A Deadly Bouquet (23 page)

“Tansy?” I asked.

“And that's pennyroyal,” he said, pointing. “Over there are rhododendron bushes. And unless my eyesight is failing, I see orange dodder wrapped around those weeds yonder.” He turned again. “There's the milkweed. Everything needed for the tussie-mussie that was left in your car.”

“Except for the white rose,” I said.

“Are you going to call the other River City florists and ask them—”

I shrugged. “What? Did they sell a single white rose in the last day or two? Why would they remember that?”

“I guess you're right.”

I turned and stared at the grassy prairie, and heard Carl's voice in my head.

“Put it together, Babe. Use logic and reason to figure it out. If the Mead's milkweed was the cause, then what was the effect?”

Chapter Nineteen

Early the next morning, I called the hospital to check on Bailey. A nurse told me he was stirring, and mumbling, but he hadn't opened his eyes. Next I searched the newspaper for the picture of the girl from Claire's beauty shop ceiling. No mention or photo in today's paper. I drank another cup of coffee, and then gave it up. There wasn't any way around it. I had work to do.

I drove to the flower shop, but I dreaded going inside. I hadn't slept well. My mind had tossed and turned all night long, running over and over what I knew about Claire. As I unlocked the shop door, I squared my shoulders, prepared for battle. Murder investigations would have to be put on hold. I was a florist, and the wedding adventure was about to begin.

Sometimes it's nice to be the boss, but today I just wanted to be an employee. I knew that by the end of the day I'd be sick and tired of my name.

“Bretta, where's the ribbon?”

“Bretta, what do you want me to do now?”

“Bretta, is this arrangement too big?”

“Bretta, how many roses should we save for the bride's bouquet?”

I couldn't blame my help. On a big job everyone wants reassurance that they're doing the right thing. No one wants to screw up. But to whom could
I
turn? Who was going to tell me if I was making the right decisions? And each judgment call had to be made off the top of my head. We didn't have guidelines.

During my floral career, I'd never undertaken an event that involved so many picayune details. For each section of the Tranquility Garden either a unique bouquet or a display had to be fabricated from the tools of my trade and one hell of an imagination. This last was my department, too. Lois and Lew would offer suggestions, but once again the final decision would be mine.

By quarter till nine my crew had gathered in the workroom. Lois and Lew knew what to expect. The three women I'd hired were oblivious. They'd helped us out on Valentine's Day, when the Flower Shop had been a madhouse, but that holiday would be nothing compared to what was ahead of us.

Besides doing the wedding work, we had our regular duties. Evelyn might think River City would come to a halt for her daughter's nuptials, but that wasn't the case. We had Claire's funeral flowers to do. Lydia's memorial service was pending. Then there were the usual assorted hospital, birthday, and anniversary bouquets to design.

I'd worked out a game plan for what needed to be done and when. I'd assigned specific tasks to each person, leaving myself free to gallop around the shop, available to be at their beck and call, while doing my own work.

By noon we were honking on. Twenty Boston ferns had been cleaned of any dead leaves and repotted into brass containers. The morning deliveries had been made. I thought everything was coming along, but apparently I had a touch of hubris. My pride took a beating when Lois finished a prototype of the wreath that was to float on the reflection pool at the base of the gazebo.

She bellowed from the back room. “Bretta, you gotta see this.”

I went to the tub of water and stared at the drowned flowers and candles.

“It sank like a stone,” she said, trying not to snicker.

On paper the plan had seemed feasible. The ring of Styrofoam had floated when I'd given it a test run, but the added weight of the flowers and candles was too much for it to remain buoyant.

“Hell and damnation,” I muttered. “Now what?”

“Bretta?” called Lew from the workroom. “How are you going to attach this tulle to the gazebo?”

I'd bought one hundred yards of white gold-shot tulle. The netting was to frame all six of the gazebo openings and hang in gossamer folds like a tent under the peaked roof. According to Evelyn, I had to achieve the impression that Nikki was taking her vows among wispy clouds.

I turned to Lois. “Should we use ribbon to tie the tulle to the posts? Or tendrils of ivy and wire?”

