Bloom and Doom (10 page)

“With clotted cream,” she mumbled as I closed her door, leaving her to sleep it off.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, I found Nick was in the kitchen, stripping off a pair of loose-fitting food service gloves. He tossed them in the kitchen trash can, then washed his hands in the sink. “How’d it go?”

“She’ll sleep it off now,” I said. “I hope.”

“Do we dare leave her keys?” Nick asked.

“I don’t see why not. Her car must still be parked somewhere in town, and that’s a long walk from here. She can pick it up later when she’s sober.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear what she said.” Nick held the door open for me. “Sad.”

“You know, Ellen hasn’t been to see Jenny. I thought she was mad at her. But it sounds more like she’s blaming herself for trying to get Derek and Jenny together.”

“I heard that part—something about gambling.” He held the passenger-side door open for me. No riding in the back this time. The smell had crept into the cab of the truck, so I rolled down my window.

When Nick climbed in, he did the same. “It’s not true, though.”

“Derek didn’t gamble? Or was he involved in more than gambling?”

Nick laughed as he backed out of the driveway and turned onto the road. “I’m afraid I didn’t know Derek well enough to answer that. I just meant that sometimes a little gambling isn’t a little thing—and it takes more than the right woman to make it all work.”

I’d been thinking the same thing, so I just nodded.

“My uncle, he started out with just lottery tickets. He’d blow twenty a week on them. And then something awful happened. He won. Won a million-dollar instant prize.”

“Awful because . . .”

“At first it didn’t seem so bad. He paid off his house, bought new cars for himself and his wife. Sent his kids to college. Did all those things people say they’ll do if they win it big. Except he kept buying lottery tickets. Then a trip to Atlantic City. Then Vegas, with enough little wins to keep him coming back. In just a few years, the money had all trickled through his fingers. He took out a mortgage on his house, trying to win the money back, then got involved in a number of get-rich schemes—some of them on the shady side. Soon my aunt left him. Now he has nothing. So it kind of fits.”

“Fits?”

“If Derek had a gambling problem, then he likely had a money-acquisition problem. Who knows what he was involved in, what kinds of shady deals he might have been part of?”

“So you’re thinking one of his shady gambling connections might have killed him.” I stared out the window, watching the green hills and white-fenced farms of Virginia streak by the passenger window. It made sense—at least more sense than Jenny killing Derek.

But with the chief investigating Jenny, someone needed to investigate Derek. I contemplated how to do this. Derek’s parents. Derek’s business associates. Derek’s well-heeled friends.

Before long, Nick pulled into the alley behind the Rose in Bloom.

“Thanks so much for helping me.” I reached for the door handle.

“No problem,” he said.

“Except for the carpet.”

“I’ll just rip it out a little earlier than I planned. Nothing to worry about—and certainly not your fault.”

I smiled at him.

“Audrey?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been meaning . . . well, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

I turned toward him and pulled a strand of hair behind my ear. This might be it. Did he feel that moment, too, the electrical charge between us? And more important, was I ready to date again? And was he even free to date? After all, he must have given all those flowers to somebody.

“I was thinking that . . . well, when you mentioned the bridal magazines, I thought that maybe . . .”

He turned forward, staring straight ahead, and tapped the steering wheel. He bit his lower lip before continuing. “Well, since you do flowers and I do cake, I thought that maybe we could collaborate . . .”

“Collaborate?”

“Yeah. Like decorating cakes and cupcakes with fresh flowers. So they match the bouquets and centerpieces. It could be a great service for both of us to add.”

He turned back to me, his eyes pleading. It was my turn to stare out the front window. I’d have to call an electrician about my faulty romantic electricity meter. I’d been certain that he felt a spark, too.

“Sure. We could do that.” I reached out to open my door, and he switched off the engine. When he climbed out of the cab, I turned back.

“You don’t need to walk me in. I’m fine from here.”

“I just remembered what I came here for in the first place. I was hoping you might have some small bouquets ready.”

