FATALITY IN F

by Alexia Gordon

  “No one saw you up at Golgotha?”

  “Nary a soul. That’s kind of the point of growing roses way out there. One thing I learned from Yseult is the value of keeping things secret.”

  Gethsemane picked up the card. “Our best chance of clearing you is throwing Sutton the flower lady as a bone. Ellen Jacobi has motive, too, but I don’t know if we can tie her to the crime scene. We have proof the flower lady was there.”

  “Tie her to the crime scene?” Frankie and Eamon said simultaneously. “Don’t you sound the right Nancy Drew?”

  Frankie’s raised hand stopped her rejoinder. “I know, I know. You’re trying to help. You’re a good and loyal friend who can’t stand to see anyone railroaded. But please be careful. Between poisonings and stabbings and strangulations and epidemics, we don’t need to add another tragedy to the roster.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Eamon rolled his eyes. She ignored him and stood. “Make yourself at home,” she told Frankie.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “The garda station to see Niall.” She pushed the flower card toward Frankie. “I won’t tell him about that, since, number one, my fingerprints are all over it and, number two, removing evidence is probably a crime—”

  “Definitely a crime,” mathematician and ghost said together.

  “But I’ll tell him about seeing the figure in the garden and find out if he discovered any link between anyone in the village now and anyone involved in the Flower Shop Killer investigation back in the sixties. I also have to do a run through of Prokofiev at the Athaneum. Since the show is going to go on, I want to be prepared. I won’t be back for a while.”

  Frankie tossed her his keys. “Make life easy, take my car.”

  “How will you get around?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take you up on your offer of hospitality and lay low out here for a while. I’ll spruce up your garden for ya.”

  “I don’t have a garden,” she said.

  “You used to. I can see from the upstairs window where the plot was laid out. If you’ve got some half-decent garden tools around—”

  “In the lighthouse,” Eamon said.

  “In the lighthouse,” Gethsemane repeated for Frankie’s hearing.

  “I’ll see if I can begin to restore her to something of her former glory. It’ll keep my mind off of…things.”

  “Have at. And thanks for the car.”

  Gethsemane turned into the parking lot next to the sign announcing “Dunmullach Garda” and navigated Frankie’s car into the space farthest away from the grim building that housed the village’s law enforcement. She took out her phone and re-read the text from Niall: Car park. Fifteen minutes. She looked at her watch. Two minutes to wait. She hummed the melody from The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” She spotted the inspector walking toward her from the station, a large envelope clasped under his arm. He opened the passenger door of Frankie’s car and climbed in beside her.

  “Here.” He handed her the envelope. “Sorry about the cloak and dagger bit. I’m supposed to be chained to a desk.”

  “Frankie told me what you did for him. I’m sorry you got into trouble for helping a friend.” She held up the envelope. “What’s this?”

  “The Flower Shop Killer files.”

  She tore open the envelope and peered inside. “That’s it?” The entire contents consisted of a stack of documents a few inches thick and several photographs.

  “There wasn’t much. That and a few dried flowers, which I left in the evidence room. How’s Frankie?”

  “Worried. Angry. Depressed. Happy not to be locked up. The same way I felt after being released on the numerous occasions I was hauled into that place,” she pointed at the station, “for questioning.”

  “Have to admit, it’s odd seeing someone other than you in one of our interrogation rooms in connection with a murder case. Your name’s written on one of the chairs.”

  She hit his arm with the envelope.

  “Hey,” he laughed. “Assaulting an officer’s a crime. And I’m not kidding about your name. Some wiseacre wrote it on one of the chairs with a black marker. Spelled ‘Gethsemane’ wrong, though.”

  “Police humor.” She rolled her eyes. “Hysterical.” She sorted through the photos. Exterior shots of an unassuming house on an unremarkable street in an average neighborhood. Flowers in planters flanked the front door, a squat car with rounded edges sat in the drive. She held up the photo and looked closely at the car. “Is that a Ford?”

