“The average rose bush lives for thirty-five years. Some have lived for hundreds. There’s one in Germany—”
She cut him off. “The pictures will last longer than the rose and garden show, anyway. If you want people to believe you’re a champion, you need to look like a champion.”
“What do I look like now?”
“A math teacher on summer vacation.” She looked at her watch. “What time’s the photo shoot?”
“At half-past.”
“Not much time but,” she eyed him over again, “I’ll manage. C’mon.” She started for the door. “You’re driving.”
“Wait.” Frankie stayed by the counter. “You’re not planning to dress me up like a peacock, the way you did over in Ballytuam?”
“I did not dress you up like a peacock. Mr. Walsh did.” Several months ago, she’d twisted Frankie’s arm to let Mr. Walsh, of Walsh and Sons Tailoring, makeover Frankie’s wardrobe as a distraction while she searched the tailor’s office for evidence to clear her brother-in-law of theft and murder charges. Frankie’s expression suggested he still held a grudge. “And it was in the interest of justice, a noble cause. We don’t have time for Walsh and Sons today, anyway. I’ll have to make do with items at hand. Too bad those suits you bought to impress Venus James were winter-weight.”
“I took ‘em to the charity shop.”
Gethsemane shook her head. “Honestly, Frankie.”
“You’re making a holy show out of nothing.”
“I’ll trust you with my rose, you trust me with your image. Years of touring as a professional musician taught me a thing or ten about what to wear and what not to wear to a photo shoot.” She tapped her watch. “Time’s wasting. Pay the lady for your flower and let’s go.” She exited the store without giving Frankie another chance to protest. “Where’s the photo session being held?” she asked him when he caught up with her.
“In my garden.” Frankie lived in Erasmus Hall, the bachelor faculty quarters at St. Brennan’s. “Where else?”
“We want an outfit that will complement your roses, not overshadow them.”
“You can’t overshadow roses.” He held up her flower pot. “Well, you can’t overshadow my roses.”
Gethsemane ignored the gibe as she spotted Frankie’s car in the parking lot across the village square. She headed for it then stopped suddenly. Frankie bumped into her.
Gethsemane pointed. “Someone’s left you a present.”
Two
Frankie handed Gethsemane her miniature rose and stepped around her to his car. He lifted the brown-paper bundle that had been tucked into the gap between the hood and the windshield.
“Flowers from an admirer?” she asked as he pulled the paper back to reveal a magnificent floral bouquet.
“This your doing?”
“Me? I was in the flower shop when you arrived and I left when you did. How could I have walked over here to leave flowers on your windshield without you seeing me?”
Frankie searched the bundle. “No card.”
“I know who left them.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No. I mean, I can’t. I know who left them, at least I’m pretty sure I do, but I don’t know who they are.”
“Talk sense.”
Gethsemane set her flower pot on the car’s hood and examined the bouquet. She recognized tiny purple flowers and spiky green leaves identical to the sprig dropped by the person who’d almost knocked her down. She told Frankie about her near-collision.
“You didn’t see this person leave the bouquet?” Frankie asked. “How can you be sure it was them?”
“I have to explain logic to a mathematician? Who else could it have been? The flowers are fresh, they match the ones the person carried, there’s no other florist nearby, the wrapping paper is the same Buds of May uses for all their bouquets. And your secret admirer committed the cardinal sin of someone who doesn’t want to be noticed. She or he wore a strange outfit bound to call attention to themselves and caused a commotion. That’s two cardinal sins, actually.”
“All right, Nancy Drew. You’re sure you didn’t get a look at their face or hear their voice or anything that would at least tell you if they were male or female?”
Gethsemane shook her head. “Sorry. But I know who must have.”
Neither she nor Frankie spoke. Frankie broke the silence after a few seconds. “You’re making me guess? Who?”
