by Annie Adams
"My son always had his head in the clouds; he thought he could run a flower shop just because his friend has one in Boise. Derrick saw him coming from a mile away. Anyway, I ended up paying for the entire farm because Derrick couldn’t find any other investors, or so he said at the time, and now he’s gone and got himself killed before we could sign the papers for Derrick to take on the sole debt for this shop.”
“You’re still paying for the flower shop now?" I asked.
"Well, no, we haven’t paid since Bobby died.” Irwin’s voice grew shaky and he stifled the show of emotion. “It’s his fault that Bobby is gone. And now he’s gone too. That puts an end to things in my book.”
“I see what you mean,” I said, even though I didn’t really understand.
I said goodnight to the Shaws and on the drive home I considered the new information I had about them and their previous work. Hauling dead bodies around? It certainly would come in handy if you were going to murder someone and then place the body in a mortuary. But Irwin was old and sometimes appeared to be feeble. I couldn’t see him being able to handle the physical nature of that kind of job.
What was I thinking, anyway? These were sweet people who’d just had their lives blasted into pieces. Their son killed himself because of a scumbag, whom they then had to contend with because he had swindled their son in business. And to top it all off, they still owed him money, even though, by dying he wasn’t around to collect the payments any more.
I would have to check Irwin Shaw off of my list of potential murderer’s of Derrick Gibbons. Unfortunately that kept my name on the short list, if I didn’t find out who the real killer was.
Since Derrick was such a swindler, I figured that following the business trail from his shop—the one he didn't really own—was the way to find out who would have wanted him out of the picture. It was obvious the funeral flower business hadn’t been taken over by the Shaws. I was going to have to go back to the source of the sales. It was time for another trip to the mortuary, and this time I wasn’t going to be stopped by the gatekeeper; I would go to the funeral director himself.
###
I stopped at my trusty local fast food restaurant on the way home. I was in no condition for healthy eating. What did I care if I gained a few pounds? I didn’t have a boyfriend to impress.
When I arrived home, I looked around extra cautiously for arsonists, polygamists or reckless drivers. The coast appeared to be clear, but I still rushed in to my house, locked the deadbolts and peered into every closet, nook and cranny to make sure nobody hid in wait for me. I lifted the phone receiver and heard that I had at least one message. The first was from my mother’s number, I skipped it for the time being. Maybe I’d skip it all together, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to deal with anything she had to say.
The last message was a surprise, as it came from Danny Barnes’ cell phone. It was unusual for him to call my home. I waited impatiently for the recording of his message to start. “Dolly, hello. I called your home phone because I didn’t want anyone at your shop to over-hear any of this. I hate to leave this on a message, but I needed to tell you something as soon as possible. My brother has a buddy at Hillside Police who knows I own a flower shop. So, a few days ago, he asked if I could come and look at something and give my expert opinion.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it earlier, but I just plain forgot about it with our wedding trauma today, and then I didn’t want to mention it in front of Mr. Hottie Pants when the two of you came in the other day.”
I made a mental note to ask him about the “wedding trauma” the next time I talked to him. It probably amounted to someone thinking his prices were too high.
“My dear, they had me come and look at the casket spray that was on top of Derrick’s casket. I went down there and had a look…and I don’t quite know how to say this, but… it looked like one of yours. The flowers look like your style, but Quincy dear… it was the ribbon with that tacky old gold lettering on the banner. You’re the only one around here who has that kind.”
Danny was talking about the lettering we put on a ribbon to recognize the deceased. Typical banners might say “Beloved Husband,” “Loving Wife,” or something similar. It was either write with glue and glitter or use the adhesive gold lettering. I didn’t think my lettering was tacky, and Aunt Rosie had left a ton of it at the shop. I didn’t see any point in buying new just because Danny didn’t like it.