“I don't know. What are we gonna do about this sunken treasure?”

“Bretta?” said Gertrude. “There's a woman here to see you. She says the mother of the bride wants preparation photos. You know what I mean? Some behind-the-scenes candid shots.”

I peered around the doorjamb and saw Kasey at the front counter. Her blond hair was limp. She looked thinner and more retro sixties than she had at the park on Saturday. Her camera was focused on Lew.

I'd given him the job of measuring the tulle into accurate lengths for each of the six gazebo openings. He was such a perfectionist, I knew he'd get the numbers correct, but he wasn't used to working with the flimsy material. The hundred yards of tulle had slipped and slid into a filmy lake on the floor. He'd gathered it up in his arms but had succeeded in draping his body diaphanously. The man looked totally inept.

“Don't take that picture,” I said, but I was too late.

Click!

Kasey spun in my direction with the camera aimed at me. “Don't even think about it,” I said sharply.

Click!

I was seething. “Dang it, Kasey, don't take another picture.”

Click!
Gertrude picking her teeth.

Click!
Eleanor eating the last jelly doughnut.

Click!
Marjory turning over a vase of roses.

In four quick strides I was at the front counter. “What do you think you're doing?”

“My job.”

“No. Not here. Not now. We're under enough pressure. We don't need this distraction.”

“Evelyn wants photos of Sonya, Dana, and you at work.”

“I don't care what she wants.”

In a low voice, Kasey said, “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

She brought up the camera and took my picture. “To not get what you want. Sonya and Dana both asked you to back off from Claire's murder investigation, but you keep asking questions. You keep snooping and prying into things that aren't any of your business.”

My eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about?” I waved a hand. “Fine. Take your pictures—and while you're doing it, let me ask you this. In your environmental work have you come across any Mead's milkweed?”

Kasey's lips parted in an
O
of astonishment. She stared at me for a full minute, then picked up her equipment and walked out.

“Whatever you said to her really worked,” Gertrude said. “She hightailed it out of here like a duck in a hailstorm.”

“Let's get back to work,” I said. “Lew, we're using wire and ivy. Eleanor, help him get that tulle under control. Marjory, you missed a puddle of water over by that table leg. We don't have time for an emergency run to the hospital if someone should slip and fall. Gertrude, please answer the telephone. It has rung three times.”

“And me?” called Lois from the back room. “What about this floral submarine?”

I gritted my teeth, stared into space, willing an answer to come to me. Finally, I said, “We'll double the ring of Styrofoam. I bought spares. Attach another under the one you already have. If you need to, add a little more greenery so the extra thickness doesn't show.”

“Can do,” she said.

I glanced around the workroom. Everyone was intent on his or her tasks. Maybe I'd have five minutes to concentrate on what I had to do. I consulted my notes. Two massive bouquets set on pedestals were to flank the reflection pool. I filled the copper containers with water and grabbed the bucket of flowers I'd reserved for the arrangements.

White larkspur for height. I used my florist knife to barely cut the stem end. I needed as much stalk as possible. My bouquets would be in competition with the twilight canopy. And yet, I had to keep in mind that once these bouquets were completed, they had to be hauled in the delivery van to the park. I'd considered making the arrangements on-site, but there would be enough to do on Saturday.

The rest of the day passed without incident. I finished the two bouquets and the arrangements for the reception tables, then called a halt at six thirty.

“We'll have to work later tomorrow night. Let's go home.” I didn't have to say it twice. Before I could draw a breath, Gertrude, Marjory, and Eleanor had grabbed their handbags and were out the door.

“I'm pooped,” said Lois, dropping into a chair. She eyed me. “You don't look like you have the energy to drive home.”

“I'm tired,” I admitted, “but the show is just starting. Tomorrow we have to make the corsages, the boutonnieres, and the bridal party flowers. And I can't forget that I have to go to the park and spray the shrubs gold before everyone gets there for the rehearsal.” I had a heart-stopping thought. “Those cases of paint were delivered, weren't they?”

