FATALITY IN F

by Alexia Gordon

“Yes, yes, well, I’m sure we’re all doing the best we can, under the circumstances. You may have been wondering about the status of the rose and garden show, in light of Mr. Jacobi’s tragic demise.”

  She hadn’t been, but…“The show’s been canceled?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Jane said. Gethsemane imagined her clutching her pearls in horror. “Quite the opposite. The society’s board of governors met this evening and decided the show would go on as planned.”

  “Not exactly as planned.” Unless the plan had included the death of a major competitor.

  “Well, no,” Jane conceded, “not exactly as planned. But go on, it will. In Roderick Jacobi’s honor, of course. We’ll dedicate the events to him. The board felt everyone had invested so much effort into their roses, denying them the chance to compete would compound the tragedy.”

  Compound it for the Rose Growers’ Society by forcing them to refund entry fees and reimburse sponsors. “What about Jacobi’s entry? Will it be pulled from the rose show?”

  “We thought allowing ‘Lucia di Lammermoor’ to remain in the trials would form a fitting tribute to Mr. Jacobi’s contributions to rose growing. His wife will accept the award in his place. Should he win, of course.”

  Should he win? Gethsemane laughed to herself. Jacobi’s death guaranteed his win on the sentimental vote. How could the judges vote against a top competitor murdered days before the competition without seeming ghoulish? Jacobi winning gold posthumously was a given.

  Jane was speaking about music. “So, I hope you’ll still be up to conducting. The opening ceremony is one of the highlights of the event.”

  “What? Yes, yes, sure.”

  “Wonderful. We’ve written a moving tribute to Mr. Jacobi. I’ll present it immediately after your performance. It will be beautiful.” She made the outcome seem as certain as Jacobi’s win. “I’m so glad you’re game to continue.” She ended the call.

  Gethsemane leaned back on the sofa and stared at her now-silent phone for a moment before looking up at Eamon. “That’s convenient.”

  “What’s convenient for whom?”

  “Not canceling the rose show and not pulling Jacobi’s entry are convenient for Mrs. Ellen Jacobi, now the grieving widow instead of the bitter, soon-to-be ex-wife. Her garden company is a major sponsor. She’d have lost a fortune if the competition had been canceled.”

  “And she’ll earn a fortune if her late husband’s rose wins. Which it will. Who’ll vote against a dead guy?”

  “I’ve met Ellen Jacobi. No doubt she’ll translate her widow’s weeds into free publicity and sympathy sales. Plus, she gets the prize money from Jacobi’s win and marketing rights to his rose. Plus, no messy divorce. Mrs. Jacobi has more motive to kill Roderick than Frankie and the Flower Shop copycat combined.”

  “May I suggest something?”

  “That I leave this to the gardaí?”

  “No, that you leave it until morning. Go to bed, sleep, wake up bright and early, and corner O’Reilly before he knows what hit him. I’ll even have coffee ready for ya.”

  “Do you keep a journal or a diary or some sort of calendar?”

  “Where, with my pocket knife in my non-existent pocket?”

  “Then you’ll just have to memorize this date and time. Because for the first time in the history of our relationship, I’m not going to argue with you. Goodnight.”

  Ten

  Gethsemane awoke early the next morning, well before bright, to pounding on her door. She tried to reconcile the noise with the time on her alarm clock—four thirty a.m.—but couldn’t reason why anyone in their right mind would be knocking at such a ridiculous hour nor why she’d get out of bed to admit anyone who wasn’t in their right mind.

  Unseen hands snatched her pillow and her covers. “It’s Grennan,” boomed an unseen Eamon. “Get up.”

  She tried to grab her covers, but they dangled out of reach. “You let him in.”

  “Fella’s been through enough without having to deal with the paranormal before coffee.”

  Her robe landed on her head.

  “Okay, okay, I’m up.” She shrugged on the robe and stumbled downstairs. She opened the door to a haggard Frankie. Dark circles engulfed his green eyes and his copper hair stood out in tufts as though he’d run both hands through it more than once. His khaki’s wrinkles had wrinkles and sported dirt stains on both knees.

