The Final Arrangement

by Annie Adams

  The lock gave no resistance for a change and I balanced an iced-tea in my other hand. After setting everything down, turning on the lights and the computer, and putting the money in the cash register, I was ready to begin the day’s business.

  Cindy walked in just after nine and actually started to apologize for being late. Something new was definitely in the air.

  We needed to do some summer cleaning in the dreaded basement. I gave her the task of organizing everything downstairs so we could throw away the worthless stuff which had accumulated year after year. It was unlikely we’d be able to use the broken handled ceramic mug with “Happy 1999” printed on it.

  I went to the phone and retrieved a message on the voicemail from the hospital reminding me they needed a refill. They asked for baby boy arrangements, no girls, ten single rose vases and six mixed bouquets—a good-sized order for the morning. I turned the radio on and got to work.

  After setting out all the vases and containers I would need, then filled them with water, flower food and arranging foam. I retrieved bunches of leather leaf, salal, myrtle and Oregonia. I began each arrangement using memorized recipes, which made for assembly-line style speed.

  I stepped into the walk-in. In an attempt at efficiency, I piled my arms high with flowers instead of making multiple trips in and out of the cooler. I moved to the furthest end near the fan. Of course I thought I heard the sound of the phone. I paused, but heard nothing. The cold, heavy air began to feel eerie. Having a severe fear of being locked in the cooler accidentally, I hurried to the door and popped my head out in order to take a deep, anxiety-quelling breath of dry, non-humidified air. Instead I screamed.

  Only three inches separated my face from that of a stone-faced large man. I jerked back to see him better. He stood about six foot three, with a stout chest and muscular build. His hair was short cropped, like a military cut. His brown eyes were deeply set, framed with heavy but neatly kept, angled brows. He sported a dark, well-trimmed mustache that covered the slight upturn in the middle of his upper lip indicating he may have had a cleft palate at birth.

  “Can I help you with something?” My voice still shook after being startled. The door to the walk-in cooler was well behind the customer counter dividing the store. He had no business being back there.

  “I’m looking for Quinella Swanson.”

  No "I’m sorry" or "excuse me," he just started right into using my former and never since used names. He was either from the church or the government; they’re the only ones that know my real first name besides my family.

  “Excuse me.” I said as I exited the walk-in. He didn’t move an inch until I turned to shut the door and knocked him in the face with all of the flowers in my arms. I used my foot to slam the door shut. I walked over to the design table and carefully unloaded my cargo, but it was difficult to coax my arms to move. They had been frozen in place when this well-dressed stranger startled me. Although, I wasn’t sure he was a complete stranger. In fact I was fairly certain I’d seen him before.

  His dark slacks and pinstriped button-down shirt coordinated well with his olive green tie. A policeman’s badge hung from his leather belt. He wore large gold cuff links, and a watch that said Rolex in huge lettering; I guess it was supposed to be obvious it was expensive.

  “How do you know that name? Who are you?” I assumed we weren’t going to be exchanging pleasantries.

  “I’m Detective Arroyo from Hillside City Police. I assume you are Quinella Swanson?”

  “I’m Quincy McKay. Swanson was the name my ex-husband gave me when we got married. I gave it back.”

  Then it hit me. This was the cop I had fled after visiting Derrick’s shop.

  He strode slowly toward me.

  “Mrs. McKay?” He asked as he approached the design table.

  “Yes, that’s me.” I didn’t bother correcting him about the Mrs. and I didn’t think he would have listened anyway.

  “I need to talk to you about a couple of things.”

  This was the detective who ordered me to stay at the shop the morning Derrick was found dead. He had finally caught up with me. I got sick to my stomach and I could feel a ball of anxiety rising up in my throat.

  “Would you like to sit down at the table?” I indicated the consultation table at the front of the store with an open palmed hand like a model at the auto expo.

  “We can sit if you’d like,” he said with no emotion, his face stern.

