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Authors: Janis Harrison

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BOOK: Roots of Murder
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Her jaw went slack. She recovered enough to demand, “How did you—”
I cut her off in midsentence by squawking my tires on the pavement.
“Damned woman,” I said aloud.
There were three fast-food restaurants in the ten blocks to my flower shop. In my present mood, I saw each of the three as pitfalls. I passed the first, my eyes straight ahead. Before I lost weight, I'd head immediately for food when my emotions got out of kilter. It didn't matter what I ate. Half a box of Hostess cupcakes—a bag of chips. At the second restaurant, I hesitated,
even went so far as to reach for my turn signal. Still I drove on.
After my encounter with Allison, I felt that same old need to stuff my face. I told myself I was frustrated, irritated, and aggravated. I was
not
hungry. I guess I wasn't very convincing. At the third restaurant, I moved out of traffic and zoomed into line at the drive-through window.
I fumed as I waited for my turn to order. Leray and Allison. Who'd contacted whom? A strange alliance, at first glance, but self-serving to both. Bottom line, they wanted Isaac's flowers. Did Isaac's death prompt one to call the other with this deal? Or had something been afoot before Isaac died?
“Your order, please,” said the scratchy voice over the intercom.
“A double cheese—” I stopped. I couldn't say it. My toes curled in my sneakers. “Nah,” I said. “Make that a Diet Coke.”
At the take-out window, I ignored the smells wafting out. I paid, accepted the Coke, and drove the remaining blocks to the shop. I should have been proud of my willpower. All I felt was deprived.
During business hours I park in the alley. Today I took a spot out front. The shop windows were dark, the CLOSED sign in place. Lois hadn't been too busy if she could lock up on time.
The name of my business was painted above the door: THE FLOWER SHOP. Not very original, but its simplicity suits me. If I had to answer the phone thirty times a
day with something cutesy, I'd gag. I guess my inventive competitors were less prone to nausea. Besides Allison's Pick a Posie, there were Perfect Petals, Fragrant Flowers, Buds and Blooms, and my personal favorite, Whoopsie Daisy.
My shop is narrow but deep, the entry door squarely in the middle with a display window on each side. The window on the right had a Halloween theme. A witch rode her broom across a full amber moon made of Styrofoam and covered with shimmering satin. Polyester stuffing pulled into gossamer strands represented cobwebs. Huge black rubber spiders hid in corners, waiting patiently for their next victim.
I moved a few steps closer and activated a sensor. The biggest spider, about the size of my hand, sprang at the glass. Its jaws opened to expose a blood red mouth. From a hidden microphone came a spine-tingling scream. Thanks to Lois's husband, Noah, a technical genius, my windows always have something special. The kids love it. The adults remember, and I have more than my share of River City's floral business.
On my left was the fall display. I eyed it critically. Lois had replaced the big grapevine wreath with a smaller one. The balance was off, but it didn't look bad. Monday would be soon enough to make something else.
I slipped the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Like a soothing emollient, aromas rushed to greet me. Roses, cinnamon, eucalyptus. I breathed deeply and locked the door behind me. In the shadows, I closed my eyes. It had been a tough morning. I needed to regroup.
This little piece of real estate was more familiar than any room at home. I knew every nook and cranny. I sipped my Diet Coke. It's a sorry life I lead to receive this kind of pleasure from walking through the door. My work has always been important to me. But after Carl died, the shop became my mate, my lover, my best friend. I work hard, but I play with it, too. I can be as creative or innovative as the mood strikes. I can make changes without permission. I can buy, sell, set prices at my own discretion. In a nutshell, I can do as I damned well please. And that's the way I like it. That kind of freedom is worth a lot to me.
I left the lights off in the showroom but flipped the switch for the ones in my office and the workroom. All the floors had been swept and mopped. The trash had been carried out. The day's shipment of fresh flowers had arrived, and the front cooler was filled with Lois's arrangements. Her combination of colors and flowers sometimes shocks me, but she has customers who ask specifically for her, so I keep my opinions to myself.