  He leaned his head against the door frame. “May I come in?”

  “Before you fall in.” Gethsemane stepped aside so he could pass. “Let me guess, Inspector Sutton.” Memories of her own all-night interrogations at the garda station came back to her. She’d looked as bad afterwards.

  Frankie nodded. “I called Niall after we talked. He convinced me to come into the station. They let me go.”

  “Did you get to see Niall?”

  “Yeah. He’s the reason I’m not locked up without bail on homicide charges.” Frankie recapped what Niall had told her the day before. “He convinced his and Sutton’s boss that Sutton’s decision to limit his investigation to me was premature. Niall made a solid case for the mystery woman, the flower girl, killing Jacobi because of her deviant devotion to me. Whatever he said convinced the Superintendent of enough reasonable doubt to overrule Sutton and release me. Niall didn’t win any friends in homicide, though. Sutton hated having to spring me. Now he’ll have to do some actual work. And the Superintendent reprimanded Niall for straying out of his lane and interfering in Sutton’s case without authorization. She stuck him on desk duty and threatened to sack him if he did it again.” Frankie stifled a yawn.

  “Poor Niall. Poor you. I have to ask…” Ask what? Questions flooded her mind and competed for answers. Had Niall found something in the cold case files to conclusively link Frankie’s stalker to the Flower Shop Killer? Why had Frankie mentioned Yseult? Did she figure into the bad blood between Frankie and Jacobi led to their fight? Had the gardaí questioned Mrs. Jacobi? Did they know the Jacobi’s were headed for divorce? She looked at her friend slumped on the entry way bench, head in hands. Questions could wait. Except one. “Do you want the sofa or the spare bedroom?”

  “Any chance of a hot shower first? I must smell as special as I look.”

  “No, you look worse. Bathroom’s upstairs. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks. I apologize for showing up unannounced at this ungodly hour. I couldn’t face the thought of Erasmus Hall after a night at the garda station.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ve been where you are more than once.” She held out her hand. “Loan me your keys and I’ll run over to your place for a change of clothes.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. It’s four thirty.”

  “It’s the least I can do for a guy who’s smuggled me out of a hospital, broken and entered into a dead man’s apartment with me, and feigned an interest in fashion for me. Keys.”

  Frankie handed her his ring.

  “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home. Oh, and if you hear any strange noises—”

  “What kind of strange noises?”

  Gethsemane shrugged. “Knocks, bangs, creaks, groans, disembodied voices, phantom footsteps, remember it’s an old house. It’s just settling.” She glimpsed Eamon from the corner of her eye. “Just kidding about the voices and footsteps. It’s not like the place is haunted.”

  “You’re going out like that?” Frankie asked as she reached the door. “In your kerchief and robe?”

  Oops. Her hand flew to the silk scarf covering her hair. She shrugged. “It’s dark. No one will see me.”

  Eleven

  The night sky had lightened with the first hints of sunrise but the campus still slept when Gethsemane pulled up in front of Erasmus Hall. She crept along the hallway to Frankie’s rooms, careful not to make noise. She’d never live it down if someone caught her in her colleague’s apartment in her paja
mas. Working in darkness, she located a duffel bag and stuffed it with clothes and a dopp kit. She searched for anything else Frankie might need when her gaze landed on the view through Frankie’s window. Crime scene tape cordoned off his garden. The shapes of individual plants became more distinct in the early morning light. She squinted. Had one of the shapes—she went closer to the window—moved? She dropped the bag and pressed her forehead against the window. There it was again. Definite movement. Not one of the plants, a person. Gethsemane rushed out of the apartment, not caring who she woke up. By the time she arrived in the garden, it lay still again. Whoever she saw had gone. She ran to the parking lot but saw only cars. She returned to the garden. A quick search under rose bushes and the bird bath failed to turn up any bouquets. She spied something protruding from underneath the base of a small statue of Copernicus. She tipped the statue to get a better look. A card with a colored pencil drawing of a floral arrangement peered up at her. She reached for her phone then cursed herself for having left it on her bedside table. She hesitated, then slipped the card into her pocket. She ran back to Frankie’s apartment, grabbed the bag she’d packed, and rushed back to Carraigfaire.