  Both of us made our way to the little table.

  My behind barely made contact with the chair before I blurted out, "You know I’d really like to get something off of my chest.” The words were loud, fast and breathy as I could hardly get any air to pass into my lungs. I felt my cheeks stoking.

  He arched a neatly waxed eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I just, well…first of all…” I sighed heavily. The words weren’t coming as fast as the thoughts. I’d had a couple of days of distraction in which I had forgotten Danny’s brother was probably in jeopardy of losing his job because of me. I’m sure my speechlessness sounded like a stereotypical air-headed woman to him, which made my blood boil all the more. The words come out even slower.

  “Mrs. McKay,” the detective said sharply.

  “You can call me Quincy. And it’s Miss not Mrs.,” I corrected.

  “Ms. McKay.” He paused to make sure I heard his generous correction. What a guy. “Let me help you get started,” he said. Wow he was helpful too. “You’ve been a difficult person to catch up with.”

  “Really? That’s surprising. I’m here most of the time. Did you leave any messages? Maybe they weren’t delivered to me.”

  “I’m sure I did.” Liar. He said it dismissively, staring at his manicure. With all of Cindy’s less desirable qualities came a few good ones, including taking phone messages. I think it stemmed from nosiness. If a police detective came in or called for me, I’m sure Cindy would have been salivating at the chance to know why. And if it weren’t Cindy it would have been Allie, who of course would have given me the messages. And then there was my voice mail. I was the only one who checked it. He hadn’t left a message there.

  I ignored his attitude and forged on. “I’m glad I’ve finally got a chance to talk to you about Derrick. Well, what I mean is how I know about him. And I just wanted to let you know how I knew about his death before most everyone else. The person I heard it from is really a good person, and would never have shared this information with anyone else, I think he just wanted to know something about Derrick, and since I’m in the floral business, he thought I might know him, and…”

  He interrupted sharply, “Ms. McKay, I don’t know what you’re going on about right now. You do know Derrick Gibbons?”

  What a jerk. I just finished telling him I knew who Derrick was. He didn’t listen to a word I had just said.

  “Well, I know who he is, I mean, was,” I said. “I met him at a floral conference, and he was a competitor. I didn’t really know him though. There are probably several other florists or anyone else who knew him better than me.”

  “Where were you the day before Mr. Gibbons was found at the mortuary, Ms. McKay?”

  “I can’t even remember where I was yesterday let alone back then.” Okay that was a bit of an exaggeration, since I did remember being with Alex last night really well, but he didn’t need to know that.

  I paused to give his question some more thought, while simultaneously wondering why the heck he was asking me.

  “Danny didn’t call me until the morning I talked to you on the phone.” I tried to help the detective out with his timeline. “I don’t know how you guys even know that he told me, but I swear I didn’t tell anyone, and he only called me because we both know who he is—Derrick, I mean.”

  Detective Arroyo’s gaze became fierce, he could have split an atom with the pupils that aimed at mine when he said, “Ms. McKay, again, I don’t know who you’re talking about, and I find it to be very strange that you can’t answer a simple
question. I asked you where you were the day before they found Derrick Gibbons’ body at the mortuary.”

  My face must have looked as astonished as I felt at that moment, which is the same moment Cindy came to the front of the store. She didn’t notice the detective and me sitting there as she yelled out my name and started talking.

  “Quincy what do you want me to do with this cat’s pee?” She shouted out. Cindy referred to a flower, which starts to develop a nasty, distinctive odor as it ages and dries out while it’s still in water. Its common name is Caspia. Cat’s pee is a great pneumonic device for remembering the name of the flower. She continued walking up to the front of the store when I didn’t answer her.

  “What’s going on? Why is there a cop car out front?” Just then she looked over, saw us and brought her hand to her mouth and shrugged in embarrassment. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I’ll just put it in a bucket.”