I headed for my desk. Since the call for the wreath hadn't come in before I left yesterday, I assumed Lois had received it this morning. I pulled out the batch of invoices for Saturday and flipped through them. Zero. Hmm—cash?
“Nothing wrong with that,” I murmured, scanning the cash receipts.
Second from the bottom, I found it. No name at the top. Today's date. The word “wreath” in the blank for description of merchandise. A sheet of wrinkled white
paper had been stapled to the invoice. I turned it over and read:
Florist:
Please place the fall wreath that's in your window at the site where those three boys died. Enclosed you'll find money for the wreath and the delivery charge for the Woodgrove area. The remaining cash is for your time.
No signature. Typewritten. Lois had made a note at the bottom of the invoice:
Bretta:
When I unlocked the shop this morning, I found the envelope crammed under the door. I took the deposit to the bank, but I put the
two
one hundred—dollar bills from this order in the money bag. The envelope is on your desk.
The way this order was placed and where it went gave me the heebie-jeebies.
The hairs on my neck gave an answering tingle.
The envelope was ordinary. No marks. No writing. Not even my shop's name typed across the front. I laid it aside, along with the invoice for the wreath and the letter. I wasn't sure what I had or if it was important.
Two hundred dollars was a lot more than the average person would spend on a wreath that would sit on a country road. My delivery fee to Woodgrove is eight dollars. Why all the secrecy in making the order? Why all the extra money?
I knew Lois would have stashed the zippered pouch in its usual hiding place. I went to the holding cooler and switched on the light. It was there in the left-hand corner, nestled behind a container of flowers.
As I reached for the pouch, I saw a few of Isaac's flowers. Thoughtfully, I ran a finger over the golden petals of a zinnia. Something niggled at me. Some impression I'd gotten looking at Isaac's field. Or was it something someone had said this morning? What was it? It was so damned frustrating. The more I tried to remember, the more other thoughts intruded.
I unzipped the pouch and took out the two hundred-dollar bills. Old bills; not those new ones that look like Monopoly money. On impulse, I sniffed them. Odd. I sniffed again. Very, very subtle,
With the refrigerated air circulating among the flowers, I could be mistaken. Holding the money by the corners, so my scent wouldn't be on them, I stepped into the workroom.
This time when I put the bills to my nose, I was sure I smelled something other than my own shop. I know its scent. I also know Lois's. She likes dramatic fragrances. This was sweet, light, and faintly musty. As if the bills had been tucked away near powder or sachet.
Was I reaching here? Maybe. But I didn't want to lose this scent. I looked around the workroom for something to put the money in. My eyes lighted on the corsage work center. On the shelf were plastic boutonniere bags. Carefully, I tucked the money in the bag, worked the trapped air out, and taped it shut.
At my desk, I picked up the letter and sniffed it. I thought it smelled like the money, but I couldn't be sure. To be on the safe side, I removed the staple from the invoice and stored the letter in another plastic bag.
I sat in my chair, proud that I'd preserved evidence. Then I scowled. Evidence of what? Was I being ridiculous? With Isaac's murder uppermost in my mind, was I looking for foul play around every curve?
“Curve of the road?” I mumbled, thinking of the three dead teenagers. Hmm. Had the driver been distracted? By what? The accident had been investigated
by the Missouri Highway Patrol. Surely, if foul play were suspected, they'd be hot on the trail. I'd heard nothing, not even a whisper that the wreck was anything more than an accident. So why did I feel uneasy? The wreath. It came back to that wreath, and the way the order had been delivered.
I closed my eyes and heard Carl's voice in my ear. “Let it alone until you have more information.” I opened my eyes and sighed. Good advice, but where was I supposed to look for this mysterious data? I waited, but this time Carl's voice was irritatingly silent.
