Evil In Carnations (11 page)

“What’s wrong with her, Grace?”

“I’d venture to say it’s either her gallbladder or a case of gastritis,” Grace said.

I prayed she was right, that it wasn’t a heart attack. I didn’t even want to think about the possibility of losing Lottie.

Five minutes later, the paramedics arrived, and after a brief check, they put Lottie on a gurney to take her to the hospital. As they pulled away with siren blaring and lights flashing, I saw Marco coming up the sidewalk toward Bloomers, concern etched on his masculine features. He stepped into the store, spotted me standing at the bay window, and visibly sighed in relief.

“I was afraid something happened to you.”

“Lottie’s ill,” I said. “Grace thinks it’s her stomach or gallbladder.”

“I’ll call Herman,” Grace said, and headed off to phone Lottie’s husband.

“I hope it’s not a heart attack,” I said.

Marco put his arms around me. “I hope not, too, but in any case, we’ve got excellent trauma care at the hospital. Lottie will be in good hands.”

The bell over the door chimed as one of the poetesses came into the shop. “Where is everyone?” she asked, glancing into the empty parlor. “Am I early?”

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Marco said. “If there’s any news, let me know.”

Fifteen minutes later, twelve sprightly senior citizens showed up for their weekly poetry session. Grace served tea and scones to the group, answered the phone, and waited on customers, while I worked on my orders, some of which had to be delivered by the end of the day.

At four o’clock, Herman Dombowski called from the hospital to say that Lottie had gastritis and was receiving an antibiotic. Her doctor felt she’d be home within a day or two. I was so relieved, my eyes filled with tears. Grace’s did, too, but she claimed it was her allergies and left the room.

Then, half an hour before closing time, Jillian breezed in. Tossing her coat over a stool, she drew back her long hair with a tortoiseshell comb, pushed up her sleeves, and said, “Okay, I’m ready to roll. Where’s Lottie?”

“
S
orry to disappoint you,” I said, pushing strands of hair from my face, “but Lottie was rushed to the hospital this afternoon with gastritis.”

Jillian stopped modeling her caramel-colored suede slacks and cashmere sweater in front of one of the shiny stainless-steel walk-in coolers. “How awful! Do they have to operate?”

“Apparently all she needs is an antibiotic and rest.”

“I’ll have to send her a get-well card tomorrow.” With a last backward glance at her reflection, she walked around to see what I was doing. “So what are we making?”

“A funeral wreath.”

“I mean for my party.”

“See those slips of paper on that spindle on my desk? Half of them are orders that have to be delivered to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home before seven o’clock tonight. The rest have to be ready to go out in the morning.”

“Looks like someone has a long evening ahead of her. So what are we making for my party?”

Jillian wasn’t good at taking hints. “I can’t help you. All those orders are ahead of yours.”

“Here’s an idea. Let’s get mine done and then you can work on the others.”

“Here’s a better idea. Be creative. Find something else to use as a centerpiece.”

“Abby, you know I’m not creative.” She flipped back her long hair. “I got the looks, remember? You got the creative gene.”

I put down my clippers before I was tempted to use them on her hair, slid off the stool, opened one of the coolers, and scanned the buckets of flowers on the floor. “Jillian?”

As soon as my thickheaded cousin stepped in behind me, I handed her a small bucket filled with floral solution. “Choose the flowers you want in your arrangement and put them in here. Pick two dozen of whichever ones you like. And greenery for filler.”

I left her humming happily inside the cooler and returned to the funeral wreath. In ten minutes, Jillian was back with a bucketful of blossoms of various types, all in white. She put the bucket on the worktable and stepped back to admire them. “What do you think?”

“
Lilium
, stephanotis, Madonna Lily, daisy, camellia, spider mums . . . Very nice. I like your choice of greenery, too. Now choose a container.” I pointed to the back wall, covered with three long shelves stocked with pots, containers, and vases of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

“How am I supposed to choose from all those?”