Oh, yes, the mysterious recipient of Nick’s flowers. What a nice guy, coming in to buy flowers but still taking time out to help me carry Ellen Whitney home.

Whoever this mystery lady was, I hoped she appreciated him.

After Nick purchased a cute little bouquet of
delphinium (
fun
,
levity
) and daisies (
cheerfulness, innocence
) and left, I felt like such a slacker. Of course, my feet screamed in my shoes and I would have loved a nap, but I feared I hadn’t done my share around the shop. While I’d been running errands for Jenny and escorting her drunken mother back home, Liv, Amber Lee, and Shelby had constructed even more funeral arrangements. They also must have taken in another order of flowers from somewhere, since our cooler still bulged with new blooms to work with. The fact that not a peach rose was among them I found a tad disconcerting. Of course, Liv was now assembling arrangements with the phone tucked against her shoulder, taking orders and fielding questions while her fingers worked automatically.

Still, I had a nagging feeling that although we’d done so much for the funeral already, we hadn’t officially paid our respects to the Rawling family.

“Liv, what do you say we take this next batch over a little early? Then the second the last guest leaves, we can cart the flowers in.”

Liv sagged onto her worktable. This work was taking a lot out of her, and I hated to add more to her plate. I saw her glance at the stack of work orders still remaining, if not growing.

“You should do it,” Shelby said. “We’ll have more help. The girls are coming back tonight, and I told them to expect it to be an all-nighter. They were pretty excited about the prospect.” He gave us a look down his nose. “Little do they know.”

“And I’d be happy to hold down the shop,” Amber Lee said. “I hate to wish ill of somebody, but if more important people in town died, I’d be able to replace my roof. Leastwise, now I can afford a repair.”

From anyone else, the statement might seem mercenary. But I suspected Amber Lee was helping us not to feel guilty about all the long hours we were putting them through, letting us know that they were willing and being compensated for their work.

“You’re right,” Liv said. “We’ll go a little early.”

After a quick freshening up, Liv and I were presentable to visit the Rawling estate. Well, without time for a full spa makeover and a NYC shopping excursion with a personal style consultant, we did the best we could.

We left Darnell in charge of the running van parked in the back while we walked around to the front porch, probably best called a veranda, unless some architect had coined some even more highfalutin name. We joined other arriving guests who’d left their high-end car with a servant who parked it. Valet parking. Who knew? I wondered if you were supposed to tip them. Good thing we parked out back.

As we walked in the double doors to the foyer (pronounced “fo-yay,” I learned last time), Worthington’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly, but he did nothing more than direct us into the parlor.

Friends and family milled around, surrounded by flowers, reminding me how many trips Liv had taken since the last time I’d been there. She’d done a fantastic job. Across the foyer, other guests served themselves from trays of pastries and sandwiches. Miranda Rawling held court in a Queen Anne chair—which probably traced its origins back to Queen Anne herself—near the casket.

I looked again at Derek.

“How natural he looks. Doesn’t he look natural?”

I winced at the remark of the older gentleman behind me. Nothing was natural about this whole situation. Derek didn’t belong dressed in his best suit, lying in a casket in the parlor. He belonged racing down the streets of Ramble in that silly car of his.

But if the answer to Derek’s death lay in his life—in his gambling or other associates, as Nick suggested—I’d need to know more about Derek, certainly more than his lifeless form could tell me. I started to make my way over to Miranda Rawling.

Miranda’s dark hair was cut into a chic bob. Since every hair was always in place, I once wondered if she wore a wig made of some space-age technology that appeared natural but always bounced into shape. But no, she was just the kind of person who is naturally all put together. Her hair, her jewelry, her clothing, her makeup, were all flawless. All the time.

This day, she wore a tailored navy suit with a demure gold and blue sapphire necklace and earrings, which caught every ray of light and brought out the color in her cool blue eyes, so similar to Derek’s. Matching blue pumps looked like they never stepped outside, much less managed Ellen Whitney’s stone driveway. As we approached her, she glanced at her watch, probably thinking we were early for a delivery.

