Bloom and Doom (11 page)

“Now, to what do I owe this visit?” She placed the bouquet in the center of the table. “Or do I even need to ask?”

Liv spoke first. “We were just over at the Rawling place to pay our respects to Derek and thought we’d stop by and say hello.”

Liv also had the Southern lady trick down to a charm, but it proved unnecessary with Mrs. June.

“Cut the malarkey. I know that act. You learned it from your grandmother.” She laughed. “I was fairly good at it myself, in my day. But I’m an old woman now.” As if to prove it, she sank into the chair. “So if you don’t mind, can we skip the verbal gymnastics and just cut to the chase?”

“Miranda Rawling mentioned something about letters she found in Derek’s closet,” I said. “Letters she insists are from Jenny.”

“And I suppose you’re curious about what they said?” Her face was serious, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.

“Miranda indicated that they implicated Jenny, gave her a motive for Derek’s death.”

Mrs. June sighed. “To answer the question you’re too shy—or cunning—to ask, yes, I’ve seen them. Bixby asked me to photocopy them so he could log the originals into evidence. I can’t say I read every word. I was only supposed to make sure all the words were legible so he could use the copies in the investigation. But it helps to be a speed reader.”

It was true. I’d seen her flipping pages faster than anyone I’d ever known. Mrs. June always had a book in her hand, and always a different one. I was surprised the Ramble Public Library could keep up with her.

“The only thing the prosecution will have a hard time doing,” she said, “is proving those letters were from Jenny.”

“Miranda said they were signed with a nickname.”

“Bunny.” Mrs. June snorted. “And the letters were all computer printed, in some curly, girlie font designed to look like handwriting. Which is kind of weird to begin with.”

“The font?”

“The letters. You young people are always e-mailing today, and texting. And sending instant messages or . . . what do they call it . . . tweeting. I still don’t get that. But if it was twenty years ago—maybe even thirty—I would have understood letters.”

“Jenny is a little old-fashioned,” I started. But I never knew her to send a letter. Except the letter where she basically dumped me. But that had at least been handwritten.

“But the letters were incriminating?” Liv asked.

Mrs. June bit her upper lip. At this point, I knew I simply had to wait. While all those TV investigators seem all bluster and questions, Grandma Mae had taught us that sometimes silence proved more effective—that other people would want to fill in the space with words—and you could learn all kinds of things just by sitting back and listening. So I took another bite of my cake.

Mrs. June didn’t disappoint. “Mind you, if this gets back to Bixby, I could lose my job.”

Liv rushed in to swear that she wouldn’t tell a soul. With my mouth full of cake, I raised my hand in an oath.

“The letters were . . . disturbing. They started out normal enough, maybe a tad brazen. But then . . .” She turned to me. “Audrey, are you sure Jenny wasn’t on drugs? Because there’s a major personality shift in those letters. Drugs could explain everything. Including how she’s acting now.”

I sat back. “Mrs. June, when I knew Jenny, I’d say no way. But I haven’t spent much time with her over the last year or so. I just can’t put my mind around her doing that, though.” Then again, we were supposed to be best friends forever, and I couldn’t have imagined her dumping me like she did. But this wasn’t junior high anymore. Not that BFFs worked out that well in junior high. “Maybe if you could tell me how the letters changed.”

Liv kicked me under the table. Too direct?

Mrs. June didn’t seem to notice. She leaned in. “They got juicier and juicier. Like those soap operas on steroids.” She leaned back and fanned herself with a napkin. “I’d hate to be the one to read those out loud in court.

“And then, she starts talking about getting married. Things like, when they’re married . . . and here she turns into some June Cleaver. Talking about making chicken, collard greens, and biscuits, and having ten kids.”

Which sounded more like Jenny. “So that can give Bixby enough to suspect Jenny,” I said.

“It would help if someone found the answers to these letters.” She paused while cutting herself another tiny sliver of cake. “But they don’t end there.”

Miranda had already suggested the letters contained threats, but I wanted to hear Mrs. June’s interpretation, so I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows and let her go on.

