Evil In Carnations (16 page)

“Surprised?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Abigail loves surprises,” she told her audience. Then she beamed at me. I smiled back. She lifted her eyebrows. The women looked at one another, then at me. None of us knew what to say next.

Then my brilliant assistant glided up to our confused little assembly and said, “Dreadfully sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Abby is needed in the workroom.”

Grace to the rescue. I wanted to hug her, but that would have been a little too obvious. Making a hasty departure, I followed her to the back of the shop, where I whispered, “No amount of money could ever compensate you for saving me.”

Just before she pulled back the curtain she said, “Hold on to that thought.”

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the workroom and in a cheerful voice asked, “How’s it going, Jillian?” Grace did not follow me in.

“Oh, hi, Abs. Just one last touch and . . . voilà!” My cousin moved aside so I could see the arrangement on the table.

My mouth fell open. “It’s all white.”

“I know. Isn’t it pretty?”

“It’s not supposed to be white. I remember the order, and it definitely did not call for all-white flowers.” I circled the table for a closer look. “Jillian, it’s just like the one you did yesterday.”

She stood back to study it. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, I think so! You were supposed to make a funeral arrangement. You can’t take
that
to a funeral. It’s for a dinner party—or a wedding.” I ignored her protruding lower lip and glanced around. “Did you do the other two orders?”

“They’re in the cooler,” she said, pouting.

“Please tell me they’re not all white, too.”

She didn’t say a word. With a sinking feeling I pulled open the insulated door, and surprise! There sat two more all-white arrangements, clones of her original.

I pulled them out, plunked them on the worktable, and began to yank flowers from their foam bases. I hated surprises. One more just might tip me over the edge. “You told me you could imagine funeral arrangements, Jill.”

“I did imagine them, but somehow they kept turning out just like the one I did yesterday.”

I opened the other cooler and pulled more appropriate stems, then put them on the table beside the two nearly bare containers.

“Want the floral knife?” Jillian asked.

I held up my palm, warning her to keep away. In my frame of mind, I didn’t want a weapon in my hand while she was in the room. “I think you should go home now.”

“But it’s not five o’clock yet.”

“Go home. Now.”

“I was only trying to help,” she said in a little girl’s voice. When I didn’t reply, she picked up her coat, hat, and purse and slipped through the curtain.

I breathed a sigh of relief, believing that was the end of it, but ten minutes later she returned to gather up the remaining white arrangement.

“Where are you going with that?” I called.

“I just sold it—sight unseen,” she said proudly. “The customer said it was just what she was looking for.” Then the curtain fell behind her.

Muttering under my breath, I redid the other two arrangements and stowed them in the cooler. Just as I started on the next order, my mom breezed in.

“I’m going home now, honey. Your dad will be getting hungry.” She gave me a hug. “I’m so glad you like my new artwork.”

“It’s bold and sassy, Mom, just like you.” If only it were leaving, just like her.

“Your cousin liked it, too. And by the way, wasn’t that sweet of Jillian to help you out today?”

Jillian, Jillian, Jillian. I was really sick of hearing that name. But just as I was about to fill my mother in on all the trouble my cousin had caused, Mom added, “She bought it, you know.”

“Bought what?”

“
The Bowler.
Jillian is giving it to her mother for her birthday tomorrow.”

I had to cough to cover my laugh. Jillian was going to present Aunt Corrine with a huge psychedelic bowling pin? The same Aunt Corrine who’d hired an expensive interior designer to decorate her house in Far Eastern style, using pricey Oriental antiques? My aunt would throttle her.

Sweet.

 

Grace came into the workroom at five o’clock to give me a slip of paper with Carmen Gold’s business number on it and to announce that she had closed shop for the day. “How much longer will you be, love?”

I stuck the piece of paper in my purse, then glanced at the orders still to be completed. “Probably another two hours. I’m hoping to stop for a dinner break at six o’clock.”

“I think we should call a temp agency tomorrow to see about getting professional assistance, at least for our deliveries, until Lottie returns.”

“You’re right, Grace. I hate to spend additional money, but Jillian isn’t working out, and I need to have time to get my work done here and help with Nikki’s case.”

“Will your cousin be in tomorrow, do you think?”

“No, thank goodness. I made it perfectly clear that I was not pleased with her work.”

“Jillian isn’t one to take hints, though, is she? Well, let’s think good thoughts about it, then.” Grace paused to watch me put finishing touches on a spray. “Shall I deliver the funeral arrangements to Happy Dreams for you?”