The ice in my Coke had melted. An experimental sip told me I didn't want any more of it. Beads of moisture had run down the paper cup and left a ring on a trade magazine I'd planned to read. I reached for a tissue. As I wiped the glossy cover, I saw that my subscription was about out. Stamped on the front were the words: ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION HAS EXPIRED. TIME TO RENEW!
“Annual?” I murmured. “Annuals?”
My brain kicked in. That's what had been bothering me in the cooler. To make sure I was on the right track, I pulled a flower catalogue from a shelf. Next, I hunted up my last invoice from River City Wholesale Floral Company. Item by item, I went down the list, checking each type of flower against its description in the catalogue:
Celosia—Yes
Cosmos—Yes
Zinnias—Yes
Except for the baby's breath, all the flowers in Isaac's
field were annuals. It was September. Missouri is usually hit with a killing frost in October. Once the night temperatures drop, the flowers die.
So why all the hoopla over Isaac's flowers? At the most there might be three more weeks of cutting time. Nature would take its course, the flowers would be gone, and Detweiler would get his way. Hodges wouldn't make that much money from three cuttings. Why was he so anxious to get control of the flowers? Or was it Allison who wanted control? Had she roped in Hodges? I shrugged. Regardless of who had contacted whom, the question was why. Why all this interest in a bunch of flowers that would be dead in a few weeks?
I rubbed my eyes wearily. My stomach rumbled, letting me know it was time to put something in it. Something healthy, not a double cheeseburger, though my mouth watered at the thought.
The invoice from River City Wholesale Floral Company lay on my desk. Noting the phone number under the letterhead, I impulsively dialed. It was a long shot that anyone would answer on a Saturday afternoon.
To my surprise, a man picked up the receiver and growled, “Damnit, Louise, I said I'd be home by four.”
“Uh … is this River City Wholesale?” I asked.
Silence greeted my question. I pictured his indecision. He could either admit I had the right number and therefore have to deal with me, or he could say I'd misdialed.
I waited to see which way he'd go. Finally, he sighed.
“Yes, this is River City Wholesale, but we're closed. Today is Saturday.”
“I'm sorry to bother you. This is Bretta Solomon. I have the Flower Shop.”
“Which shop?”
“The Flower Shop. Solomon. On Hawthorn.”
“Oh, yeah. The big wom—good customer,” he amended hastily. “This is Moth, but if you're calling about your statement, you'll have to wait until Monday when Cheryl's in her office.”
“This isn't about my statement, Mr. Moth. I'd like to drive out and talk to you.”
“About what?”
I should have thought this out more carefully. What did I want to talk to him about? Not Isaac's murder. Sid would cover that. Keep it simple. “Isaac Miller's flowers,” I ventured.
“From what I understand, the flowers will be here at the usual time. Place your order, and we'll do the rest.”
So Moth already knew the flowers would be delivered on schedule. Interesting. Leray Hodges was on the ball. He'd talked to Allison. He'd talked to Moth. What else had he been up to?
“This isn't about the delivery,” I said. “I think it might be in your best interest if you'd talk to me. I won't take up too much of your time.” I glanced at my watch. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I don't know what this is about, but … all right. Come to the side door on the east. Go up the stairs. My
office is at the end of the hall.” He laughed lightly. “You can't miss it.”
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up before he could change his mind.
I switched off the lights, picked up the two plastic bags containing the money and the letter, and hurried out to my car. I didn't want to stuff the packets in my purse, so I locked them in the glove compartment.
My destination was across town on the outer fringes of the city. I'd given myself a deadline of fifteen minutes. I took a shortcut past the county courthouse, traveled down Truman Avenue, then hung a right on Duvall. This put me in the older section of town. Here the streets were narrow, some still paved with bricks. After several blocks, I made a left onto Carriage Road. Its claim to fame was as the historical starting point from where the rest of the town had taken shape. The street hugged the bluffs, and at one point I caught a glimpse of the river in the distance.