“The last few months are the ones that are damning—pardon my French. Threatening sometimes, peachy keen other times. Like she somehow lost contact with reality and rode any wave she could climb onto. Like one of those split-personality types. I almost expected to see a different name down at the bottom. And they went on that way—sometimes more than one letter a day. Sometimes June Cleaver and sometimes, I don’t know, one of those hockey-mask-wearing, chain-saw-carrying psychos from those blood-and-guts movies.”

“So the letters contain threats.”

“I’ll say.” Her eyes sparkled, but then she stopped, cast me a sympathetic look, and patted my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get all excited, but I’ve been working for the Ramble police for a lot of years, and this is the most excitement we ever got. I almost forgot she was your friend.”

Mrs. June took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Maybe, based on those letters, the lawyer might consider a psychological defense.”

“I’d like to see Jenny,” I said. “None of this makes sense with the girl I know. But perhaps if I could visit with her and listen to her, maybe I could get a handle on . . .”

Mrs. June shook her head. “She’s just curled up in a little ball—at least that’s how Brenda found her when she took in her food. They put her on a suicide watch, but I wish someone would call her doctor in. If she asked to see one, they’d allow it. But she still insists she doesn’t want or need to see one—or anyone else, for that matter.”

I could see why Mrs. June was convinced drugs were involved. And that could explain the rapid personality shift.

My heart sank. I had hoped to find more information that would clear Jenny. Instead, everything just seemed to be piling up against her.

“But I bought two of them.” Mrs. Burke
pointed to the rose-patterned pens in the stand next to the cash register.

“And I put them in your bag,” Amber Lee answered. “I recall clearly.”

“But they weren’t in the bag when I got home.” Mrs. Burke straightened to her full height—an intimidating four feet, nine inches.

Amber Lee held her ground. “We’re not responsible for items you may have lost on the way home.”

“Just a minute,” Liv interrupted.

Amber Lee stepped back. She looked a little miffed but held her tongue.

“May I see the bag?” Liv said.

Mrs. Burke produced the Rose in Bloom bag.

Liv took it, running her hand along the bottom before her fingers found a hole in the seam.

Amber Lee sighed and looked down.

“My associate is right, of course,” Liv said, sparing Amber Lee some embarrassment. “We’re not responsible for any item lost after it leaves the shop. But since, in this case, your pens appear to have slipped through a defective bag, perhaps this time you could choose another?”

Mrs. Burke’s eager hands played across the selection of pens and chose two with white roses hand-painted on a wood barrel. I heard Amber Lee’s quick intake of breath. I suspected the lost pens had been a cheaper variety.

Mrs. Burke appeared appeased and chatted with Liv on the way to the door.

After escorting the woman out, Liv rolled her eyes, breaking the tension and coaxing a wave of laughter from Amber Lee and the rest of the staff who were now spying from the back room.

“Now that I have you all gathered here,” Liv said, with a bit of a smirk on her face, “if you’re bagging merchandise for a customer, check the bags. This last order contained some defective ones. I tried to weed through them, but apparently I missed a few.”

Liv glanced at her watch, then flipped the sign to “Closed,” causing a round of applause. She took a low dramatic bow. “We may be closed, but we’ve got a full night of work ahead of us. So I hope you all brought your energy drinks and most comfortable shoes.

“So let’s crank up the radio and get started. Everybody gets to choose their favorite station for an hour. Then we’ll try to wrap it up and get at least a few hours of sleep.”

I did a quick head count. Although there were nine of us (Liv and me, Amber Lee, Shelby, Melanie, and Opie, all set up in various workstations around the store, and Darnell and his two teammates, assigned to fetch and carry and clean and run out for more food as needed) those “few hours of sleep” would be limited to a catnap. The thought of nine solid hours of floral design was exhausting—especially since we’d repeat it again the following day.

“Oh, and Audrey? The peach roses are here.”

I hightailed it to the walk-in. Although not from our usual supplier, the peach roses were just as vivid and fresh. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“With the rest of us working on funeral arrangements,” Liv said, “I think I can spare you and Amber Lee if you want to get a jump on the wedding flowers.”

Avoiding the crammed back room, Amber Lee and I set up an impromptu station in the consulting nook. The music of the hour was bluegrass. I had a hard time hearing anything but the mandolin, but that was okay. It gave me time to think. About the day—long. About the work ahead—impossible. About my own life—did I even want to venture down that alley? The alternative was thinking about Jenny, but that was even more discouraging than my own life at this instant.

