Floral Depravity (5 page)

“You got it?” Opie asked.

I looked up to see they'd all been staring at me.

“Aconite poisoning. I think.”

“So what now?” Melanie asked. “We search the camp for a bottle marked aconite?”

“We?” Carol asked. “Are you all into this stuff?”

Opie laughed. “We might have helped a little bit. Audrey here is a certified A-1 amateur sleuth.”

When Carol looked confused, Melanie explained. “Not that anyone certifies amateur sleuths. But she's solved a couple of murders already.”

Carol's head whipped back to me. I guess I didn't look like the detecting kind.

“Only this time she's not an amateur,” Amber Lee added, “since she's been duly deputized. Hey, does that make us deputy deputies?”

“I'll settle for minions,” Melanie said. “I always wanted to be a minion.”

“Not if it's going to put you in danger,” I said.

“See,” Opie said, “she's talking like Chief Bixby already.”

I flipped on the LED light on the generator. It wasn't a spotlight by any stretch of the imagination, but it produced a nice steady glow. Hopefully enough for what I needed it for. “May I use this?”

“Sure,” Opie said. “Just crank it if it starts to get dim. Are you going somewhere?”

I pulled on the surcoat Nick had loaned me. “Yes, looking for the murder weapon.”

“The aconite?” Amber Lee said. “You know where to find it?”

“I think I might.”

“Then, wait. I'm coming with you,” Amber Lee said.

“Me, too,” Opie added.

“Ditto,” said Melanie.

Carol looked rather stunned as she scanned our faces. She shrugged then pushed herself off the mat. “Count me in.”

I looked at the small group, and for the first time got just a little glimpse into why Bixby was irritated with me poking my nose into one of his investigations. I didn't want anything happening to Amber Lee or any of these young women. I resolved to try to be a bit nicer to the man. As I shoved the murder weapon in his face. Well, not actually in his face. With his allergies . . . “Should we try to find the boys?” I asked. “I'm sure Darnell must be back by now.” He'd gone with the group that took Brooks to the helicopter.

Melanie shook her head. “Trust me. They're useless. As soon as they strapped on swords, it was like their brains got sucked out.”

“She's right,” Opie said. “Hopeless. You'll see. But you got us. What's the plan?”

“Aconite comes from plants,” I said, as the ladies gathered their wraps. “Specifically monkshood.”

“And you think someone brought one of these plants in?” Amber Lee said. “Please tell me there wasn't any in our flower arrangements.”

I shook my head. “We just brought roses and bachelor's buttons, so it didn't come from us. And I don't think the killer had to bring it with him, either. It was already here. I half remember spotting some growing wild in the woods on my way in.”

“So basically, we're looking for the plant,” Melanie said.

I described the plant to them, with blue flowers shaped like the hood of a monk. And coincidentally not too much different from the hood on the back of the friar's cloak, the one worn by my father. My father, who didn't want me to reveal his identity and who warned me that dangerous things were happening here. After I delivered the murder weapon into Bixby's hands, I needed to have a talk with that man.

“Every part of the monkshood plant is poisonous,” I said, relating what I'd learned from the NIH article, “but to cause that much of a reaction, I'd think the victim had to ingest the root.”

“So somebody dug it up,” Opie said.

“Or pulled it up,” Amber Lee said.

“We could have all been killed, then,” Melanie said. “Oh, Audrey! If we'd eaten the stew . . . Is that what someone tried to do? Kill everybody here?”

“Any way it could have been an accident?” Carol said.

I shrugged. “All good questions. Keep them coming. In the meantime, let's look for answers. Don't go out of sight of the camp.”

“And we have our buddies and fresh tissues,” Opie teased.

I shook my head. “I don't want to lose anybody in the dark. We want to find the flowers. Then look around the base, to see if some of the plants might have been dug up. Call if you find any monkshood. But don't touch it.”

“You want the glory?” Amber Lee teased.

“No, just don't want any of us getting a nasty rash—or worse—from touching the leaves or flowers. Every part of this plant is bad news.”

We split up into two groups. I took Melanie and Opie and used the light from the mini-generator. Carol went with Amber Lee, using a contraband flashlight that one of the girls dug out of her sleeping bag. That way we could cover more ground.

“You should have changed out of your mundanes,” Melanie told Opie, who was still dressed warmly in her sweats.

Opie shook her head. “And freeze? No one's going to see me in the dark anyway.”

“Mundanes?” I asked as I shined the flashlight over the plants just outside the clearing. It was probably a snipe hunt in the dark, but I doubted sleep would come tonight, and I would enjoy dropping the murder weapon at Bixby's feet.

