the young man, my fingers sinking dent marks in the strap of my purse. Detective Chetterling sat with arms crossed, his jaw working. Delft’s features were a hardened mask slapped on to keep a poker face from slipping.
My thoughts tossed like leaves in the wind.
“Don stood by the desk. Peter fell over on the couch . . .”
Details of the murders that no one who’d simply read the newspapers would know.
“Fourteen moves in twenty years drives a man to desperation.”
Was this Bland, feeling desperate? I wanted to deny it. Surely there were a number of people in the Sheriff’s Department who’d worked on the case. Any one of them would know the details the caller had stated. But why would someone in the department want me off this assignment? Why would anyone take the great risk of getting caught?
After a pale-looking Sam Borisun was allowed to leave, Chetterling and Delft quickly spoke with two deputies, giving them certain information from Sam to check out. Afterward, the three of us met in the sergeant’s office.
“What do you think?” I paced about, too nervous to accept the seat offered me.
Chetterling deflected to Delft. “Does it sound like Bland to you?”
“It’s looking pretty suspicious.” Delft perched in his chair, back straight. “There aren’t too many people around here who’d remember the details he mentioned. In fact, I’m the only one who worked on that crime scene crazy enough to stick around this department for twenty years. Other than me, there’s you two. And the Tarells, but they’re as anxious to find Bill Bland as we are.”
Air seeped from my mouth. “Do you think he’s here? In the area?”
“I don’t know.” Delft tapped a thumb against his desk. “I wouldn’t put it past him. If he thinks we’re closing in on him—and with the TV show we have a good chance of doing just that—he’s liable to concoct any kind of scheme. But he also could have paid someone to drop off the money. I can’t imagine who, because I don’t know anyone in the area he’s friendly with. But we’ll check with people who live and work around that flower shop. If we get lucky, somebody saw someone dropping off the money. And may remember the make of the car.”
Delft blinked at a new thought, then picked up his telephone and punched in three numbers. “Wonder when Bland could have first seen that article?”
We waited while he was connected to the Record Searchlight office. After identifying himself and his question, he was forwarded to the Web master for the newspaper. In a few minutes Delft had his answer: articles were posted online at about 2:30 a.m.
We discussed the possibilities. Bland’s call to the florist shop came in about 10:45 a.m. Sometime previously, he or his messenger dropped off the money, most likely before the shop opened at 9:00. If Bland had checked his computer in the middle of the night, the most time possible between reading the article and placing the money would have been about eight hours. Driving eight hours from the south would place his home somewhere between San Francisco and the Los Angeles area. In eight hours from the north he could have come from nearly anywhere in Oregon or just over the Oregon border into Washington. From the east, he could have started near the far side of Nevada.
Sergeant Delft reached for a piece of paper and scratched a note. “We need to start checking all the motels in a couple hours’ radius.”
I brought a hand to my forehead. This was all happening too fast. What was I going to do?
Chetterling touched me on the shoulder. “Do you want out of this assignment, Annie? Another artist could step in, someone far away from here. On the East Coast.”
I pressed my knuckles against my chin. “But there’s no time to find anyone else on this schedule. The show would have to be postponed. That would just give Bill Bland all the longer to be on the streets. Maybe even these streets.” I looked from one man to the other, feeling my throat tighten. “Right now I don’t know what to say. I want out, sure. But I also want that man behind bars. Now he’s threatened me, so how can I rest until he’s caught?”
Chetterling put his hands on his hips. “Look, we’ll be on the alert, in case Bland is in the area. We don’t have all the manpower I wish we had, or I’d be putting an unmarked car out front of your house right now. But I’m going to have deputies drive by your house often, all right? You stay home tonight and keep your doors locked. And call us if anything at all looks suspicious. Is Jenna up here this weekend?”
“No.”
“Can you call her to come up? Either that, or you go stay with someone.”
I stared at the floor, shoulders caving. How I dreaded the night, the coming days. I could not believe this was happening again. “I’ll call her.”
“Annie.” Delft spoke with quiet urgency. “I understand you’re upset about all this. With good reason. But there is a positive side. Bland’s leaving more trails for us to follow. For the first time in years we’ve got something to run down. And if he happens to be in this area, we could find him before the television show even airs.” He paused. “If you pull out of the case, I’ll understand. But consider this: if Bland’s here, we need that update more than ever.” He looked me in the eye.
“In fact, we need it now.”
Chapter 12
“Jenna. Sorry to bother you when you’re working.” I gripped the kitchen phone, peering anxiously through the front window. As I’d driven home, righteous anger had settled over me like toxic fallout dust. I’d told Bill Bland off in my mind. Told him he wasn’t going to stop me from putting him behind bars—now. Told him his own stupidity would trip him up before he got anywhere near me.
Once I walked into my house, my defiance lasted all of two seconds. I turned off the alarm, silencing its high-pitched squeal. Then stood in my kitchen. Alone. The house felt empty. Too quiet. Scary. Instinctively, I’d reached for the phone.
“What’s the matter, Annie? You don’t sound good.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, no. Is it Stephen? The case?”
“The case, big time. Well, Stephen too. But I can’t think about him right now.” I cringed. What a horrible thing for a mother to say.
“Okay. Take a deep breath. Now what happened?”
Sometimes it was easy to forget Jenna was younger than I. She possessed everything I did not: self-confidence, beauty, grace. I could picture her heart-shaped face as she talked to me in her kitchen, the thick auburn hair she often pushed behind her ears. Her large and rich brown eyes, full of concern, her brow knitted.
“I’m in trouble again.”
The story spilled from my mouth. The dead roses, the note. Bill Bland’s possible presence in the area. My ambivalence about what to do. I could hear Jenna’s little gasps with each new piece of information.
“Oh, Annie.” Her voice squeezed. This was not good. She was supposed to be the fearless one. “Why are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you call when you got those flowers?”
“Because you were busy. And
I had no time. I had to phone Chetterling right away, and then the interview, and after that—”
“You could have taken a minute.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“You idgit. Don’t do this to me again!” She exhaled in frustration. “All right. Okay. I’m flying the plane up there tonight. I’ll stay with you until . . . until this is all over.”
“But what about your consulting project?”
“It . . . doesn’t matter. I’ll work on it up there.” Irritation edged her words. “Don’t think you can tell me all this and then expect me to stay away.”
“I . . . didn’t expect that. I want you to come.”
“Then stop trying to talk me out of it.”
Ragged relief widened my throat. The world had not turned upside down just yet. I stood in my kitchen, in my house with its alarm. The kids were okay. And Jenna and I were arguing.
“Sorry, I’m just—”
“And stop saying you’re sorry. This is not—Annie, look. Who ended up taking on that killer last year? All by herself? You are not helpless and this situation is not beyond you. You’ve come a long way since last summer, and this isn’t the time to fall into your I-can’t-handle-it routine.”
Wait a minute, where did she get that? “Okay, okay. Do I sound like I’m falling apart to you?”
She ignored the questions. “On the other hand, if you go out and do something crazy, like you did last time, I will shoot you myself, do you hear? Don’t you do a thing until I get there.”
Jenna at her best. Working herself up over my life.
“I hear.” I drifted over toward the sink. “Jenna, do you think I should stop working on the case?”
“I don’t know. You’re not that far from getting ready to draw, are you?”
“Well, I still have to talk to Bland’s ex-wife. I was going to interview Emily Tarell, too, but really I don’t know how much she can add.”
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