  Niall took the photo. “A Cortina. Ford had a motor plant in Cork until the 1980s.”

  Gethsemane looked through more photos. One made her wince—a woman lay face-down, the blood-stained tears in her dress made it clear she’d been stabbed. “I’ve seen more than my share of dead bodies by now but seeing her lying there…” Gethsemane shook her head and went onto the next photo.

  A man in shirt sleeves lay in a similar pose with similar wounds in his back. Most of the rest of the photos featured the unfortunate couple pictured from a variety of angles. They lay in their parlor, she near the fireplace, he near the door. Dozens of flower blossoms, all stemless, surrounded each body as if some maniacal flower girl had gotten carried away at a wedding. A lush bouquet filled a vase near the man’s foot.

  “The names of the flowers are written on the back.” Niall reached and turned the photo over.

  “Camellia, cherry blossom, carnation, chrysanthemum.”

  “We need Ms. Sexton here to translate.”

  “No, we don’t.” She pulled The Language of Flowers from her bag. “I’ve got her book.” She opened it to camellia. “My destiny is in your hands.”

  “A profound statement for such a delicate flower.”

  “Cherry blossom—impermanence. Carnation. Hmm. Carnations mean a lot of things. Depends on the color.”

  “The ones in the photo have pink stripes.”

  “So they mean ‘let me go, I cannot live without you.’”

  “The chrysanthemums are yellow. Does that matter?”

  Gethsemane turned to chrysanthemum. “Yes. According to the book, yellow chrysanthemums stand for slighted love.”

  “Impermanence, slighted love, my destiny is in your hands, let me go, I cannot live without you. Does sound a bit Shakespearean, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds like a message an obsessed, psychotic murderer might leave.” She traded the photos for the papers. “Anything in these?”

  “Crime scene reports, witness statements. Not many of those. The neighbor, the florist, the lad who picked up the flowers.”

  “Speaking of which.” Gethsemane told him about Oona at the laundry. “She couldn’t tell me any more about the woman who paid her to pick up the flowers—” She sorted through papers until she found the boy’s statement that was only two paragraphs. “—than the boy could say about the woman who paid him. Oona got a better deal. Five euros.”

  “Oona, a juvenile, at the laundry may be a material witness in a murder case. As soon as you discovered this lead you did the responsible thing and informed one of the investigating officers, of course.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Niall.”

  “Sutton and the other fellas working Jacobi’s case need to know about the girl.”

  “I’m not talking to Sutton even if he ties me to that chair with my name on it. Besides, I’ve already shared the information with law enforcement. You’re a garda and I told you. I’ve done my civic duty. You tell Sutton.”

  “I’m persona non grata with the homicide unit right now. They can be a bit territorial—more than a bit—and Sutton, especially, didn’t appreciate me bollixing their case against Frankie by offering up an equally viable suspect. He put on a holy show when Superintendent Feeney agreed with me.” Niall chuckled. “It helped that I let the Super win at poker last week.”<
br />
  “Her poker winnings didn’t keep her from threatening to fire you for—what? Doing your colleague’s job for him?”

  “For overstepping my bounds without clearing it with her first. Superintendent Feeney doesn’t like dissention in the ranks and she doesn’t like to be the last one to know what’s going on. Don’t worry, I’ll let her win next week’s poker game again.”

  Movement near the station caught Gethsemane’s attention. “Hey, I know those two.” She pointed at a Mutt-and-Jeff duo standing by the station’s main entrance. “Murdoch Collins and Karl Dietrich. They work for Jacobi’s pharmaceutical company. What are they arguing about?” Karl waggled his finger under Murdoch’s nose while the taller man waved his arms over Karl’s head.

  She’d climbed halfway out of the car before Niall finished saying, “You’re going to find out, aren’t you?”

  “C’mon.” She motioned to him to hurry. “Maybe you’ll learn something else you can offer up to your poker buddy.”

  Twelve

  Gethsemane wove through the station parking lot, keeping vehicles between herself and the arguing men. Not that they’d have noticed her. The intensity of their debate consumed their focus.