“Yeah, the modern clothes,” Melanie said. “Only the hardliners here look down their noses at you when they say it.
Mundanes
.” Melanie pursed her lips like she'd just bit off half of a lemon and pretended to shiver. Or maybe she really shivered. The air seemed to grow colder as we spoke. “They really didn't want any of us wearing street clothes.”

“So I've been told,” I said, shivering either at the cold of the night or the memory of the serving wench outfit.

“What can they do to me?” Opie asked.

“Send you home, that's what,” Melanie said as she swatted at a mosquito on her arm. “And then you'd still have to write that paper.”

“At least I'll still have blood left,” Opie said.

“Ah, is that what this is about?” I asked. “Either attend the re-creation or write a paper?” I had wondered why the event was so popular among the college students.

“You bet,” Melanie said. “Thirty pages on some aspect of the Middle Ages.”

“Here's one,” I said, shining the light on the blue flowers of a tall monkshood plant, then redirecting the beam to the ground around it. The flashlight beam was alive with moths and other insects attracted to the light.

“Any sign of digging?” Opie asked.

The ground showed no signs of disturbance. “No, but now you know what we're looking for.” I shined the light on the plant so the girls could get a closer look.

“Those flowers are really pretty,” Melanie said. “I can see the little hood shapes. I can't believe the plant is deadly.”

“Very,” I said. “They called it monkshood for the shape, but it had other names, too. Wolfsbane. I've also heard it called devil's helmet.”

“Does it have meanings, too? In your language of flowers?” Opie asked.

“I suppose so, but I'd have to look it up. It's not one I'm all that familiar with. We obviously wouldn't use it in a bouquet. Just touching it could make you very sick.”

“I saw a movie once,” Melanie said, “where they used wolfsbane to protect a baby from vampires. Put it all around her neck. Scary to think of what might happen if someone tried that in real life.” She slapped at a mosquito on her neck. “But I might try it if I thought it would work against these little bloodsuckers.”

“I think I'd rather take my chances with the vampires,” Opie said. “Here's another one.”

“A vampire?” Melanie asked.

“No, a monkshood, you . . .” Opie pointed to another tall plant, but the ground around it showed no disturbance, either.

“Hey, over here!” Amber Lee called. “Quick!”

We followed her into the woods. When she stopped, she shined her flashlight on Carol. The beam reflected the tear tracks on the young woman's cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sorry. I got so excited I wasn't thinking.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She touched it,” Amber Lee said.

“It itches,” Carol said.

“Come on back to camp,” I said. “They may not have running water, but we're going to have to wash that somehow.”

“Look!” Opie said. “She really did find it. Someone's been digging here.” She pointed her flashlight down at the recently overturned dirt.

“I am so stupid,” Carol whined as I poured more water over her hand. “You warned us not to touch it. And what do I go and do?”

A few of the reenactors were giving me the stink-eye, probably because I was depleting their precious water supply at a fantastic rate. I'd probably get mad, too, if I had to carry all my water over a mile to the camp. But it couldn't be helped.

The rash on Carol's hand looked ugly, but she didn't know—because I didn't want to alarm her—that I was secretly taking her pulse while I poured water over those hands. Her heart rate was mildly elevated, but not erratic. That and the rash and the self-loathing seemed to be the limits of her reaction.

I also experienced a measure of self-loathing. This girl was barely past her teen years. And within hours of meeting me, she was running around in the dark trying to find a poisonous plant just because I'd asked her to.

Opie put her hand on my shoulder. “You didn't make any of us go.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

Opie smiled. “No, but I know you by now.”

The advancing sun washed over the encampment with milky whiteness. A rooster crowed.

Bixby and Amber Lee stepped back into the clearing. Bixby held a cluster of monkhood plants, with their turnip-like roots, in one gloved hand, while he tried to suppress a sneeze with the other. Amber Lee gave me a thumbs-up.

Bixby blinked hard against the approaching sneeze, then relaxed and sniffed. “Is she all right?”

I nodded.

“Look,” he said, “when I told you to find the murder weapon . . .”

Welcome to the self-loathing party. Instead of saying this, I sent him a reassuring smile. “She's all right. We're all okay, and now you likely have the murder weapon.”

He returned the smile, but our touching Kodak moment was interrupted by trumpets.

Bixby jumped a foot. I might have bested him by three inches.

Soon the crowd which had gathered around parted and a regal figure appeared. By regal figure, I mean he wore a literal crown and a lavish medieval outfit in jewel-tone satin and gold. Several reenactors bowed low to the ground as he approached.

“You'd better bow,” Carol said. “It's King Arthur.”