“Now, I’m not saying you did anything, and don’t worry, I told them I couldn’t be sure, due to the fact it had been a few days since it was made. But you and I both know it looks like you made the flowers. I recognized your style instantly…just as easily as I can tell a Louis Vuitton knock-off from a mile away. Oh, which reminds me, you have got to see my new carryall. It’s like a purse, but it’s for a man, so I call it my murse. Oops, I got off track. Anyway, I thought you needed some warning. I had to give them some names—I was forced to! So I just gave them a list of all the florists in the area, and unfortunately you were on it. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but better to come from me than a police detective. Call me, dear. Bye.”
I couldn’t expect Danny to lie to the police for me, and I’m glad he thought to list other suspects. It was the same as looking at the listings in the phone book. But, eventually the police would go down the list until they eliminated everyone but me. Even I knew it wasn't likely anyone else had that old-fashioned banner lettering.
I decided to torture myself a little more by drilling down my own list of things that had happened to me in the space of the last week. A call from a psycho cop, a hit-and-run, a flaming bag of stink on my porch, a burning bush, an arrest, a car chase and Alex.
Alex. My heart hurt in my chest at the tiniest whisper of a thought of him.
So I thought about something else.
I thought about how I might look in orange.
Orange, because that’s what prison inmates wear on TV. Or maybe the women prisoners wore those drab blue smocks—I didn't want to wear a smock.
I needed to pick up the pace on my own investigation before the police made it down Danny's list. This wasn't just about sales anymore. This was about finding the real killer on my own, so I wouldn't wake up in my denim blue smock in a bunk below a roommate named Crazy Sal every day for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next day, I let my sister train K.C. on the invoicing system for the store. That way I could focus on clearing my name. I was suspicious that Allie's ass-hat boyfriend let her come to work without checking with him first. I later found out he had to work all day instead of taking her out for lunch, which really meant keeping his thumb on her, if you asked me.
I wanted to find out who really owned Artful Blooms flower shop, and to know how or if that owner was connected to the mortuary. Doing a computer search hadn't led me to the owner, but I remembered that my cousin Jeff worked for the State Office of Corporations. He had access to all the information about corporations in the state, which were public record, and he would probably know how to get the information I needed.
“Looks like the name of the principle officer is L.D. Stanwyck.” Jeff said.
“What do the initials stand for?” I asked.
“Actually, it’s just L.D.,” he said. “That’s all I can see anyway.”
“Thanks Jeff, I owe you. Come in to the shop and pick up a bouquet for your wife sometime, on the house.”
L.D. Stanwyck was the same name that appeared on the paychecks from Artful Blooms, according to Derrick’s designer. I needed to find out the identity of this L.D. person, to see how he was connected to Derrick. My next visit would be to the Hansen Mortuary, where I would ask about the mystery owner's identity.
I turned into the mortuary parking lot around eleven-thirty a.m. Interior lights glowed behind the glass entrance doors. A silver Audi I didn’t recognize was parked in the main customer lot. I parked in the back, near a beat up burgundy mini-van. Gaylen Smith’s
beat up mini-van. Gaylen Smith was the glad-handing, backslapping manager of the Hillside location of the mortuary.
I carefully opened the flower door, looked both ways, and walked past the no-florists-allowed sign. I snuck into the secret hallway that links the back room to the front offices and eased open the door leading to the main foyer. Gaylen hovered in his office stuffing bridge mix from the glass bowl on his desk into his mouth.
"All right Gaylen! What gives?"
"What are you talking about, Quincy?" he said through a wad of chocolate.
"I want to know why nobody will answer my questions about Derrick around here. It's bad enough you guys just dropped off the face of the earth when it came to ordering from me, but now you don't have a florist and I want to know what you're going to do about it." We wouldn't broach the subject of my murder investigation just yet.
"I don't see as how it's any of your business, Quincy."
"You don't see? You don't see how trying to get back almost half of the sales I used to make is any of my business?" I took an aggressive step toward Gaylen. I used my height to my advantage; he was only five foot six at most. He shrunk back; I had him cornered.