River City was founded in 1810 by a group of pioneers, lost in the vast Missouri wilderness, on their trek west. They'd come to the Osage River, had made camp to discuss their next move, then never left.
The group's leader, James Horton, has been credited with being blessed by divine guidance when he settled here. I had my own opinion. I'd seen a portrait of Horton's wife hanging in the River City Museum. Stern eyes, stubborn jaw, generous mouth. I figured Hattie Horton had grown tired of her husband's wanderlust.
Unwilling to take another step, she'd dug in her heels and proclaimed this stretch of virgin Missouri soil home. I liked to think that Hattie was the original “liberated” woman. She'd stood up for her rights, pointed out that she was tired of weevils in her food, baths in a creek, and wheels under her butt. Now, years later, River City residents were profiting from her taking a stand.
With two minutes to spare, I pulled into the warehouse parking lot. At one time the two-story gray building had been a livestock auction barn and slaughterhouse. The holding pens were long gone, the cattle trailers replaced with a fleet of burgundy delivery vans. On the ground floor were the supply rooms where items of the floral trade were stocked. The room-size coolers that had once chilled freshly killed animals now held flowers.
As I got out of my car, I thought about J. W. Moth. I usually deal with a sales rep, or I do my ordering over the phone. I didn't know Moth personally, but I'd seen him presiding over the open house the company held twice a year—springtime and Christmas. He was a prissy little man, fastidious in his appearance. Every hair, what there was of it, always in place.
After crossing the parking lot, I rounded a corner of the building and found a door helpfully marked OFFICE. I tested the knob. It was unlocked as promised. I opened it and was confronted by a long, steep flight of dusty wooden stairs. I tilted my head back and saw another door at the top.
I heaved a sigh and started the climb. By the time I reached the last step, my feet were dragging, my breath coming in painful gasps.
“Gotta get more exercise,” I wheezed. When I could breathe normally, I swung open the door. “We spare no expense” was the cynical thought that ran through my brain.
The corridor was dingy, illuminated by three bare bulbs, their wattage more in keeping with a spook show than a place of business. To my right was an alcove with two vending machines. A trail of round blotches on the beige carpet gave evidence of sloppy practices. I followed the path and saw that the spots ended at the door to billing. I vowed to look over my statement with a more critical eye if this was any indication of the people who manned the computers.
All but one door was closed, the rooms dark behind frosted glass. From the one open door, sunshine pooled in the hall, and I hurried toward it.
I paused to let my eyes adjust to the light, then raised my hand to knock. I froze before I could connect with the door frame. Pecan paneling, aqua carpeting, and an outside wall made of glass were the grandiose setting of a room that was a “road kill” museum.
Two squirrels were staged on a tree branch that was suspended from the ceiling. A skunk peeked at me from behind a woven basket. Deer heads were mounted on the walls. An opossum was frozen in time, his glassy eyes stretched wide, as if amazed at his predicament.
Moth stood smiling behind his desk. His face was
thin, his eyes dark and direct. Narrow lips and a pointed chin did nothing for his physical appearance.
“Mrs. Solomon?” he squeaked in a high-pitched voice. “I haven't seen you for a while.” His eyes grazed my face, then meandered in a long, lazy stroll down the length of my body. “You've changed,” he said softly. “Very nice. Very nice indeed.”
Did he think I'd be interested in him? Only when these animals could twitch their tails.
When I continued to stand in the doorway, Moth gave me a smile that made his lips disappear. “Won't you come in?” he invited.
I nodded politely. I perched on the chair he offered and forced myself to sit quietly and not crane my neck. It wasn't until Moth took a seat that I saw the snake. It lay in a glass case on the corner of his desk. As big around as a kindergartner's pencil, the creature looked to be two feet long. Its color was the same shade of Nile green as the apples I'd been forbidden to eat as a child. The snake moved, and I felt the same queasiness I'd had then when I'd snitched too many apples.
BOOK: Roots of Murder
2.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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