A Deadly Bouquet (19 page)

“If you're not interested, just say so,” said my father in a disappointed tone.

Reluctantly, I abandoned my thoughts and stared at my father's labors. As I took in the assembled tussie-mussie, I gasped. “Where did you get this? Is it the one that was in my car?”

“Nope. Made this one myself. Do you still have my sketch?”

I pulled the paper from my purse and laid it on the table next to the small bouquet of leaves and flowers. My gaze ping-ponged back and forth. “Damn,” I said. “This is excellent.” I bent and sniffed. “It even smells the same as the interior of my car.”

“I worked my way through your garden using my nose and my eyes.” He touched some dark green fernlike leaves. “This is tansy.”

“What does it mean?”

“Before I get to that, let me say I had a heck of a time finding a source for negative meanings. Like you said, flowers are supposed to convey a message of happiness, flirtation, and love. This bouquet is a deadly warning, daughter. The tansy is an herb and was put in coffins in ancient times because of its strong odor and its use as an insect repellent. If the leaves are crushed, they release a scent that reminds me of pine. According to the book I used, the tansy means ‘I declare against you.'”

“I'm not surprised. I told you in the alley that the tussie-mussie hadn't come from an admirer. I knew that as soon as I saw the dried white rose.”

Dad touched leaves that were elliptical with slightly toothed edges. “This is pennyroyal. It's part of the mint family and was also used as an insect repellent. It means ‘You had better go.'”

I touched a leaf that had a patent leather feel to it. “This looks familiar. It isn't an herb.”

“No. It's from a rhododendron bush. It means, ‘Danger. Beware. I am dangerous. Agitation.'”

“There's evidence of that. This other is a milkweed flower. What does it mean?”

“Let's skip that for the moment. I want you to notice that the bundle is tied together with a vine, not twine as you first thought.”

I leaned closer and saw a bright orange cord about the size of a stout thread with hairlike tendrils. “What is that?”

“I had to ask Eddie. I described what I'd seen by flashlight.” He pointed to his sketch. “I put those little hairs on my drawing because I'd noticed them, but I didn't know what I was seeing. Eddie told me the plant is dodder. He'd seen it attached to some weeds at the back of your property. I went hunting and was amazed at how it grows. It's a member of the morning glory family. It doesn't have leaves, roots, or chlorophyll, but has these special suckers that draw nourishment from its host. ‘Meanness' is what the book tells me it represents.”

“And now the milkweed?”

My father scratched his head. “That's the odd part. I've spent the last hour thinking and thinking, but I can't figure out how it fits into the rest of the message.”

“What is it?”

“Milkweed means ‘hope in misery.'” He motioned to the tussie-mussie. “After all the threats—death, danger, beware, meanness, I declare against you—this seems out of place. If you remember, the milkweed flower was right on top, above the dried white rose. As you said, placement is as important as the plants. So if that's the case, it's almost as if the giver was saying the milkweed flower negates the rest. ‘Hope in misery,'” repeated my father. “If he's miserable, then why continue?”

Slowly, I answered, “Because
she
has hope that
her
plan will succeed. Perhaps she is suffering but has an urgent need to finish what she started.” I closed my eyes and whispered, “A type of catharsis—a purging of the soul.”

*   *   *

My brain was overworked. I needed fresh air. I went out the terrace doors to have a look at the garden. A smile of appreciation came easily to my lips. Having those old decayed trees gone had made a huge difference in the landscape. Eddie had made a wonderful start on the renovation, and I moved in his direction to tell him. He was alone, a notebook in his hands and a faraway gleam in his eyes.

I recognized that look. He was plotting my garden, letting his imagination soar over the mundane details. If he concentrated only on the necessary work, what was needed to complete the project, he'd get bogged down. But to stand back and visualize the final results brought a fresh vigor and anticipation to the job.