I’d decided to start with the reception centerpieces. Carolyn had picked tall, elaborate arrangements. Years ago, table flowers used to be wide arrangements, maybe with a candle popped into the middle, low enough that the guests could see over and converse. Until some florist discovered you could put a full tall arrangement in an even taller pillar vase and allow the flowers to tower over the guests’ heads. Of course, that tall vase required a large base, and the flowers needed to be fairly symmetrical. I had yet to see one come crashing down, but I’d imagine the results would be disastrous.

Since the flowers for these arrangements are not placed in the vase but, rather, in a smaller container that rests on top, Amber Lee and I were able to construct them while seated. I kicked off my shoes and stretched my toes. Heavenly.

I demonstrated the first centerpiece, so Amber Lee could pick up and mimic the design. Bells of Ireland added the visual interest and seemed well suited to a wedding as they foretold
good luck
. White lilies, of course, meant
purity
or
sweetness
and made an interesting contrast with the darker peach roses that symbolized
desire
. I guessed purity and desire were a good combination for a wedding, even if no one noticed the significance but me.

The white snapdragon gave me pause, since it could mean
presumption
or even
deception
. But it also carried the meaning of
gracious lady
. What could be more typically Southern? So I tucked it in with little reservation.

As we filled in the remaining space with green Fuji mums, I had to chuckle. If a Victorian maid were to receive one of these mums, sometimes called spider mums, she might have started packing her bags. The message was
elope with me
.

I could imagine what a sudden elopement would do to the mayor’s blood pressure after all the planning and expense. But in a wedding arrangement, the flower could also symbolize
liveliness
. Carolyn had jumped on the idea of including this flower, with a flush on her face. At that point, I was glad she didn’t clue me in on her reasoning. Too much information.

As the reception arrangements grew in number, I sent the boys out to see if they could scavenge some cardboard boxes from the back alley or perhaps the grocery store. We’d be filling our coolers with complete funeral and wedding arrangements, and flowers don’t stack well. Liv slipped them some money and asked them to come back with pizza as well.

Before too long, in a familiar environment with plenty for my hands to do, my mood lightened. As Grandma Mae always said, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” I reasoned there might be something to all those old Southern Mama–isms she passed down.

At least I didn’t have a scowl on my face at ten-something, when a tap on the front door drew my attention. The radio had shifted to an old standards station, and Frank Sinatra belted out some corny song about the coffee in Brazil. Since most of our staff were still in the back room, I stood up, stretched, and went to the front door. The darkness of the night compared to the brightness of the shop made it difficult to see who was there.

But the closer I got to the door, the more I began to recognize the figure. Nick Maxwell, minus his baker’s whites. Well, before anyone gets the wrong mental image, he was wearing khaki pants and a sports shirt. And he looked just as good, if not better, in colors besides white.

“Hi,” he said shyly when I cracked open the door. “I saw the lights on.”

“We’re closed.” Lame. But after a long day it was the best I could do.

“I know that,” he said. “What I mean is, I just finished stripping out the carpet in the truck. When I saw the light, I figured you’d have a lot going on over here . . .” He seemed to look past me into the shop.

My tired brain refused to complete his sentences. I supposed that was a bad sign, wasn’t it? Aren’t compatible people always saying how they can complete each other’s sentences? But then again, since he had a girlfriend, it didn’t matter how compatible we were. Why did my brain keep going there?

“I thought,” he continued, “maybe you’d like more help. I don’t know flowers, but I’m a quick learner and good with my hands.”

“I’m sure you are.” Did I say that out loud?

“And . . .” He offered up two bakery boxes. “I brought some new cupcake flavors I’ve been working on. I thought I might find some beta testers here.”

“We’re not going to turn down those,” I said. “Come on in.”

I introduced him to our staff, both permanent and temporary. Moments later, the boys returned with the pizzas, and we cleared off a display table to accommodate them, some two-liter bottles of soda, and Nick’s cupcakes. I found a stack of paper plates left over from another all-night session and some extra plastic cups. No napkins, so we’d have to make do with paper towels.