“Alexandra. Difficult to order a bouquet without speaking to the florist at least long enough to say what flowers to include.” She examined the bundle again. “They’re gorgeous. I don’t recognize all the varieties. I know tulip.” She pointed at the familiar red cup-shaped blossom and then at a frilly red bloom. “That’s chrysanthemum. And these,” she lowered her head to inhale the subtle sweetness of several perfect, red, urn-shaped buds, “Roses, of course. What’s this one?” She pointed to a woody stem with tubular red-pink flowers.
“Honey flower, I think. And the one with the little purple flowers is motherwort.”
“Sort of an odd collection. Unusual, I mean. Of course, commercial nurseries can supply just about any flower you want without regard to season or location, so maybe it’s not so unusual.”
“Not unusual for a commercial nursery, maybe. But for a local florist’s shop? They don’t stock flowers only ordered once in a great while on hand. They’d be wasted. They keep roses and carnations and tulips handy, maybe lilies and the odd orchid in the fancier places.” Calla and daylilies had filled a section of the Buds of May’s cooler and a corner display had been devoted to orchids. “The type of flowers a fella’s likely to grab last-minute for a birthday or anniversary or half-arsed apology. If you want something non-standard, you have to order it.”
“And if your secret admirer—”
“Stop calling them my secret admirer.”
“I don’t want to call them your stalker. Whatever you call them, if they placed a custom order at the florist, they left a name, address, and phone number.”
Frankie turned back to the shop. “Let’s go ask.”
Gethsemane grabbed his arm. “Nope. No time. Photo shoot, remember? Once I get you ready for your closeup, I’ll come back and talk to the clerk.”
“Fine.” Frankie tossed the bouquet onto the backseat of the car. “Let’s be at it.”
“You should take care of those.” Gethsemane picked the bouquet up from where it had fallen to the floorboards. “Your admirer might turn out to be the woman of your dreams.”
“You’ve met my ex.” Frankie tossed the flowers onto the seat again. “You’ve seen what luck I’ve had. My admirer would turn out to be the stuff of nightmares.”
“Let’s go.” Gethsemane retrieved her flower pot and opened the passenger door. “We don’t have much time to fix,” she waved a hand at his outfit, “this before the photographer arrives.”
“What about your bike?” Frankie nodded toward the green Pashley Parabike chained to a nearby rack. An indefinite loan from the parish priest, Gethsemane employed it as her main source of transportation.
“We can tie it to the back.” She excused herself to get the bike and walked it back to Frankie’s car. “Don’t you have some rope in your trunk?”
“It’s a boot, not a trunk, and why would I have rope in it?”
“Because guys always have things that come in handy in a pinch, like rope and screwdrivers and pocket knives, in their trunks.”
“What rulebook on manliness did you read that in?”
“No rulebook, just two brothers.” She tapped the trunk lid. “Open up and take a look.”
Frankie popped the lid release. A mishmash of old blankets, math textbooks, muck boots, and a faded mackintosh greeted her. Frankie plunged his arms into the mess and scrounged up a length of rope.
“I told you so.” Gethsem
ane reached past him to fold the blankets and rain coat into a neat pile.
“Are you ever going to get a car?” he grumbled as he lashed the Pashley to the rear bumper, “or am I going to have to install a bicycle rack to keep chauffeuring you around?”
“Your Irish driver’s licensing rules are ridiculous and your car insurance, usurious. I’ll stick to the Pashley. Besides,” she climbed into the car, “I’m riding with you to help you.”
“And all the running to and fro’, chasing after clues you’ve had me doing these past months? That was all for my benefit?”
“No, that was in the interest of justice.” She balanced her flower pot next to Frankie’s bouquet and tapped her watch. “Drive.”
Half an hour later, Gethsemane sat on the porch at Erasmus Hall and watched as Frankie, transformed by the loan of an iron from the physics teacher and a blazer from the English teacher, posed in his rose garden. A Dunmullach Dispatch photographer, Max Something-or-other, snapped pictures of Frankie surrounded by rose bushes, some of them as tall as Gethsemane, exploding with blossoms in a kaleidoscope of pink, red, and orange. Frankie was certain to win grand prize in the garden competition. His roses rivaled those grown in the grand gardens of manor houses. If he ever tired of teaching math, he had a brilliant future as the Irish David Austin.