Liv offered her hand. “We’re so sorry about Derek.”

Miranda grasped it. “Thank you, my dear. That’s so nice of you to say.”

Of course, Liv stole my line, and I refused to remark on how good or natural Derek looked. So I just stood there and nodded. So much for being the intrepid investigator. But how did one, in polite company, ask someone’s mother about who might have killed her son? Or about what kinds of secrets he was keeping that could have led to his death? Grandma Mae hadn’t covered that in any of our etiquette lessons.

Or maybe she had. One might ask like any Southern lady did. The indirect way, of course.

“It’s hard to imagine anyone doing something so vicious to someone so young and with so much promise as Derek.” That was a start.

Instead of meeting my statement with a squeeze of the hand and a “thank you for coming,” as she had all expressions of sympathy since we’d arrived, Miranda Rawling swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Her response was barely audible. “I tried to warn him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I did. I tried to talk Derek out of the wedding, warned him not to trust that girl. But he and his father were so taken by that sweet little act of hers.”

“Act?” Repeat what they say as a question. Somehow I mixed my Southern lady methods with Psychology 101. A potent combination. If anyone ever truly rules the whole world, a soft-spoken Southern woman with a degree in psychology would be the most likely candidate. And nobody will even know they’re being ruled. In fact, maybe it’s already happening.

“When you get older you’ll realize people aren’t always what they seem.” She lowered her voice again, drawing us closer. “Looked all wholesome and innocent, that one. Jonathan assured me that she would be a good influence on Derek.” Miranda’s features turned hard and her eyes flashed. “He talked like my boy was some hoodie-wearing, tattoo-covered delinquent and that girl was some kind of angel, rather than the conniving, manipulating gold digger she turned into.”

“Jenny?”

“Who else?” Miranda looked up, but she spoke to the air just to my right. “I know she’s a friend of yours, Audrey.” She turned her gaze back to me and pressed my hand. “But I won’t hold that against you. She fooled so many.”

That was big of her. But then I kicked myself for my snarky thought. If she believed Jenny guilty, it
was
big of her. “Thank you,” I stammered. “I must admit, though, I’m still not convinced. I mean, I know what it looks like, but all the evidence seems so circumstantial. I don’t understand how. Or why.”

“I do. And it’s far from just circumstantial. When the chief saw what I’d found . . .”

When she trailed off and looked around, I waited. While I didn’t think Miranda would respond to nosy questions from her florist, she struck me as a woman who’d get her points across in her own time.

She remained silent as Worthington picked up some discarded dishware set on a nearby table. When he passed out of earshot, she continued. “I was looking for Derek’s tie—the one his father picked for him had a snag, so I made the funeral director change it. I found her so-called love letters hidden in his closet. In a bag hanging under one of his suit jackets. It’s where he used to hide all those mag . . . well, let’s just say boys will be boys.”

“Why would he hide letters from his fiancée? Are you sure they were from Jenny?”

“Well, they weren’t signed with her name—just some nickname. Bunny. What grown woman in her right mind calls herself Bunny? Maybe she fancied herself some kind of sex kitten. The letters were rather . . . explicit.”

“But how does that tie Jenny in to Derek’s murder?” Liv asked, while I wondered when I last heard someone use the term “sex kitten.”

Miranda wiped an imaginary crumb from her lapel. “I couldn’t bring myself to read all the letters, you understand. But I did skim them. And what started out all lovey-dovey quickly turned demanding. Demanding that he come see her. Demanding that he spend all his time with her. Threatening him if he didn’t . . . Threatening herself.”

“But Jenny planned to break up with him,” I said.

“Oh, Audrey.” Miranda shook her head. “Oldest ploys in the book. Make yourself unavailable, and the men come running. Make yourself pathetic, and they run to protect you.”

I guess Miranda and I learned from different books. Maybe that was my problem. I came off as too available and men stayed away. And maybe not pathetic enough, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there.