  “Tampering with evidence?” Eamon pointed at the coffee pot. It levitated to the kitchen table and poured steaming, rich, dark liquid into Gethsemane’s cup.

  She added cream and sugar. “What was I supposed to do? Leave the card? I couldn’t take a picture and I knew I wouldn’t be able to reproduce the drawing.”

  “I’m not criticizing. I’m impressed. Why do I bother to make coffee if you insist on adulterating it?”

  “I like cream and sugar. You do coffee your way, I’ll do it mine.” She took a long sip. “Frankie’s still asleep?”

  “Like the dead.”

  “Which gives me time to decipher the flower message on that card before I call Niall to find out what he told Sutton’s team about the flower lady.”

  “And tell him you removed evidence from a crime scene?”

  “I’ll assume that was rhetorical. Hand me The Language of Flowers, please.” She lay the card on the table next to the book. “This would be easier if I knew one flower from another.” She pointed to drawings of a cheerful blossom whose white petals surrounded its yellow center like a lion’s mane and similarly shaped flower with yellow petals and black center. “I do recognize daisy and black-eyed Susan. According to the book they symbolize innocence and justice.”

  The chair across from her slid back from the kitchen table. Eamon sat, the woven pattern of the chair’s cane back barely visible through his chest. He tapped a finger through the card. “That’s mullein, the one with the cluster of tiny yellow flowers and thick green leaves. My grandmother used it to treat coughs and fever.”

  “Mullein, mullein…” Gethsemane turned pages. “Mullein. ‘Take courage.’ Nothing to do with coughs or fever.”

  “I don’t know. Back in the day, if you had a cough and fever, courage was about the only thing you could take.”

  “What are these tiny white flowers on a branch? They remind me of a van Gogh painting.”

  “Almond blossoms.”

  “Hope. And this last one? The perky red? It’s not a poppy.”

  The answer came from over her shoulder. “It’s an anemone.”

  Gethsemane jumped at the sound of Frankie’s voice, nearly upsetting her coffee cup. Eamon erupted in a throaty laugh. Gethsemane remembered Frankie couldn’t see or hear ghosts just in time to bite back her retort. She hid her expression in the book. “Anemone symbolizes truth.”

  Frankie walked around the table and sat in the chair opposite her—right through Eamon. Eamon sputtered and swore. Gethsemane pretended to drop her spoon and dove under the table to hide her silent laughter. When she sat upright, Frankie was studying the card. Eamon had translocated to the kitchen counter where he leaned into the sink.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Did you draw it?”

  “Nope. Found it in your garden when I went to pick up your clothes. Tucked under Copernicus.”

  He tugged at the John Coltrane t-shirt. “Thanks for doing that, by the way. I know you’re not a morning person. Packing a bag for a fella at oh-dark-thirty before you’ve had so much as a cup of coffee is a sign of true friendship.”

  Gethsemane waved the remark away. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better than last night. The guards were relentless. A dog with a bone would be no match. Mind if I help myself to coffee?”

  “Drink up. Do I have to wait until after your first cup to ask about your fight with Jacobi?”

  “Why don’t you tell me how you happened to find a picture of posies underneath a statue? By that time, I’ll have finished this.” He raised his cup.

  “I looked out the window in your apartment and saw a figure moving around in your garden. I ran outside but by the time I got there, the figure was gone and the card was there.”

  “You presumed this figure was my secret admirer.”

  “I upgraded her to stalker.”

  “You convinced a garda inspector to upgrade her to murderer. And you ran after her in the dark in your bathrobe. Did you at least grab something you could use to defend yourself with? In the event you’d actually caught up with her?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Eamon said.

  Gethsemane glared at him. Frankie turned to see what she was looking at.

  “Nothing. Thought I saw a rat scurry by.” Eamon made a face. Gethsemane continued. “I didn’t have time to come up with a carefully crafted plan or hunt for defensive weapons. I wanted to at least get a glimpse of the flower lady. I’ve had no luck finding a clue to her identity.”