I did my requisite bow, then whispered, “He's playing King Arthur? The whole round-table bit?”

“Well, he's king this year, and his name is literally Arthur. So he's King Arthur. I think his last name is Schwartz. Dr. Schwartz. He's a dentist.”

I bit back a remark about him being used to pricy crowns.

Dr. Arthur Schwartz stopped when he reached Bixby and gave him a look up and down in that regal “I am not amused” manner.

Bixby didn't bow, didn't flinch, didn't look like he had any inclination to. “May I help you?” he said instead.

King Arthur's face flushed (would that be a royal flush?) and his jowly jaws tightened. I half expected him to yell, “Off with his head!”

Instead, he turned to one of the men with him. “I don't want to see any more mundanes in camp. We allowed the cameras, that's enough. Anyone who wants to remain will need to dress in a manner which respects the kingdom.” He waved his hand with a flourish, as if he were signing his decree into law.

Then he turned to me. “I hear you've been using all of our fresh water.”

“It was an emergency . . . sire. I . . .” I stumbled to recall anything I might have learned from old movies. Robin Hood maybe. “I beg . . . clemency, your highness.” And I ended that with a curtsy. Yes, Grandma Mae had taught both Liv and me to curtsy. I had never found it of any use until now.

“If you dress like a man, bow like a man. But we appreciate the effort. You may stay. But you must replace the water you have used.”

“Yes, sire,” I said, wondering how I was going to do that. And wondering if there was anything he could do if I left and never followed through on my promise. I'd be carting water through the woods all week.

He gave a curt nod, then turned and left. His entourage remained behind.

One of the men went immediately to Brad, and the two of them headed off to have an animated discussion. Another took Bixby by the arm.

“I have to what?” Bixby shouted, shaking him off.

Yet another headed to Opie, still in her sweats from our midnight romp in the woods. I couldn't tell what they were saying, but after a few moments Opie rushed away, brushing a tear from her cheek.

I followed her. “What happened?”

She shook her head. “I have to leave. Second strike, I guess. They weren't happy with my dress choice. Now I have to go back. It's going to be a research paper for me.”

I pulled her into a hug. With a possible murderer running around the camp, maybe she was safer back in town. Maybe we all were.

That's when we heard the gunfire.

*   *   *

I was well
behind Bixby—jogging has never really been my thing—headed in the direction from which the shot came. Chickens fluttered, half running and half flying down the pathway.

The path, probably an old deer run, ended abruptly at a decrepit fence. Bixby got there first. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

When I came out of the woods, I saw Larry, our main local flower supplier and dear family friend, standing next to the fence and holding a shotgun.

“Trying to keep those dad-blamed chickens out of my fall bulbs. They're rooting up everything.”

“You can't go shooting them,” Bixby said.

“I wasn't shooting them,” Larry said. “If I was shooting them, they'd be dead. I was shooting near them, to drive them back onto the other side of the fence. This is a zoned agricultural area. I have every right.” He turned to look at me. “Audrey? What are you doing here? And in that getup?” He snickered. “You look like Joan of Arc.”

“Long story, Larry. What are you doing out here?” Before he could answer, I looked past the fence to where the forest gave way to neatly planted farm rows. Behind them, I could just make out a greenhouse. “Wait, is this the back of your second location? The one you rent from the Rawlings?”

Larry had kept the greenhouse private while he worked on cultivating a blue rose that he'd named after our Grandma Mae. He sends us all we can sell, and we ship them around the country.

Larry smiled his signature Kewpie doll smile. “One and the same. I just started clearing the fields for spring bulbs.” His smile dimmed and his grasp on the shotgun grew tighter. “Only the livestock from that stupid camp keep breaking down the fences.”

“Wait. Do you mean to tell me the road's right through there?” Bixby asked.

Larry nodded. “Private property, though.”

Bixby sent him an incredulous sneer. “Would have helped to know that last night,” he muttered.

“What?” Larry asked.

“There was an emergency here last night,” I said. “They had to carry a man a mile to the nearest road. Didn't you hear the helicopter?”

“I did,” Larry said. “But I thought it might have been something about the fires. Wow, I would have let an emergency crew through. I just want to keep the goats and chickens and things out. I hope he's all right.”

I shook my head. “But may I cut through your property? I promise to avoid your plantings.”

“Sure, Audrey. Anytime you want.”

Bixby cleared his throat. “And may I?”

Larry squinted at him for a second. I half expected him to say no. It seems Bixby's allergies had put him on strained terms with anyone connected to the floral industry. Larry grunted. “I guess it would be all right. Just avoid any freshly turned dirt. And the flowers.”

