“What do you think about getting a few shots in front of those flowers over there?” the photographer pointed at an accent garden blooming with fuchsia and lilies.
The mention of the other flowers reminded Gethsemane she’d promised to go back to the village to find out who’d left the bouquet on Frankie’s car.
She called to Frankie. “Hey, I’ve got to run. I’m going to—” She glimpsed Roderick from the corner of her eye. Something about his expression made her not want to tell him what she was up to. “I’ll call you later.” She excused herself and grabbed her bike.
Three
A ten-minute bike ride brought her back to the village square. She leaned the Pashley against a nearby tree and surveyed the parking lot and sidewalk near the Buds of May flower shop. People going about their business on a pleasant July afternoon. No oddly-dressed characters skulking around with bouquets.
“Boo.”
She jumped before her brain registered who owned the familiar baritone. Inspector Niall O’Reilly of the Dunmullach Garda smiled a dimpled grin. “Not laughing,” she said.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Niall chuckled. “Well, yeah, I did. I waved to you from across the square but you didn’t notice me. What’re you so intent on? Lose an earring?”
Her hands flew reflexively to her earlobes. Both pearl studs, gifts from her late paternal grandfather when she graduated from Vassar, remained in place. “I was looking for Frankie’s secret admirer.” She described the incident with the flowers on Frankie’s windshield and the strange customer who’d nearly run her over at the flower shop.
“Someone sweet on Frankie? Hope they know what they’re getting after, Frankie being a temperamental fella.” The math teacher had a reputation for blowing hot and cold, misanthrope one day, merry prankster the next. “You don’t expect to find them hanging about the car park, do you, out in the open, waiting to be identified? You’ve snooped enough to know better than that.”
“I don’t snoop. I investigate.” The darkening hue of Niall’s storm gray eyes prompted amendment of her statement, “When the situation calls for it. Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of it?”
Niall hesitated a moment before waving the question away. “Nah. ’T wouldn’t do any good. I may be a dumb guard but I’m not so thick I’m incapable of figuring out that the words, ‘no,’ ‘don’t,’ and ‘can’t,’ fuel your determination. Besides, we’re talking about flowers, not a dead body.” He frowned. “We’re not talking about a dead body, are we?”
“No one’s been murdered.” She ignored the “yet,” accompanied by a few bars of “Pathétique,” her internal early warning system, that popped into her head. “And congratulations on only taking,” she counted on her fingers, “nine months to realize I don’t follow orders.”
“Please consider what I’m about to say as a suggestion. An investigative tip. Go talk to the florist. She’ll remember who she sold the flowers to if you describe the bouquet.”
“My next step. Want to tag along and watch me investigate?”
“Watch you snoop when there’s no danger of burning, drowning, strangulation, or poisoning? Wouldn’t miss it.” He gestured toward the flower shop. “After you.”
They crossed the street. Gethsemane paused on the threshold of the shop and studied Niall as he held the door. A healthy pink colored his cheeks and his salt-and-pepper hair glinted in the sun.
“What?” he asked
“Just glad to see you back to your old self. Thought I’d lost you and Frankie.”
“Truth be told, I thought so, too. ’Twas a bad dose, that. Don’t recall ever being brought so low, not even when I had the flu. Think the doctors will ever sort out what caused it?”
Would medical science ever figure out that the epidemic they attributed to, variously, a virus, a prion, a rare bacteria, and environmental contaminants had actually been caused by a supernatural agent bent on revenge? Doubtful. She shrugged. “I’ll let you in on a secret my mother told me.” Her psychiatrist mother often revealed medicine’s “little secrets” to her. “Doctors never figure out what causes a lot of illnesses. Which doesn’t stop them from labeling them with complex-sounding names that lend themselves to the formation of catchy acronyms.” She stepped past him into the shop.
Alexandra looked up from a miniature topiary she’d been clipping into shape. “Hello, again. Brought another plant in need of resurrection?”
“No,” Gethsemane said. “This time I brought a garda and some questions.”