“If only Derek had come to me, trusted me with the letters earlier. Maybe I could have helped him. Women can see through other women much more clearly, don’t you agree?”

Possibly. But if Jenny was a domineering killer, my feminine intuition needed a tune-up. Still, I reasoned that if I could take a peek at those letters, I could get a better idea where Jenny’s head was at the time. Or maybe understand more about their relationship—or even what else Derek was involved in. “Where are these letters now?”

“Why, with Chief Bixby, of course.”

Of course.

• • •

Before our visit
ended, I managed to score a scone. It was as good as Ellen Whitney claimed. Still warm. Dense, but not hard. Slightly crumbly, slightly chewy, with a to-die-for citrus glaze giving it just the right amount of sweetness.

Soon visitors cleared out. The caterers cleaned up the refreshments for the afternoon and began to lay out the refreshments for the evening. Liv, Darnell, and I toted in even more flowers. Liv brought along a pail of assorted blooms so we could fix anything damaged in transport or wilted from sitting in the room for a while. But little of that was needed.

When we’d arranged everything to our satisfaction, which even got a nod from the reticent Worthington, we packed up and headed out. Darnell drove the van back to the store, and Liv and I followed. As we approached the turnoff to Old Hill Road, I flipped my turn signal on.

“Where are we going?” Liv asked. “Listen, kiddo. Don’t tell me you want to moon over that cottage again. And when there’s so much to do.”

“No, you were there when Miranda told us about the letters she found.”

“Yes, and why all the questions?”

“I hardly asked any questions, if you recall.”

Liv crossed her arms in front of her. “You and I both know that you didn’t have to. But I could see you were digging for something. But what has that got to do with Grandma Mae’s cottage?”

“We’re not going to Grandma Mae’s cottage. We’re going to Mrs. June’s house.”

“Mrs. June? Oh, Audrey. Tell me you’re not planning to pump that old woman for information.”

“Better not let her hear you call her an old woman. And I doubt pumping will be necessary. I talked to her this morning, and she’s as concerned about Jenny as I am—and just as convinced that Bixby’s barking up the wrong tree.”

“But should we get involved? Surely the police . . .”

I sent her a withering glance—possibly the worst look you can give a florist.

“Okay, maybe not the police. But there’s got to be someone else. Maybe Jenny’s lawyer could hire a private investigator or something.”

“Jenny’s lawyer is a public defender who hasn’t even been able to manage bail. Even if they did hire a PI, it would be someone who didn’t know Jenny, didn’t know Derek, and didn’t know Ramble.” And Ramble wouldn’t know him—which would slow down the process even more. Small towns work that way.

“Still . . .” Liv hesitated as I negotiated Mrs. June’s gravel driveway. “What makes you think you can clear Jenny? Or are you trying to play detective and figure out who killed Derek?”

I turned off the engine and looked at her. “Liv, I don’t know that I can. And I assure you that I’m not playing. I only know I need to try.”

Liv and I stared at each other. In another time or place, our staring contest would have melted into childish giggles. But not this time. She reached into the backseat and gathered flowers from the bucket.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Well, we might not have to pump information from Mrs. June, but it never hurts to prime a little.”

I hadn’t the heart to tell Liv that I’d already given Mrs. June flowers earlier. But those were for her office. I doubted she’d complain about flowers for her home.

Seconds later, we were knocking on Mrs. June’s back door.

When she swung it open, Mrs. June looked just like I always remembered her at home. Relaxed, wearing a cozy flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers.

“Why, Audrey, what a pleasure to see you again so soon.” She stepped back so we could enter. “And Liv, it’s great to see you.”

Liv leaned in to kiss Mrs. June on the cheek, then handed her the impromptu bouquet. It looked casual and lovely and set off the colors of Mrs. June’s kitchen, and she oohed and aahed over them for a good minute before she invited us to sit at her kitchen table. Her signature orange chocolate cake beckoned from under a glass cover, and soon we had large slices sitting in front of us while Mrs. June ran fresh tap water into a vase.