  “Jacobi’s death changes nothing!” Karl shouted.

  “The board may feel otherwise. In fact, I’m confident they’ll see this my way.”

  “What have you done, Murdoch?” Karl drew himself up on his tiptoes and brought his face even with the taller man’s. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ll let this drop!”

  “Keep your voice down.” Murdoch glanced around the parking lot. Gethsemane ducked behind a panel truck. “Do you want the whole world to know our business?”

  “Whole world? We’re stuck in an Irish backwater waiting for some pompous garden enthusiasts,” Karl sneered when he said the word, “to pin a ribbon on some amateur hybrids and hobby gardens. No one out here has the capacity to understand the significance of what I’m saying even if they overheard me.”

  “Amateur hybrids and hobby gardens.” Murdoch smirked. “Your true nature emerges. Botany snob.”

  Karl balled his hands into fists. “You fat, greedy, cheating—”

  Niall motioned to Gethsemane to stay put behind the panel truck and stepped between the two men. “Is anything the matter, sir?” he asked Karl.

  Murdoch reached around Niall and clapped Karl on the shoulder. “Nothing at all, nothing at all. Just discussing a few business matters, right, Karl?”

  Karl mumbled something Gethsemane couldn’t hear. She leaned around the panel truck.

  “I’m sorry if we caused a disturbance, sir,” Murdoch continued.

  Gethsemane joined Niall. “Mr. Dietrich, Mr. Collins. How are you? All right, I hope, considering you’re heading into the garda station.”

  “We were summoned by someone named Sutton,” Karl said, “to answer questions about Mr. Jacobi.”

  “Inspector Sutton is in charge of the investigation into Roderick Jacobi’s passing,” Niall said.

  “You mean his murder,” Murdoch corrected.

  “And you, Doctor Brown? You’re here to answer the Inspector’s questions, too?” Karl asked.

  She had promised Sutton a formal statement. But, seeing as he attempted to pin the crime on her friend, she’d let him wait. Or wait until he came after her. “I’m here to see Inspector O’Reilly.”

  “Not about another murder, I hope,” Karl said.

  “No, at least not a recent one. Inspector O’Reilly specializes in cold cases.”

  “You gentlemen should go inside now. Inspector Sutton’s not the most patient garda on the force.”

  “We apologize, again, for creating a disturbance,” Murdoch said.

  Niall pointed up the stairs. “Homicide’s on the second floor.”

  Murdoch and Karl disappeared inside the building.

  “I wouldn’t recommend going after them,” Niall said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not that foolhardy.”

  “Have you given Sutton a statement?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to make him work for it.” She looked at Niall and facepalmed. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’re on his team.”

  “Just this once, I’ll pretend I’m not. I’ll even do you a favor.” He flashed his notebook. “You can give me your statement and I’ll pass it on to Sutton.”

  “You’ll be doing me and Sutton a favor. He doesn’t want to see me anymore than I want to see him.”

  “That’s probably true.” Niall jerked his head toward Roasted, the coffee shop across the street. “Had breakfast?”

  “I had coffee with Frankie.”

  “So the answer is no.”

  “Coffee’s breakfast.”

  Niall cringed. “Only in America and you’re not in America. C’mon.”

  They crossed the street to the popular coffee spot and joined the line at the counter. Morning rush had started, about half the tables were already occupied. People chatted, read, or tapped on phone screens as steam rose from oversized coffee mugs and the smell of cinnamon muffins filled the air.

  “Any idea what you’re having?” Niall asked.

  “Large caramel latte.”

  “There are, like, fifty drinks on that menu.” He gestured toward the over-sized chalkboard hung on the wall behind the counter. “How do you decide what to get so quickly?”

  “I know what I like.”

  “I like tea, but they refuse to serve Bewley’s.” Niall wrinkled his nose. “Who wants tapioca pearls in their tea, anyway?”