“Sounds serious.” Alexandra laid her clippers on the counter and greeted Niall. “You’re not here for your daisies then?”
“Daisies?” Gethsemane eyed the inspector. He’d never mentioned ordering flowers on a regular basis. Not that it was her business. “You don’t look like a daisy man. I picture you more as an exotic succulent fan.” Who was he sending flowers to? Asking directly might seem…She let the thought trail off. “Unless you’re ordering them for your cat.”
“If that’s your way of asking if I have a secret girlfriend stashed somewhere, no, I don’t,” Niall said. “I send daisies to my baby sister once a month. Have for years. Ever since I left home for university. Dad had died and she was afraid I was going away and never coming back, either.”
So much for subtle. She must remember she was talking to a cop. “That’s sweet.”
Niall spoke to Alexandra. “This isn’t a criminal investigation. Just a few questions about someone you sold some flowers to.”
Gethsemane took over. “The person who almost knocked me down when I was here earlier. With the hat.”
“Aye, a queer hawk, that one. Hardly spoke a word. Wouldn’t look me in the eye.”
“Could you tell if they were male or female?”
“A bure,” Alexandra said.
“What was her name?” Gethsemane asked.
The florist shrugged. “Didn’t give a name.”
“She must’ve given a name when she placed her order. Frankie told me you don’t keep bouquets with uncommon varieties ready-made in the shop.” She took a better look at the bins filled with flower arrangements than she had earlier. Carnations, roses, and tulips predominated, just as Frankie’d said.
“The woman only picked up the order,” Alexandra said. “It was placed online, through a business account. Pre-paid.”
“But you’re sure it was a woman?”
“Aye.” Alexandra glanced back and forth between Gethsemane and Niall. “You’re sure this isn’t a criminal investigation?”
Gethsemane reassured her. “She left the bouquet on Frankie’s car but didn’t sign her name. He wants to thank her. The flowers were gorgeous.”
“Well-chosen, too,” Alexandra said. “Doesn’t surprise me someone who speaks the language of flowers wouldn’t reveal her name. ’T would spoil the fun.”
“Language of flowers?” Gethsemane frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Every flower has a symbolic meaning. Well, maybe not every flower, but many do. Like in Hamlet, when Ophelia says, ‘Here’s rosemary, that’s for’—”
“Remembrance,” Niall cut in. His interruption earned a smile from the florist. He continued, “There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you and here’s some for me.”
“Fennel symbolizes infidelity; columbine, flattery and insincerity; and rue, regret. You can put several flowers together, based on their symbolic meanings, and spell out a coded message. If you gave someone a bouquet of rosemary, fennel, columbine, and rue, you’d be accusing them of insincere flattery and infidelity and telling them you regret knowing them, or you regret what’s happened between you, and to remember you.”
“Because you’re about to drown yourself,” Gethsemane said. “Charming.”
“Shakespearean,” Niall said.
Gethsemane pictured the flowers in
the bouquet left on Frankie’s car. “What do roses, tulips, chrysanthemums, honey flower, and motherwort spell out?”
“They spell ‘odd taste in floral arrangements,’” Niall suggested.
“Your floral expertise extends beyond daisies?” Gethsemane asked.
“I’ve sent my fair share of flowers.” The pink in Niall’s cheeks deepened to red. “By way of apology, mostly.”
Alexandra laughed. “Let’s see if I can remember. Roses signify love, of course. Red roses mean passionate love, in particular. Tulips, red, perfect love. Honey flower and motherwort, both mean secret love and chrysanthemum signifies truth.”
“Meaning our mystery woman harbors a true, perfect, passionate, secret love for Frankie,” Gethsemane said. “Any ideas? What’s the gossip from the Rabbit?” The Mad Rabbit, the village pub, served as much gossip as Guinness.
“You know as well as I do,” Niall said, “that if you want to keep something secret you don’t discuss it at the Rabbit. You don’t even think about it too hard.”