Eddie had buried his father that morning. He needed this time alone. I quietly went back into the house. I told DeeDee I was leaving for a couple of hours. I wanted to check on Bailey, but I also wanted to go to the park. Eddie's big job was my garden. My big job was the Montgomery wedding. Maybe if I went back to the park I could recapture the enthusiasm I'd first felt when Evelyn had outlined her plans.

As I drove into town, I made a conscious effort to put Claire's and Lydia's deaths out of my mind. I lowered the windows and turned up the radio just as a meteorologist gave his weather report: “The Ozarks are ten inches short on rainfall for the month of June. And folks, it looks like we're going to miss a good shot at precipitation for the weekend. Highs will be in the eighties, with lows overnight in the sixties. If you have plans to go out on our many lakes and streams, take plenty of sunblock.”

“Sorry, Eddie,” I said with a smile. “No rain on Evelyn's parade.”

I pushed buttons until I found a song I liked, then settled back. I didn't know Nikki, but she was a woman in love, about to marry the man of her dreams. The shipment of flowers had arrived in excellent condition. The weather was cooperating. I could count on Lois and Lew for assistance. My heart gave a little skip of confidence. I had the ability to bring off my part of this wedding with panache.

Twenty minutes later, I strolled down the path the bride would take. Seeing the shrubs Eddie had planted reminded me that I had to order several cases of gold paint so I could spray the foliage. Just the thought of doing this ridiculous chore made my blood pressure skyrocket again.

Quickly, I dismissed the foliage from my mind and let the serenity of the park soothe me. After a few minutes the colorful mental pictures that frolicked in my head reaffirmed my conviction. I would do my best to make this a gorgeous wedding. My mood had mellowed, so I even felt a bit more benevolent toward Evelyn. After all, she was the mother of the bride, and she obviously loved her daughter.

I stopped in the area where the guests would be seated, and squinted at the gazebo. I'd learned early on in my career that for an event to be impressive, the senses—taste, sight, smell, hearing, touch—had to be titillated. The brass and copper baskets would catch the last rays of sun. Five hundred flickering candles would add to the ambience. I didn't like the idea that my fragrant flowers would have to compete with Dana frying shrimp, but the food-preparation tent was some distance away from the main festivities.

I pondered each point of the wedding. Taste, sight, and smell would be well covered. Evelyn had hired a woman to play the harp. The lilting music would calm any frayed nerves. I frowned. Touch was the one impression left undefined.

“What can we do for touch?” I murmured, walking toward the gazebo. Then I spotted an unlikely vision. I hadn't seen Evelyn crouched on the steps. She hadn't heard me because she was crying. The sight of this arrogant, self-possessed woman weeping was disconcerting.

“Evelyn?” I said. “What's wrong?”

She jerked upright and dashed a hand across her eyes. “I'm a mess. I never thought anyone would be here this time of evening.”

“I was thinking about the wedding and wanted to have another look.”

“Me, too, but I let my guard down.”

“Nikki is okay?”

“Oh, yes. She's fine. As far as I know, everything is falling into place. I should be happy, but what will I do when Saturday is over? I've dedicated so much effort to planning and anticipating this day that once the candles are lit, it's the beginning of the end.”

I leaned against the railing. “I know what you mean. There's a letdown after you've come through a big event. You want to relax, but you're still pumped, and there's nothing left to do.” I paused. “Maybe it will help if you keep in mind that once our duties are over, your daughter will be starting a new life as a married woman.”

Evelyn sighed. “I lose sight of that sometimes. I keep thinking of what I need to do to make it perfect for her.”

“It will be perfect.”

Briskly, Evelyn stood up. She smoothed her dress and tucked a stray black curl behind her ear. “Now, about that grapevine arch. I hope you've had the chance to study the picture I left with your employee. I think we should—”

My earlier feelings of benevolence for Evelyn dissolved into a mist. Nothing had changed. She was still as irritating as bird droppings on a freshly washed car.

Chapter Sixteen

The coroner released Claire's body the next morning. By ten thirty, Harriet Mitchell was at my front counter, placing an order for a spray of flowers to grace her ex–daughter-in-law's casket.