  Good thing she wore another of her impressive man-finding outfits that day. He didn’t seem to mind too much, not surprisingly. The small interruption broke some of the tension in the air, but it also caused me to lose my train of thought. I started thinking about how ridiculous Cindy looked and how embarrassing it was, and thinking how unprofessional Detective Arroyo was being as he gawked. His eyes were practically popping out of their sockets.

  “I’m sorry, Detective where were we?”

  He snapped back into the moment without missing a beat.

  “Where were you, on that day?” He sighed heavily.

  “Okay where was I on that day? Umm, I was here until I went on deliveries. Nick had already left because he claimed he had an appointment. It was about two o’clock I think. I remember now, a guy wanted roses delivered to his girlfriend before she got off of work at three.” I remembered looking up at the clock that day at about one forty-five and thinking I’d better get the van loaded and get a move on.

  “Did you have any deliveries at the Hansen funeral home?” He asked.

  “No. Oh wait, yes, I delivered a planter there.”

  “Were there any funeral services that night?”

  “No, just a viewing right before the funeral the next day—the day they found Derrick. It was for the Jackson services,” I answered.

  “Why would you take the delivery the day before if there weren’t any services? Don’t the flowers die or something?”

  “No, a planter is a container with living plants actually growing in the soil. I took it the day before for that reason. That way I could save myself some stress the next morning by not having to wake up early just to deliver a single item when it’s perfectly all right sitting in the flower room over night.”

  The phone started ringing just as a customer came through the door. Cindy helped the customer in the store, while having to just let the phone ring. The middle-aged woman tried to pretend not to glance over at the tense conversation in the corner while Cindy readied an arrangement for her.

  “You know, I really need to get back to work and help Cindy out. I don’t know what’s going on or why you are asking me these questions. I really don’t see how it helps you to understand Derrick any better. I didn’t even know him that well. Besides, what does that have to do with whether I had any deliveries or not?”

  “Ms. McKay,” the detective looked at me with a cold stone face, “you were the last person other than the staff to be seen at the mortuary in the late afternoon the day before they found Mr. Gibbons.”

  “And…?”

  “And,” he said in a loud voice, “it has been said that you didn’t like Mr. Gibbons. In fact, it has been reported that you had an altercation with him at the mortuary.”

  Oh that. It shouldn’t be too hard to explain. To a normal person who didn’t have it out for me.

  The detective stood. “You know, I’ve had enough of your playing dumb. You’ve said to more than one person that you didn’t like what Mr. Gibbons was doing, and it’s been reported that you even admitted to wanting to kill him. You’ve complained to the mortuary staff about the decrease in business caused by them using the services of Mr. Gibbons. That sure sounds like a motive to me.”

  “A motive for what?” I yelled. Had this guy just accused me of murder? I stood up and pointed at him. The only trouble was, as I had been nervously sitting there, I had put my hands in the pockets of my apron to keep from wringing them in front of him. One of my Victorionox florist’s knives had been stowed in the pocket as usual. The florist’s knife is a part of my hand. There are very few instances when I put it down while at work. Of course I held the knife in my hand, slicing through the air as I pointed toward him. I always talk with my hands. The knife was more of a third index finger than a tool.

  “Now you listen to me,” I shouted as I pointed. “How dare you come into…”

  “Put your weapon down,” Detective Arroyo yelled.

  “My weapon?” I looked down at my knife. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I laughed, “I’m so used to holding one of these; I didn’t even realize it was in my hand.”

  “Put the weapon down!” He yelled even louder this time, and then he drew his gun on me!

  I slammed the knife down on the table.

  “Mrs. McKay, I am placing you under arrest.”

  “It’s not Mrs., and you’ve got to be kidding me!” I shouted.

  “I am not kidding. I’m placing you under arrest!”

  “Under arrest for what?”

  “For attempted assault on an officer with a deadly weapon. And resisting arrest.”