“Easy. Find something to fit your color scheme that will look nice in the middle of your dining room table. You don’t want a tall container or your guests won’t be able to see over your arrangement. Something low-profile, maybe oval, would be nice.”

While Jillian perused the shelves, I finished the wreath, stored it in the other walk-in cooler, and pulled the next order from the spindle.

“I like this one,” Jillian said, placing an opalescent white oval bowl beside her flowers.

“Great choice. Next comes the green foam.” I cut a hunk of wet foam to fit Jillian’s bowl, another for my container, then showed her how to fasten it securely to the bottom. Then, using a floral knife, I demonstrated how to trim the lower leaves from the stems, cut the stem to the desired length underwater, then insert the cut end into the foam.

“The tricky part,” I said as I worked on my own project, “is deciding on an overall shape for your design, such as triangular, round, low, Oriental, et cetera, and then figuring out where you want each flower to go. For instance, a spider mum is frilly and full, so to balance it out, you’d want to pair it with something sleek and elegant, such as a calla. See? Like this.” I paused to demonstrate with the arrangement in front of me. “Don’t worry if you have to redo them. Floral arranging takes a creative eye and a lot of experience.”

We both worked intensely for a while; then Jillian said, “How’s this?”

I glanced over at her arrangement and my mouth fell open. She had created a beautifully balanced, all-white centerpiece that was worthy of a photo in a florist’s magazine.

“It’s gorgeous. How did you do it?”

“I just imagined the oil painting of flowers hanging in my dining room.”

“You imagined it?”

“I stare at it every evening during dinner. Claymore isn’t the sparkling conversationalist he appears to be, you know.”

I nearly laughed out loud. Claymore appeared to be many things—nerdy, wimpy, and shy among them—but never a conversationalist, sparkling or otherwise.

“What’s the next step?” Jillian asked.

“You’re done. You just need to wrap it so you can carry it home.”

“How much do I owe you?”

That was a first. Jillian never paid for anything. “Don’t worry about it.”

She got her wallet from her purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “That should cover the cost of the flowers.”

I was stunned. “That’s way too much. I can’t accept that.”

“Then it’s for the floral lesson, too. Now, how do I wrap this? I’ve got to get home before the caterer arrives.”

Wow! Maybe there was hope for Jillian after all.

She picked up her arrangement and headed for the curtain, pausing to leave me with one last thought. “I never realized I had such a knack for flower arranging. I just might have to open my own flower shop.”

 

Grace waited until the coast was clear, then poked her head through the curtain. “It’s five o’clock, love. How are we doing?”

I glanced at the stack of orders. “I’ve got a long way to go.”

“If you have any funeral arrangements ready, I’ll take them over to Happy Dreams.”

I helped Grace load our leased minivan, then came back inside to hear my cell phone ringing. “Hey,” Marco said. “Any word on Lottie?”

I updated him on Lottie’s condition, then began to vent about Jillian, until he said, “It’s almost five thirty. Why don’t you come down for dinner and tell me all about it?”

“I’m not going to be able to make it, Marco. I’m still working on orders that have to be at Happy Dreams by seven tonight, and there’s more that have to go out in the morning.”

“Then I’ll bring dinner to you. See you in a few minutes.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Marco and I were sitting at the tiny counter in the kitchen discussing Nikki’s case while downing pulled-pork sandwiches and sweet-potato fries, a new addition to Down the Hatch’s menu.

“I’m going to start canvassing people in your apartment complex as soon as I finish here,” Marco said, polishing off his fries. “Chris is working a double shift to cover for me so I can get going on this. It could take a few days to catch everyone at home.”

“When I get these orders finished, I’ll join you. And by the way, this sandwich is great.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “As good as the pulled-pork sandwiches in Key West?”

“Is there any way I can answer that and not hurt your feelings?”

One corner of his mouth curved mischievously. “I can think of a way. Tell you what. You finish up here, I’ll do the canvassing, and we’ll meet up at your apartment later.”

“We can get the canvassing done a lot quicker if I help.”