“Claire had no family,” explained Harriet. “Her mother died when she was a baby. Her father drank himself to death a few years ago. Claire was always kind and thoughtful to me. Giving her a decent burial seems the right thing to do. My son is throwing a fit, but that's his problem.”

“Why should he care?”

“Money. I have a little nest egg set aside. He has his eyes on it. Claire's funeral expenses will deplete the balance by several thousand dollars.”

“It's very generous of you. I've gotten the impression, from things people have said, that Claire admired you. She quoted you often.”

Harriet blinked. “Quoted me? Whatever did I say that was noteworthy?”

“Maybe not you per se, but Aristotle.”

“Oh, yes. I tried to help her. She had a burden on her heart. She wouldn't talk about it in specific terms, but occasionally she tossed out odd comments. Her most recent observation has stuck in my mind, given the way she died. Claire admitted she didn't think there's a God because He allows evil in our world.”

“In my line of work, I deal with bereavement on a daily basis. Nothing is more heart wrenching than to help a family choose a suitable memorial for a child who's been killed or a young mother who has died from cancer. Evil people continue to live and wreak havoc on others, and yet the good die young.”

Harriet's eyes sparkled. I could see the Scout leader in her emerge before she opened her mouth. “Aristotle believed that reason is the source of knowledge. Each time we see or hear of evil, we use our ability to reason, to use logic to evaluate the situation. If this world were perfect, if everyone lived long, wonderfully productive lives, then where's the challenge? By allowing us to see others make mistakes, God has given us the chance to learn and grow. As each generation comes along, the lessons learned by the previous generation are passed on.”

“But what can we learn from the death of a child?”

“Each tragic event in our life makes us stronger. Are you familiar with the word
heterosis?
”

I shook my head.

“It's a phenomenon resulting from hybridization in which offspring display greater vigor, size, resistance, and other characteristics than the parents. A properly developed hybrid will have any weaknesses bred out and optimum values enhanced.”

“I get the gist of what you're saying, but where does Claire's death fit in? What have we learned from her murder?”

Impatience threaded Harriet's voice. “You're expecting a revelation from one circumstance. You have to view Claire's death from a general outlook. How her life touched others. How her death affected those around her. How she lived. Where she lived. What she did.”

“And this will give me insight into God's plan?”

Harriet laughed. “Not at all, but it will make you question. We can't begin to understand the why, but to grow intellectually we have to question, to reason, and to think logically. Events from our past shape the people we are today. If Claire had been raised with a functional mother and father, would she be dead today at age fifty-four? Is this cause and effect? When her parents passed away was Claire's fate sealed?”

My brain was spinning. “It's too early in the morning for this conversation. I'm out of my depth.”

“Not at all. You have a logical mind, and being a florist augments your capabilities to reason through a situation.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's another of Aristotle's theories. He defines the imagination as ‘the movement which results upon an actual sensation.' As a florist, you're attuned to receiving sense impressions. You see details that others might overlook or ignore. You listen carefully to what is needed and use your talents to deliver.”

Last night while in the park, I'd had these thoughts about the senses, but had been stymied by one. Curious, I asked, “How does touch come into play with respect to my being a florist?”

“I'm sure you've physically comforted someone by giving them a hug. However, to advance my theory, I'd substitute feel for touch. You
feel
the pain of others. You
feel
the need to be involved.”

She cast me a smile. “You also have good taste. Claire liked bright colors. I'll leave the choice of flowers to your discretion. Send me the bill.” She turned and walked away.

“Wait,” I called. “There are five senses. You left out smell. Is it obvious?” I waved my hand to our surroundings. “Flowers have a scent?”

Harriet cocked her head and studied me. “And good cigars have an aroma. Skunks have an odor. All can be smelled, but a sensory perceptive person will categorize rather than make a blanket analogy.”

I watched Harriet leave the shop. My forehead puckered with thought. I fingered the lines, smoothed away the ridges, but my mind rippled, stirred by Harriet's theories.