  “What?” Before I knew it Arroyo had put the gun away, pulled out the handcuffs, grabbed my wrist and whirled me around. With my hands held behind my back he tightened the cuffs around my wrists until they squeezed tight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My arrival and subsequent booking at the police station constituted a ridiculous circus act, which I made sure to tell the detective at every possible moment. Arroyo obviously had a reason to dislike me before we met. I had no idea why, and any attempts to ask him about it in the five-minute ride to the station were completely ignored. He definitely liked getting attention whether it was from people noticing his spiffy appearance or my customers and his co-workers seeing him arrest the most unlikely armed and dangerous criminal there ever was.

  He delivered his hardened criminal amongst stares of confusion from dispatchers and fellow officers. The Hillside police department building is small, so pretty much everyone on shift at the time was there to watch the show. He led me to a plastic bucket seat chair with metal legs next to a desk. I looked over at one of the faces looking at me in bewilderment.

  “Hey, Kathy.” I said in a shaky voice. There was no possibility of keeping my dignity intact then, because there was no dignity to be had, but it would have been rude not to say something. Kathy and I were in the same graduating class in high school. I could feel the scarring that was likely occurring on the skin of my cheeks due to the bonfire going on just under their surface.

  I asked to speak with Officer Cooper but was told he wasn’t available. Luckily, inspiration struck at the right time with the name of a customer who also happened to be a lawyer. Kathy looked up his number for me, probably at the risk of getting in trouble, and I made the call, balancing the phone between cuffed hands.

  After sitting in another room in another plastic chair for two hours, I was given notice I could leave. There was no questioning, no talking, nothing during the entire two hours. Once Arroyo led me to the chair, I never saw him again. Kathy came and unlocked my handcuffs. Since I had been given a “ride” to the police station, I needed to find someone to give me a lift back to the shop. I tried Allie’s cell phone, she didn’t answer. I didn’t call the shop; Cindy would have to leave in order to come and pick me up. I tried Alex’s phone three times, each time the voicemail answered on the first ring. He obviously didn’t want to be reached. So I called someone I knew I could count on and that person was Danny Barnes.

  There was no need for anyone to tell me when Dann
y arrived. I heard. Along with the rest of the building and the court complex next door.

  “Where is she?” A high-pitched voice demanded. “You people don’t know who you’re dealing with. My uncle is the Mayor and I am so calling him as soon as we get out of here.”

  Kathy opened the door to the room where I sat, and rolled her eyes. “Quincy, you can go now. Hurry up and get Danny out of here.”

  I got up and nodded at her, downtrodden and embarrassed.

  “Quincy! Are you all right, my dear?” Danny’s arms flailed into the air as he rushed toward me. His usually perfectly aligned dark hair fell down on his forehead, but he did remember to put on his suit jacket. Although he had forgotten to remove his apron.

  “I’m fine. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Oh, Roxie,” he started to get red in the face and fanned his hand in front of it. “Oh,” he bit his lip and appeared to fight back tears. “You don’t have to thank me. Just tell me all about it when we get in the MAV.” Danny was referring to his Chevy Suburban with the acronym for Mormon Assault Vehicle. When the mammoth vehicles were first introduced, it became the in-thing for every large Mormon family to get rid of the tired old station wagon and buy one of these Jurassic-sized transport vehicles.

  I recounted the farce that was my arrest to Danny. As he pulled up to my store I asked him not to tell anyone, especially not anyone in my family about what had happened. My mother’s spy network was vast and always on the look out. Danny promised, and then argued against just leaving me at my store. I assured him I would close early, that I just needed to pick up my van. He dropped me off, and then headed back to his shop.

  I opened the door as quietly as I could. I felt so humiliated; I just wanted to blend into the walls. If I didn’t have to make sure Cindy had a replacement when her shift was over, I wouldn’t have set foot anywhere near the place where I had been arrested. Of course as I opened the door, the chimes sounded out as loud and clear as they had ever done.