“Abby, I know you’re in a hurry to clear Nikki, but you’ve got to respect Dave’s wishes. He told you not to get involved for a good reason—objectivity.”

I rolled my eyes. “I helped find the murderer when you were a suspect, didn’t I? So why is it so important that I be objective now?”

“Because otherwise you’re going into it with as much of an agenda as the cops have. They want to prove their suspect is guilty, so they’ll ignore any evidence to the contrary, while you’ll ignore any evidence that points to her guilt. See what I’m saying? An investigator’s mind-set has to be totally focused on seeking the truth no matter what the outcome.”

“I can do that, Marco.”

He folded his arms and leaned back. “Let me ask you a question: Is there any way Nikki could have killed Jonas, even accidentally?”

“No. She’s not a killer.”

“And there it is. You’re not being objective.”

“What I’m doing is weighing what I know to be true about Nikki against what the cops want to believe about her. Kind of a checks-and-balances system.”

“Considering how much Nikki kept from you, what
do
you know to be true about her?”

At once, Grace’s words came back to me—
You’ve heard the term “a lie by omission,” haven’t you, dear?
—and a sliver of doubt began to creep in. What if I didn’t know my best friend as well as I thought I did?

The phone rang, saving me from further argument, at least for the time being. I glanced at the screen and saw
Mom
on the caller ID. “It’s my mom,” I told Marco as I reached for the phone.

He balled up the paper from his sandwich, tossed it in the waste can, and rose. “Give her my best, okay?”

“You don’t have to leave,” I whispered.

“I need to start canvassing.” He gave me a kiss on the forehead, then headed for the back door. “See you later.”

“Hi, Mom! How was your weekend in Chicago?”

“Fun! We got back only an hour ago—but we can talk about that some other time. What’s this about Nikki being a suspect in a murder investigation?”

I groaned inwardly. I’d have to tell her just enough to satisfy her curiosity; otherwise I’d be on the phone for an hour explaining what happened, Mom would be up all night worrying, and everyone would suffer . . . except I was about to do what Nikki had done—lie by omission. Disturbingly, it came easier than I thought.

“Okay, here’s the story. Nikki went on a date with a guy she met last week, and, unfortunately, he was murdered later that night. So naturally the cops have to check her out. It’s routine stuff. Ask Dad if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t want to involve your dad unless I have to. You know how he worries.”

There was the pot calling the kettle black.

“Poor Nikki. Such a little lamb. I can only imagine how this is affecting her.”

Little lamb? Nikki was a gazelle. “She’s doing okay, Mom. She even went to work today. And speaking of work, I really have to get back to mine. I have orders to get over to Happy Dreams and more orders to go out tomorrow, so if I hear anything more, I’ll let you know.”

“Abigail, are you keeping something from me? Is there something else going on?”

Oh, no!
Had she heard about my trip with Marco? “Why would you think that?”

“You sound different, like when you were little and had a secret. A mother knows these things. Is there something you’re afraid to share with me?”

“Well . . . I don’t want to alarm you, Mom, but Lottie is in the hospital.”

 

Ten minutes later, I was off the hook, but only after assuring Mom I would send Lottie a get-well basket from her and my dad first thing in the morning. I finished the remaining funeral arrangements and took them over to Happy Dreams, then completed the orders for morning delivery, cleaned up the workroom, and wrote out a list of supplies to replenish.

When I finally dragged myself in the apartment door at nine o’clock that evening, Simon was waiting to greet me. To express his delight at having me home, he wound between my legs, becoming a moving obstacle course as I stumbled to the kitchen to fix his supper. Then, as he gulped down salmon, my cell phone began to chirp. I glanced at the screen and saw Marco’s name.

“I’m done canvassing for the night. Want me to come up?”

Like he needed to ask. I buzzed him in, then waited by the door, hoping for some good news. Marco stepped inside, gave me a kiss, then scratched Simon behind the ears.

“Want a beer, glass of wine, cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Water, thanks.”

“Did you have any trouble getting people in the building to talk to you?” I asked as Marco took off his leather coat and hung it over a chair back.