“True.” Gethsemane pictured St. Brennan’s female faculty. There weren’t many—fewer than seven, in addition to herself and the Latin teacher. “No one at school seemed that far gone.” Luckily, St. Brennan’s only enrolled boys. A female student in love with Frankie wouldn’t bode well. Not with a scandal-averse headmaster and conservative major donors.
“Maybe someone at Our Lady,” Niall said. “Frankie’s a regular.” The math teacher attended mass at the parish church, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, almost every Sunday and Wednesday. “He gives lectures on rose-growing to the church garden guild. Which is full of unattached females.”
“Most of whom are old enough to be Frankie’s grandmother. Not that older women can’t have the hots for red-headed rosarians but the woman who rushed past me didn’t seem elderly. Not the way she moved.”
“If I had to guess,” Alexandra said, “I’d put her in her late-twenties, early thirties.”
“A younger woman,” Gethsemane said. Frankie, like Niall, was past forty. As she would be in a couple of years. “Where would she have met Frankie? Church, or…hey, what about that jazz-lover’s society he belongs to?”
“Wouldn’t a fellow jazz lover leave music instead of flowers?” Niall asked.
“You come up with a theory, then.”
Voices from the doorway intruded on the discussion. Two men, one tall and broad, the other short but equally broad, argued their way into the shop.
“Absurd!” the taller man shouted. “Absurd, I’m telling you. They’ll never accept that.”
“Calm down, Murdoch.” The shorter man glanced at Gethsemane, Niall, and Alexandra. “We’ll see what they say at the board meeting next week. You’d be surprised what people will agree to if you put the proper spin on it.”
“May I help you?” Alexandra asked the newcomers.
The tall man, Murdoch, pushed between Gethsemane and Niall. He ran a meaty hand through mouse-brown hair then plopped his elbows on the counter. He peered over wire-rimmed glasses and boomed down at Alexandra, “Floral foam.”
The florist stepped back. “Sir?”
“Floral foam. I ordered two cases.” He spoke in a flat, Midwestern American accent. “Murdoch Collins.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Collins.” Alexandra nodded recognition. “It’s in the back.” She excused herself and disappeared behind swinging doors that separated the showroom from the area of the shop not open to the public.
No one spoke. The shorter man roamed among the display stands, pausing occasionally to sneer at a bouquet. Murdoch drummed fat fingers on the counter; the random taps morphed into a rhythmic pattern. His immaculate fingernails—trimmed even and buffed smooth by a fifty-dollar manicure—seemed out of place with hair that protruded from his scalp at odd angles, a short-sleeved shirt patterned with geometric shapes borrowed from the 1980s, and khakis so wrinkled even Frankie would have been embarrassed. They also seemed out of place with an order for floral foam. Too perfect. Not one chipped nail, not a speck of dirt or fleck of green.
Murdoch stopped drumming. He frowned at Gethsemane and shoved his hand in his pocket.
“Here for the garden show?” she asked.
The three men started at the sudden break in silence.
“What?” Murdoch asked.
Gethsemane repeated her question. “I overheard you asking for floral foam.”
“Not for me,” he said. “For Mr. Jacobi. Roderick Jacobi. You will, of course, have heard of him if you’re following the rose show.”
“I met him a little while ago. He crashed my friend, Frankie Grennan’s, photoshoot. You’ll, of course, have heard of Frankie Grennan if you’re following the rose show.”
Murdoch snorted. His companion sidled between him and Gethsemane and introduced himself in German-accented English. “Karl Dietrich. And you are Dr. Gethsemane Brown.”
“Should I be flattered or frightened that you know my name?” She shook his hand. Calluses and chipped nails accompanied a firm grasp. Dirt stained the elbow of one shirt sleeve.
“Not frightened. I’m a long-time fan, ever since I heard you perform Stravinsky with the Cleveland Symphony.”
“Definitely flattered,” she said.
“Rumor has it, you gave up music after the—incident—in Dallas. Does your turning up in a,” Karl paused to look out the window, “quaint village in the wilds of Ireland mean the rumors are true?”