  A commotion outside caught Gethsemane’s eye through the window. Two women shoved each other. Gethsemane nudged Niall’s arm. “Déjà vu.”

  “What the bloody…” Niall muttered as he headed outside. Gethsemane and several other patrons followed. Niall stepped between the two women. One stumbled into him. “May I assist you, ladies?” he asked.

  “You can assist her straight to hell.” The woman farthest from Niall jerked her head toward her antagonist as she bent to pick up a catalog. She smoothed the cover. A rip ran through a photo of a rose.

  The other woman started forward but Niall grabbed her arm. “Ma’am,” he asked, “everything all right?”

  The woman strained against Niall’s grip then relaxed into resignation. Niall released her. She smoothed her hair and dress. “Would you call an officer of the law?” she asked with a Spanish accent.

  “I’m a garda,” Niall said. “An officer of the law,” he added in response to her blank look.

  “Then I demand that you arrest this woman.” She pointed. “She stole my catalog.”

  “It’s mine.” The other woman clutched the damaged book to her chest.

  “You stole it from me.” The Spanish woman lunged. Niall caught her arm again.

  “I’m sure you can pick up another catalog from the ticket office or guest services,” Gethsemane said.

  “Not one signed by Roderick Jacobi.”

  “No,” Gethsemane said, “I don’t suppose you can get another of those.”

  “And signed by Ellen Jacobi, too. It’ll be worth a fortune once she’s convicted of killing him.” The woman with the catalog smoothed its cover. “At least it would have been worth a fortune. Before you ruined it.”

  The Spanish woman made a face. “I didn’t rip my catalog, you did. Give it back.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Excuse me,” Gethsemane said. “I hate to interrupt this important debate but you said Ellen Jacobi murdered her husband. You sounded certain.”

  “Well, she did, didn’t she? Everybody knows it. Who else? Dozens of people heard her say she’d kill him often enough. ‘Better for me if Roddy dropped dead.’ ‘I could hire someone to kill him and solve all our problems.’”

  “Did you see her kill him?”

&nb
sp; “Of course not. Ellen Jacobi’s not thick. She wouldn’t do it in front of witnesses. Probably wouldn’t do it herself. Pull the trigger, I mean. She’d hire someone to do the dirty work, like she always does. She’s done it all the same. She’s still guilty, everybody knows.”

  Niall held his hand out for the book. “If you’ll give that to me, I’ll take it to the station and you can both come there to sort out who owns what.”

  The woman with the catalog clutched it tighter. “How do I know you’re a guard? Maybe you just want this for yourself.”

  Niall showed her his identification. “I can take both of you in with the catalog, if you prefer.”

  The woman let him take it.

  “I suggest you both walk about for a while before coming to the station,” he said. “And walk in opposite directions.”

  With a final glare, the women departed. The coffee shop onlookers filtered back inside.

  “May I?” Gethsemane took the catalog. Photos and descriptions of roses and gardens shared pages with glossy advertisements for garden supply companies, florists, and commercial gardens. An ad for Jacobi and Fortnum claimed a two-page spread. Several page margins bore names scribbled in ink.

  “All this fuss over flowers,” Niall said. “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t say that in front of Frankie. You know, judging by the ads in this catalog, flowers are a big business.”

  “Worth killing for?”

  “Money’s a prime motivator for homicide.”

  “True.” Niall reclaimed the book. “But flowers seem so genteel and delicate. Hard to associate them with killing or with mercenary autograph hounds. I’d dismissed the rose and garden show as a dry-as-shite, academic, horticultural exercise. I’m beginning to think they’re akin to fan conventions.”

  “I’m trying to picture you at a fan convention.”

  “I’ve been to one or two. Mystery-themed, not floral.” He sighed.

  “You’re going to offer me a rain check on breakfast, aren’t you?”

  He hoisted the catalog. “I better get this thing back to the station before those two show up and start acting the maggot in the lobby. I’ll hand it over to Sutton as a peace offering. You stay and eat something. Eat means solid food, not coffee.”