  Frankie reversed the card to its plain white back then turned it over to the flower drawing again. “Is this a clue?”

  “The flowers, daisy, black-eyed Susan, mullein, almond blossom, and anemone, mean innocence, justice, take courage, hope, and truth. Which suggests the flower lady believes in you.”

  “Because she killed Jacobi herself.”

  “Which means she’s not likely to go to the guards and tell them why she knows our man didn’t do it,” Eamon said. “We’ll have to find some other way to clear him.”

  Gethsemane peered into Frankie’s coffee cup. Only a trace of brown liquid remained. “Your turn. Why do you hate—did you hate—Roderick Jacobi?”

  “Present tense is fine. I still hate him, I don’t care if he is dead.” Frankie poured a second cup and sipped it before continuing. “I hate Roderick Jacobi because he slept with my wife.”

  “With Yseult?”

  “Fortunately, I have only had one wife. He and Yseult had an affair. Yseult was in Manaus, authenticating some documents for the Museum of Natural Sciences. Jacobi was meeting with doctors at the university hospital, trying to sell them on participating in clinical trials for one of the drugs he’d developed from a medicinal plant he’d discovered in the rainforest.” Frankie sipped more coffee. “Discovered is the wrong word. Stole from a traditional healer whose ancestors had been using it for eons is more accurate. The affair continued after they left Brazil. They were at it for almost a year before I wised up.”

  “Is that what led to your divorce? The affair?”

  “It didn’t help matters. But I might have forgiven Yseult, I could have forgiven her for cheating on me, if she’d left it at that. If she’d cheated out of boredom or anger, we could have worked through it. Even if she’d cheated because she’d fallen in love with Jacobi. I would’ve understood and forgiven her and tried to win her back. But she betrayed me because she was greedy. She didn’t feel for Jacobi any more than she felt for me. The only thing she loved, the only thing she’s capable of loving, is money.”

  Having dealt with Yseult, Gethsemane didn’t doubt Frankie’s assertion. “What’d she do?”

  “She stole two of my roses, hybrids I’d spent three years
developing. She stole the roses, rootstock and all, as well as the notes and photographs that proved I developed them, and gave everything to Jacobi for a promise of a share of the profits if he commercialized them. Which he did. Without the notes and the photos, I had no way to fight back. I hadn’t entered the roses in any shows, so they had no public association with my name.”

  “I’m so sorry, Frankie. That must have cost you a fortune.”

  “I developed the plants out of a love for roses, not a desire for profit. Which is why I couldn’t forgive Yseult. She was the love of my life, my everything, but I was nothing more to her than a get rich scheme. Not that Jacobi represented anything more, either. A chance for Yseult to cash in. It’s ironic Yseult’s scheme introduced Jacobi to Ellen, née Lowery. Yseult and Jacobi needed her. Ellen inherited her garden business from her father so she had the resources and the facilities to turn my hobby roses into Jacobi’s commercial success.”

  “Why ironic?”

  “Because Jacobi dumped Yseult for Ellen. Ellen is as greedy and ruthless as Yseult. She saw the opportunity to revitalize and expand her business and turn Jacobi into a brand. And she was smart enough to get a marriage certificate before she cut Jacobi in on any deals. Yseult, on the other hand, wasn’t quick enough to get a divorce from me before handing over the roses to Jacobi. Once he and Ellen had control of the plants and the documentation, Yseult found herself out in the cold.”

  “So Jacobi cost you a wife and a fortune. That does give you a motive to kill him,” Gethsemane said. “Not that I believe for a second you did it. But I can understand why Inspector Sutton might not be so charitable.”

  “Especially after that wanker photographer told Sutton about the fight I had with Jacobi. I may have actually used the words, ‘I’ll kill you’ once or twice during the course of the discussion.”

  “Frankie…”

  “I know, I know. The likelihood someone will overhear you threaten another man’s life is directly proportional to the likelihood that man will actually end up murdered at a time when you have no alibi.”