“No problem,” Bixby said.

“Oh, and Larry?” I eyed his hose. “How far does that hose stretch? And any chance I could bum some water from you?”

*   *   *

“I would have
liked to have seen Chief Bixby's face when the sheriff deputized you, too,” Liv said Monday morning when we were going over the orders for the week. The one small wedding on our calendar for Saturday wouldn't require much effort—at least until Thursday or Friday.

I yawned and leaned on the workbench. It had taken most of Sunday to recover from a sleepless Saturday night, and my internal clock was off by more than a few hours.

“It was priceless,” Amber Lee said. “I thought he was going to have a cow, especially when Foley got to the part about his buddy the mayor”—she bulged her cheeks and put on her best Sheriff Foley impression—“at whose pleasure you serve.” She picked up a completed arrangement for our self-service cooler and walked it to the front of the shop.

Liv wiped away a tear. “Sorry I missed it. So when are you going back?”

“Nah . . . I did my bit. Bixby wanted the murder weapon. He has it.” I hadn't mentioned to Liv or Amber Lee my other reason for not wanting to go back. My father had managed to avoid me for about twenty years. I hoped to honor the family tradition and avoid him for another twenty.

“You're just going to sit this one out?” she asked.

“Yup. Bixby might work at the pleasure of the mayor, but I'm a florist. No law says I have to protect and serve. I looked it up on the computer before you came in.” I'd also looked up aconite poisoning, but as it would weaken my argument for not wanting to be involved in the case, I didn't mention my research to Liv.

“Well, maybe you don't have to go back. What did you say the victim's name was?”

“I don't recall mentioning it.”

Liv put her hands on her hips and glared at me. It might look menacing if she weren't five-three and cute as a proverbial button. Or as a bachelor's button, which, thankfully, were forgotten and probably rotting in the box back at the encampment. I caved anyway. “Brooks. Barry Brooks.”

She marched to the computer, hit three keys, and smiled. “You are such a liar.”

“What?”

“I type in three keys, and ‘Barry Brooks' pops up. You've been searching already.”

Amber Lee came back and tossed some floral foam into the sink.

“I may have Googled him,” I admitted, “just out of idle curiosity.”

“And yet you're telling me you have no intention of getting involved in this case,” Liv said. “Why?”

“Look, I don't have to be involved.” I drained my coffee cup while I planned my argument. “I'm sure Bixby doesn't want me involved—”

Amber Lee cleared her throat. “Think again.”

“What?” I said.

“Either he had a doozy of a blowout with Mrs. Bixby and he's thinking about buying her flowers . . .”

“Never gonna happen,” Liv said. Kane Bixby's allergies were legendary.

“Or he wants to talk with one of us,” Amber Lee continued. “He's passed the shop at least three times.”

“You're kidding.” I went to the doorway and peeked through the shop. Sure enough, Kane Bixby, a bulging folder tucked under his arm, stood uncomfortably in front of the bay window. Then he tented his eyes and peered inside. I waved at him.

He waved back.

“This just got weird,” I said.

“Better go talk to him,” Liv said.

I hung my apron on the hook and walked through the shop. He was still out front when I pulled open the door and joined him on the sidewalk.

“Miss Bloom,” he said.

“Something I can do for you?” I asked.

“I'd like to talk with you.” He gestured down the street, where the sidewalk tables from the Brew-Ha-Ha were getting the morning sun. “Coffee?”

He didn't wait for me to answer, just started walking down the street in long strides that made me half jog to keep up.

“I'm not sure I have anything to add to the statement I already gave you.”

He opened the door. No sunny table for me today. The air-conditioning and the aroma of coffee were pleasant enough, though. We ordered at the counter, where the display of scones and other baked goods fresh from Nick Maxwell's bakery tempted my eyes. But I was good. (I only ordered one.) We carried our drinks to a large table near the window before he spoke.

“I didn't actually ask you here to go over your statement.” He pushed his coffee cup to the side of the table and opened the folder. “I have the statements here from the other witnesses at that compound. I wondered if you'd be . . . well, I'd like if you'd look over them with me.”

I practically choked on my scone. “Like, work with you?”

“As my receptionist has pointed out to me on more than one occasion, just this morning, in fact, sometimes a fresh set of eyes on a problem helps put everything in perspective. Foley can't or won't offer me more men to work on this. I can't pull mine from Ramble to work on something outside their jurisdiction. So I wondered . . .”

“What about Lafferty?”

“His day off. And he and my daughter are off making wedding plans. She'd kill me if I called him in to work.” Bixby sipped his coffee. “He, on the other hand, might thank me.”