Since all our table and counter space was taken up with floral arrangements in various stages of construction, most of us found spaces on the shop floor to sit. I joined Liv, leaning my tired back up against the main counter.

Nick fixed a small plate and sank down across from me. I looked up at him just when Frankie slid into a rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight,” which made it difficult to look at him at all.

Melanie broke the silence and asked about the upcoming football season. And soon the boys were up and trying to impress the girls—at least I think that was why they were demonstrating football plays in a florist shop.

The goth, Opie, covered her eyes. “How do you do that without getting hurt? All that tackling, ramming each other. I’m surprised you don’t break your necks.”

“Not if you do it right.” Darnell picked up a plastic pot and tucked it under his arm. “The key is to lead with your shoulder, not with your head. That way you have a broader surface to transfer force, and stress isn’t placed on the neck or spinal column.”

The football players demonstrated this in several variations, each one rowdier than the previous. If they were skilled florists, I’d love to be able to harness that energy. On the last play, Nick reached in and rescued a bucket of gerbera daisies somewhere around the five-yard line.

While Liv flagged them all for unnecessary roughness, I snagged myself a chocolate cupcake. Beta testing, indeed. What was so unusual about a chocolate cupcake? And then I took a bite. The filling was something like a cherry cheesecake, and it was topped with a thick and luscious ganache. It was so wonderful, I didn’t want to swallow. I threw my head back and moaned in ecstasy.

“There’d better be more like that,” Amber Lee said. “I want a bite of paradise, too.”

When I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at me.

Nick laughed. “That’s a good name. Maybe I’ll call them a ‘bite of paradise,’ rather than ‘Black Forest cheesecake.’ Although . . . that’s the reaction I was going for.”

My cheeks flamed again, but my embarrassment proved short-lived. Soon everyone clamored around for their “bite of paradise,” and there was more moaning going on than Ramble had seen in a long time, at least since that food poisoning incident at the Moose lodge dinner.

Nick joined Amber Lee and me in the consulting nook, chatting amiably while he stripped leaves and thorns from our roses. I can’t say his hands survived unscathed, but he picked it up quickly enough.

“How was business at the shop today, Amber Lee?” I asked. She’d waited on customers and acquainted herself with a good portion of the business in the past, but we hadn’t left her in charge for any longer than a break time—until this week.

“I think I did okay,” Amber Lee said. “Except maybe that last customer.”

“Who was that?” Nick asked.

“Mrs. Burke,” Amber Lee answered. “Gave me flashbacks. I remember teaching her kids. She’d always end up in my classroom arguing with me and asking me to raise their grades. They were smart kids, mind you, but a grade is a grade.”

Nick nodded. “I think she just likes to get all she’s entitled to, and then some. She’ll come in the bakery and spend half an hour trying to pick out the biggest cupcakes. I mean, they’re barely different at all, but she’s got to have the ones she picks.”

“And she did rip us off,” Amber Lee said. “The replacement pens she picked cost two dollars more than the original ones. We should’ve charged her the difference.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But in retail, it’s not about fairness. It’s a small town. We want the customers to keep coming back, not hop on the highway and buy their flowers from some grocery store. We’ll make it up in the end.”

“It’s good business in a small town,” Nick added. “Going the extra mile sometimes. Like seeing Mrs. Whitney home today.”

“I’m so sorry about your carpeting.” I patted his wrist. I shouldn’t have done it. The old thrill of the touch came back. Anticipation, like climbing to the top of a roller coaster . . . but getting stuck at the top, waiting for two hours, and then riding in a lift with a sweaty construction worker with a receding hairline and a beer gut. Which is why I don’t ride roller coasters anymore.

“Ellen was in a sorry state when she left here, that’s for sure,” Amber Lee said. “Her husband would be rolling in his grave to see her back to drinking.”

“Back to drinking?” I asked. I’d known her to take a nip or two, but I’d never seen her that flat-out drunk. Grandma Mae would have said she was “drunk as Cooter Brown.” Who Cooter Brown was, we never did figure out.

“Back when they were running the restaurant, she’d dip into the wine,” Amber Lee said. “Her husband sent her to one of those high-priced rehab places near DC, where all the politicians and their wives go on the quiet and say they’re at some spa. They could afford it when he was healthy and the restaurant was booming.”