He lingered next to a rose bush set slightly apart from the others in the brightest corner of the garden. The photographer lined up a medium-distance shot then lowered his camera. “There’s a watering can and a trimmer in frame. Can someone move those?”
Gethsemane grabbed the errant garden tools and set them next to her on the porch. “If you don’t put away your toys, Frankie, you won’t have nice things.”
“They’re not toys, they’re precision instruments.”
“All the more reason to put them away.” The math teacher had a habit of leaving his garden tools lying about under bushes and at the bases of statues. “I put my precision instruments away properly in their cases when I’m done with them. That’s why they last hundreds of years.”
The photographer moved in to take some close-ups of the flawless blossoms that covered the compact shrub. How had Frankie described them to her? Orange-pink, full, with the globular form and heavy fragrance of an Old Garden rose. He’d hybridized the rose himself and christened it the ‘Sandra Sechrest’ in honor of the librarian who’d given him a biography of Pythagoras when he was seven and sparked his lifelong love of math. He’d entered the ‘Sandra Sechrest’ in the rose show. The local bookies pegged him odds on to win.
A shout interrupted the shoot. The photographer’s head jerked up. Gethsemane and Frankie turned toward the voice. A man approached from the direction of St. Brennan’s Shakespeare Garden, his arm raised in greeting. The July sun glinted off his blond hair. He wore cargo pants, brogans, and a multi-pocketed vest over a short-sleeved, collared shirt. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Nat Geo channel adventure show. As he came nearer, Gethsemane noted the lack of a suntan to match his outdoorsman attire. His pale, smooth complexion suggested he spent more time in the spa than in nature.
Frankie muttered. Gethsemane caught the words, “gobshite” and “wanker”.
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
Frankie scowled.
The Dispatch photographer grasped the newcomer’s outstretched hand in both of his and pumped his arms hard enough to make his camera dance at the end of the strap around his neck. It would probably leave a bruise. He appeared to have forgotten the ‘Sandra Sechrest’ blossoms. “Mr. Jacobi, such an incredible honor to meet you, sir, an honor. I watch your garden show all the time. I met my wife at one of the presentations you gave at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“How romantic.” He spoke with a refined British accent. “Always a pleasure to meet a fan. Nothing compares to being out in the garden, does it?”
He extricated himself from the photographer’s grip without waiting for an answer and bowed theatrically to Gethsemane. “Roderick Jacobi, author of In a Rose Garden and Amazonia: A Horticulturalist Explores Culture.” He paused as if giving her a chance to fawn over him. She remained silent; she’d never heard of Jacobi or his books. He went on. “Pardon my bluntness in introducing myself but Mr. Grennan,” he jerked his head toward Frankie, “is loath to speak my name.”
“Granny warned me against speaking of the devil,” Frankie said.
“Gethsemane Brown.” She extended a hand, ignoring Roderick’s showy gesture.
“The renowned musician,” Roderick said. “Now I’m the one who’s honored. I hope we can look forward to a performance or two during the week’s festivities.”
“I’ll be conducting the Dunmullach Village Orchestra in Strauss’s ‘Roses from The South’ for the opening ceremony and performing a Prokofiev solo at the awards ceremony. The Prologue from ‘The Tale of the Stone Flower’,” she said.
“Beautiful music befitting a beautiful occasion. I look forward to hearing you perform. Particularly the Prokofiev.”
“A fan of Soviet music?” Roderick’s palm felt sweaty.
He laughed a theatrical peal. “I’ll be accepting the medal for best in show at the awards ceremony, so the Prokofiev will hold pleasant associations for me forever after.”
She looked back and forth between Roderick and Frankie. “They haven’t announced the winners of the rose show yet, have they?”
Frankie glared at Roderick. “Winners aren’t chosen until the end of the week.”
“But we both know who’s going to win, old boy. Don’t we?”
“I’m not your ‘old boy’.”
The photographer whispered to Gethsemane. “Roderick Jacobi’s won every major rose trial he’s entered. His hybrids are legend. And his cultivars?” He kissed his fingertips as if he were a chef describing the flavor of his signature dish.