I softened my voice and my approach. "Listen, Gaylen. You and I have known each other for a long time. You know my parents, and I know yours. In fact, your parents are customers of mine, unless they're buying funeral flowers—the way things are now. I know that you guys have a need for a good, reliable florist, and I need more sales to stay afloat. So what do you say we help each other out?"
"I wish I could help you, Quincy, I really do, but my hands are tied. Greg Schilling is the boss, and he's the one you'll have to talk to about flowers, and even I have a hard time getting into to see him these days."
"Bull." I said.
"What do you mean bull?"
"You've managed this location long enough to have some say in which florist you use. And can you honestly tell me you would have let a close family member go through Derrick's shop, and pay him the exorbitant amount of money he wanted for shoddy, ugly work? Can you honestly say that to me Gaylen?"
"Well, no…I...listen, Quincy, no matter what you think, I don't have any say in who we use for vendors. I can't do a thing about it."
"You've given me no choice, Gaylen. You want to play that way? I'll play that way. What if I told you that I happen to know of a certain mortuary that has recycled expensive floor model caskets, putting the bodies in a cheaper casket once the family has left the graveside service?"
Gaylen was red in the face and he was sweating profusely.
"How could you possibly know that? What is it about florists and blackmailing? First Derrick and now you?" Gaylen whined.
"Blackmailing? How did Derrick blackmail anyone?" I opened my eyes and did my best Bambi impression.
"Ohhh, Quincy I've already said enough."
"Recycled caskets Gaylen," I said in a singsong voice.
"Okay, okay. It's not like I do it all the time, by the way. The casket the family had picked out was a special order, and that stupid Doug was supposed to order it, or the secretary, or one of the two, but they were too busy...fooling around to get it ordered in time. So when it came time for the family viewing, I had to use one that I had on display, until the new one arrived.”
“Wait,” I said, “you know about Linda and Doug?”
“Of course I do. Everyone around here knows about it.” He sounded like I was the only one who didn't know. “So anyway, I didn't really recycle a casket that someone had paid for, it just bought me some time. No one ever knew about it, at least I thought—how did you know about it?"
I had actually put a lot of faith in a hunch that ended up paying off. I thought I had seen a scratch on the casket when I placed the flowers on top of it before the viewing. About two weeks later, I thought I saw the same scratch in the same place for another viewing. I didn't know if Gaylen was being truthful, but I thought it possible he wasn't lying. I told him about the scratch in hopes of a mutual exchange of information.
If my information got out to the public, the mortuary would be in big trouble. They would probably be sued by every family that had ever used their services—well maybe that was a bit of a stretch. But it probably violated some kind of state law to reuse caskets.
“So what were you saying about Derrick and blackmail?” I asked.
Gaylen sighed, then wiped his brow. “Okay, Quincy, but you have to promise it doesn’t leave this room.”
“I promise.”
“Derrick knew about Doug’s affairs.”
“You mean with Linda?”
“And Mrs. Powell.”
“You mean…”
“That Mrs. Powell.”
“Great gossip fodder, without question, but who at the mortuary would care?”
“Doug’s not just any employee. He’s Greg Schilling’s stepson.”
“So, his stepson is a dirt bag. So what?” I asked.
“Doug is the only one to carry on the family business for one thing, and it wouldn’t be such a good idea to have Mr. Powell on our bad side. That’s all I can tell you about it, Quincy.”
I assumed Gaylen meant it was bad to have a high-ranking political official on your bad side if you wanted their business, but then I realized they were probably high ranking officials in the church together too. It would have been too much to try to wrap my head around the depths of hypocrisy reached by this lot of people.
“Okay, okay, I won’t ask anymore about the Powells, but what did that have to do with Derrick?” I asked.