“Yes,” said Lew. “Three big boxes. Talk about your environmental hazard. All that aerosol paint fogging the air can't be good. Do you have a mask to wear over your nose and mouth?”

“I'll figure out something,” I said. “I'm scheduled to paint the shrubs before the rehearsal. Paint the shrubs? Gosh, I can't believe the things I do.”

Lois struggled wearily to her feet. “By the way, what did you say to Kasey to make her ‘hightail it out of here like a duck in a hailstorm'?” Her eyebrows drew down in a frown. “Are ducks afraid of hail?”

I grinned. “I haven't a clue as to what ducks like or dislike, but Kasey wasn't pleased when I asked her about Mead's milkweed.”

While we turned out the lights and gathered up our belongings, I brought Lois and Lew up to speed on what I'd discovered. When I'd finished, both were too tired to offer more than a feeble “Good night.”

As I drove home, I wondered if we were getting too old for this stuff. If we were exhausted now, how would we make it through two more days?

*   *   *

I woke up Friday morning to the smell of smoke. I tried to leap out of bed but I'd done too much lifting and stooping yesterday. Shuffling across the floor like a decrepit woman, I peered out the window. It was early, not even light yet, but I didn't need the sun. I had flames.

“Omigod.” I gulped. “The garden's on fire.”

I grabbed my robe and struggled into it. I made two tries to find the belt, then realized I'd put the robe on wrong side out. I didn't stop to change it. I stuffed my feet into a pair of loafers and hurried downstairs with my robe flapping about me like the Caped Crusader.

“DeeDee!” I shouted. “Dad! Come quick. The garden's on fire.”

I didn't pause, but headed out the terrace doors and nearly took a fall when I tripped over a rubber hose. I traced it to the water faucet at the side of the house.

“Bretta?” called someone from the shadows.

I thought I recognized the voice. “Eddie, is that you?”

“Yeah. Sorry about the drifting smoke. The wind has shifted, but now that I've started the fire, I don't want to put it out until I get this controlled burn finished.”

My heart eased its rapid beat at the word
controlled.
“You set this fire on purpose?”

Eddie said, “Jerry, keep a close eye over here. I don't want heat anywhere near this old ginkgo tree.”

I watched Eddie walk toward me. He had a small tank strapped to his back. A black hose with a perforated nozzle was connected to the receptacle.

Once he had joined me on the terrace, he said, “I told you we had to get this heavy thatch out of the way. A rapid fire will burn the grass but won't damage the plants underneath. I should be able to start moving soil tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Now I remember, but the smoke woke me from a sound sleep. I panicked when I thought my garden was on fire.”

Eddie grinned. “It is, but it's under control. I told the fire department and the Missouri Conservation Department that I was doing a burn. I didn't want your neighbors calling in an emergency.” He pointed to the hose. “We have water close at hand. I have three men with shovels and wet burlap to smother any flames that spread farther than I want.”

My father opened the terrace door, and he and DeeDee stepped out. I told them what was going on.

Dad asked, “Why so early? The sun isn't even up.”

“For exactly that reason,” said Eddie. “Any wayward spark will be spotted in the dark.”

Dad nodded. “Makes good sense.”

Now that my eyes were accustomed to the dusky light, I saw Eddie's men. They wore heavy overalls, long-sleeved shirts, and stout boots, but none of them had a tank like Eddie's. “So what's this?” I said, pointing to the apparatus on his back.

“Propane tank.” He turned away from us and twisted a valve. I heard a clicking sound, a roar, and flames flashed from the nozzle.

DeeDee said, “W-wow. I wonder if M-Martha has one of those. You could brown a h-hundred m-meringue pies at one t-time with that b-baby.”

Eddie touched the flame to some blades of grass growing in a crevice of the sandstone terrace. The blades shriveled and dissolved into ash. “Petroleum has too much vapor that can lead to unpredictable explosions,” he explained. “It's too combustible. Kerosene or diesel fuel leaves a residue in the ground. Since I'm planting this area, I don't want that. This propane torch gets the ball rolling. If I see a spot that needs added heat, I only have to touch it and—
poof
—the thatch is gone.”