Roderick leaned closer to Gethsemane and tightened his grasp on her hand. He lowered his voice. “Perhaps we could meet for a drink and discuss the inspiration behind your choice of music.” He dropped his voice another decibel. “I find the creative process—stimulating. I’d love to hear the back story.”
Gethsemane stepped back. “It’s a short story. Flash fiction, really. You wouldn’t have time to finish your drink before it ended. The president of the Dunmullach Amateur Rose Growers’ Society selected them. They were her mother’s favorites.”
Frankie cleared his throat. As Roderick turned, Gethsemane used the distraction to free her hand from his grip. She balled both hands in her pockets against the urge to wipe her palm on her skirt.
“I’m sorry, Grennan.” Roderick sounded anything but. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes. You and the maestra are—”
“Friends,” Frankie interjected. “We’re friends. And friends don’t let friends fall prey to womanizers with more ex-wives than Methuselah had years.”
“Only four exes, old boy, and one current.”
“I’m not your ‘old boy,’” Frankie said, “I told you.”
The Dispatch photographer produced a small notebook and pencil from a vest pocket and scribbled as he sidled closer to the two rosarians. Gethsemane glimpsed the word “feud” before he noticed her watching and shoved the notebook back into his pocket.
Gethsemane stepped between Frankie and Roderick as she addressed the photographer. “You’ve got both of the top contenders for ‘Best in Show’ standing here. What a perfect opportunity to get some shots of them together. I bet a photo of Mr. Grennan and Mr. Jacobi with the ‘Sandra Sechrest’ would look great on the front page of the Dispatch.”
The photographer scowled at Gethsemane but agreed to the pictures. Roderick and Frankie arranged themselves on either side of the rose bush.
“Top two contenders?” The slickest politician would have envied Roderick’s smile. “Are you being loyal, diplomatic, or are you actually following the competition?”
“I picked up the village scuttlebutt.” She’d earned the story from the local bookie in exchange for a couple of pints of Guinness at the Mad Rabbit. “Frankie’s ‘Sandra Sechrest’ and your ‘Lucia di Lammermoor’ have the best chance of winning the gold medal in the rose show. The only chance, really. None of the other entries come close. And odds are even on which of the two of you takes the prize.”
“Alas,” Roderick said, “only one of us can claim top spot.”
“I’m sure Frankie will be a gracious winner.” She winked at the math teacher. “Won’t you?”
Anger—fueled by hatred?—distorted Roderick’s face for an instant, replaced by a movie star smile as quickly as it appeared. “Loyalty is an admirable trait. But, then, you Americans do tend to favor the underdog, don’t you?”
“Probably because we were the underdog back in the seventeen hundreds.” An image of Captain Daniel Lochlan, an eighteenth-century sea captain whose ghost had helped clear her brother-in-law of murder and theft charges, popped into her head. Too bad the captain wasn’t here to remind Roderick Jacobi what a bunch of colonial upstarts with the odds against them had done to the British way back in the day. She disliked Roderick. Not just out of loyalty to Frankie or his lothario routine. Instinct told her this man would throw a small child under a bus then throw his mother under the bus after the kid if he thought doing so would win him an advantage.
Roderick ignored the gibe. Instead he asked, “Does your interest in gardens extend beyond the thrill of the competition? Has Grennan turned you into a budding rosarian?” He chuckled. Frankie rolled his eyes.
“No,” Gethsemane cringed at the memory of the defunct miniature rose, “I’m the grim reaper of the plant world. I limit my gardening to admiring those planted by others.”
The photographer interrupted to set up the shot. Frankie and Roderick flanked Frankie’s rose bush. Gethsemane sat on a garden bench and watched as the photographer snapped photos. Roderick, perfect teeth on full display in a smile that stopped just this side of cheesy, shifted poses with the grace of someone who lived in front of a camera. Poor Frankie. He looked almost as comfortable as a boy from the lower school standing in front of the classroom making his first public speech.
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