“She’s hardly in the back of beyond,” Niall interjected. “We’ve got electricity, running water, and, next week, they’re installing indoor plumbing.”
Gethsemane bit her cheek to keep from laughing.
Karl bowed his head toward Niall. “Please don’t take offense, Mr…”
“O’Reilly. Inspector O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly,” Karl continued. “I’m sure your village is charm incarnate. However, it is an unusual spot for a world-class, African-American, classical musician to turn up.”
He didn’t know the half of it. “Dunmullach’s an out of the way spot to run into a fan,” she said aloud, “but I’m always happy to meet one. I haven’t given up music.” She’d given up plenty—home, family, fiancé, flashy career—but not music. “I’ve only given up touring. For now.”
“Dr. Brown’s the music director at our boys’ school,” Niall said. “Led the fellas to victory in the All-County Competition last fall.”
Karl’s expression suggested he thought that was also quaint. Niall’s expression suggested he was not a fan of Karl’s. Gethsemane jumped in. “You’re here for the rose show.”
“Yes,” Karl said. “Partly, yes. I’m not so much here for myself as I am for Mr. Jacobi. I’m his chief botanist.”
“Chief botanist?” Gethsemane raised an eyebrow. Frankie didn’t have a botanist. “Is that allowed? Don’t the competitors have to develop their own hybrids? Or cultivate them or whatever you call it?”
“Of course, they must do their own work,” Karl said, “but they are allowed to consult others for advice and assistance. I’m sure your Mr. Grennan sought help once or twice.”
Frankie had relied on the school gardener and some of the students to tend his garden while he recovered. Not the same as hiring a plant scientist. “He doesn’t have a botanist on staff,” she said aloud.
Karl chuckled. “You misunderstand. Mr. Jacobi didn’t hire me for the competition. He’s a skilled horticulturalist, himself. The few merit trial-related questions he had for me could have been managed with a phone call rather than a paycheck. I’m the chief botanist with Mr. Jacobi’s pharmaceutical firm, Avar. I investigate the potential medical uses of a variety of plants. I specialize in the ethnobotany of indigenous rainforest populations, particularly in the Amazon basin region.”
Murdoch clapped Karl on the shoulder. The shorter man staggered forward and grabbed the counter, just m
issing Gethsemane. “Karl does Jacobi’s dirty work, don’t you Karl?” He clapped him on the other shoulder.
Karl rubbed his arm and inched away from his companion. “Mr. Collins is attempting humor by making a very old and very bad gardening joke.”
“What do you do for Mr. Jacobi, Mr. Collins?” Gethsemane noted the difference in the two men’s manicures. Whatever Murdoch did, manual labor wasn’t part of the job.
“I’m the Chief Operating Officer of Avar Pharmaceuticals.”
“And chief errand boy,” Niall muttered as Alexandra pushed through the swinging doors, arms full of boxes.
“Here’s your foam.”
A look from Karl to Murdoch cut off the tall man’s retort. He paid Alexandra for the floral foam and headed for the door. He spoke without looking back. “C’mon Karl, we’ve got that conference call with Geneva.”
Karl bobbed his head toward Niall and Alexandra and shook Gethsemane’s hand again. “An honor to meet you. Will I have the good fortune to hear you perform while I’m in Dunmullach?”
“You will if you come to the opening or awards ceremonies.” She told him her schedule.
“Karl!” Murdoch bellowed from outside.
“Please excuse me.” Karl bobbed his head again and hurried out.
“You met this Jacobi character?” Niall asked Gethsemane as the door shut behind Karl.
“He didn’t impress me. Came across as arrogant. And smarmy. And phony.” She described the contrast between his outdoor adventure wardrobe and his never-sees-the-sun complexion. “Frankie despises him. Called him a gobshite.”
“Grennan’s not afraid of a little competition, is he?”
“I don’t think the animosity has anything to do with the rose trials. I got the impression the hatred ran deep. Jacobi knows how Frankie feels about him. He made a joke of it.”
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