“Derrick and Doug were two peas in a pod. They went to school together, lifted weights, drove their stupid trucks down in Moab together, all of that. Derrick knew about Doug’s…relationships, and he came and told me about it. I didn’t really care too much when it was the secretary, I could fire her any minute, but when he started talking about Mrs. Powell, I talked to Greg about it. We worked out a little arrangement with Derrick for flowers. Now that’s it, Quincy, don’t ask me anymore, I’ve already told you enough. And if I hear that someone else knows about this little secret between you and me; there will be hell to pay. Mark my words.”
He looked at me with evil eyes. I didn’t want to ask him who the new florist would be. It finally occurred to me that I didn’t want to have any type of involvement with these corrupt men. I thanked Gaylen for his explanation, and told him my lips would be sealed. I didn’t intend to share this information with anyone. I wondered if Derrick had said too much to the wrong person and it ended up getting him killed. And who better than morticians to know how to embalm someone? In fact, there really couldn't be anyone else—could there? Placing the body in their own mortuary was a brilliant idea. No one would suspect them for putting him there.
It was time to leave, tout de suite.
As I walked toward the exit, I saw a Porsche pull up next to the Audi in the customer parking lot. It was Derrick’s Porsche. I recognized it well after the paint-keying incident. A woman got out of the passenger side, just as Linda pulled up in her black Lexus.
The mystery woman wore a camel colored dress suit with a three quarter length skirt and matching jacket with pleated shoulders. She had a pastel pink blouse with ribbons attached at the neck meant to tie a floppy bow. It was office wear from the early nineties. The two strips of fabric of the untied bow flapped in the breeze.
The loose ends of fabric fell at odds with the rest of her image, especially the dowdy pumps and just-so helmet of dark brown shoulder length hair. Those precisely parted and feathered bangs weren’t going anywhere in the breeze. She looked like the librarian at the county headquarters and not someone who had just stepped out of a Porsche.
Linda got out of her car. The icy glare coming from her eyes was deadly—if looks could kill, the librarian would have had icicle daggers protruding from her chest. The mystery woman used her own set of keys to unlock the Audi. As soon as she got into the car, the Porsche screeched out of the parking lot.
Linda walked toward the mortuary, passing me without saying a word. I don’t think she saw me, her eyes were practically glowing red and it looked as if steam would start spraying out of her ears.
I needed nourishment after the intense confrontation with Gaylen. I drove to the Bulgy Burger. I had contemplated Skinny’s, but I knew Elma would ask about Alex, and I didn’t want to see her, or her blue-eye-shadowed-lids emphasizing her deliverance of the stink eye in my direction.
As I sat, ploughing my way through a large Coke and double bacon cheeseburger with steak fries, I compiled a list of things I would need to figure out:
Murderer?
#1 Suspects- Hansen Mortuary-not Gaylen/who else?
Who is L.D. Stanwyck?
New $ for shop
The first thing was the list of murder suspects. I was fairly confident in moving the morticians from the Hansen mortuary to the top spot. Maybe not Gaylen, but he definitely knew something he was afraid to tell me. Usually I could get Gaylen on a roll and he would talk about anything ad infinitum. But this time he wouldn’t say any more. The next thing was to find out the true identity of L.D. Stanwyck.
The last thing I added to my list was the need to find some new income. I had to face it. I wasn’t going to get any funeral work referrals from the Hansen mortuary ever again. The upcoming gala would be even more important than I had thought. I had to impress the attendees.
I returned to the shop with a bag full of doughnuts from Bulgy’s.
“Oh you should have,” K.C. said when she saw the distinctly designed paper bag.
“Have a doughnut, Allie,” I said. “Since you won’t let me pay you enough, I’ll make it up in doughnuts.”
She laughed, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m watching my weight.”
K.C. rolled her eyes. “I’m watching my weight too. I watching it go right into my mouth with every bite, and I’m exquisitely pleased every time that I do. That’s okay Kiddo,” she said to Allie, “it just leaves more for me and the head honcho here.”