“That would be a big help. Thanks.”

“Are there any errands I can run while I’m out? I have to drop off a dress at the dry cleaner’s on my way home. It wouldn’t be a bother if you needed anything.”

The dry cleaner’s? That gave me an idea. “You don’t happen to use Frey’s, do you?”

“Actually, I do. Why? Do I detect an ulterior motive? Never mind. I know the answer. My dress is in the coat closet.”

Who said I couldn’t find time to investigate?

 

Bundled in my wool coat, gloves, and scarf, and with a garment bag hanging over my shoulder, I trotted across the courthouse lawn to reach Lincoln Avenue, then hurried up the next three blocks to Frey’s Dry Cleaner. The family-owned business occupied the first floor of a World War I-era two-story white frame house, with living quarters on the second floor. A driveway ran past the dropoff window on the side of the building and exited onto the alley in back, where a small parking lot had been carved out of the yard.

I dodged a lumber truck backing up the driveway, carrying a load of drywall, and headed toward the deep porch on the front of the house. As soon as I stepped inside the house, I was enveloped in damp air laden with chemical solvents. I gazed around with interest at what had most likely been a parlor at one time. The walls were covered in sepia-toned wallpaper with sprays of pink roses on it, and had elegant crown molding at the top. But there the old charm ended. The floor was covered with industrial-grade carpeting, and a gray laminate counter ran along the back where five women and a man waited in line.

Iris Frey was standing behind the counter, looking
duller-less
in a beige smock over a white blouse. She was totally devoid of color except for the bright spots of pink above her hollow cheekbones and her stringy brown hair had curly wisps sticking up all over, no doubt due to the humidity. Behind her was a doorway through which I could see clothes in clear plastic bags hanging from an oval track on the ceiling, and hear hisses of steam, such as clothespresses might make. Overhead, I heard the sounds of electric drills and nail guns.

As I got in line, I noticed the women were listening to a conversation between Iris and the man, who appeared to be trying to renegotiate the price of his dry cleaning.

“It’s a dollar increase,” Iris told the guy with a shrug. “Everything costs more these days.”

“It’s a rip-off,” he snarled, throwing several bills on the counter. “I shouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay for five shirts to be washed and ironed. Next time I’ll take my business to a reputable establishment.”

The women sucked in their breaths as Iris’s small eyes narrowed and her face turned a blotchy red. Then, as the man stormed toward the door, she called, “Here’s an idea to save you a few bucks. Instead of spending your money to have your shirts dry-cleaned, donate them to the Salvation Army. They’ll clean them and put them on hangers, and the next morning you can buy them back for seventy-five cents apiece.”

“Up yours,” he called, letting the door slam behind him.

Iris opened and closed her fists, as though willing herself to be calm, then turned to her customers with a shrug. “Men! What can I say? They’re a lot like dry cleaners. They work fast and leave no ring.” She waited for a laugh, and when it didn’t come, she pretended to hold a microphone and said, “Is this thing on?”

The customers chuckled politely as Iris rang up the next ticket at her cash register. She stepped into the back room, switched on the oval track, waited for it to come around, then plucked a dress off the track. “Here you go, Hildy. See you next week, right? I’ll have a great new joke ready for you. And don’t forget to take a free newspaper.”

I waited my turn and when I finally laid Grace’s dress on the counter, I said, “Free newspapers—that’s a nice touch.”

Iris glanced at me. “Hey, I remember you from last Thursday. You’re the underground florist from . . . Wait, I know this one . . . Bloomers, right?”

“Good memory, Iris,” I called over a sudden loud drilling from above.

“Sorry about the noise,” she called back, just as the drilling stopped. “We’re having some rooms upstairs renovated.”

To put her in a genial mood before launching into serious questioning, I said, “So, as one businesswoman to another, is it cost-effective to hand out free newspapers?”

“Are you kidding? Nothing dirties clothes more than newsprint. Hey, here’s a question for you. When a man comes into your flower shop and it’s not Valentine’s Day, do you ask him, ‘What did you do?’ ”

I blinked. Was I supposed to answer that, or was it a joke?

“Get it?” she prompted. “What did he
do
?”

“That’s a good one, Iris. I’ll have to remember it.” If I ever used that joke, I’d have to ask Grace to kill me. “What did you think of the speed-dating event?”

“Complete waste of time. Would you fill out the top half of this ticket for me?”

“Sure.” I took the pen and filled in my name. “So you didn’t meet any likely prospects?”

“Go out with anyone from that bunch of apes? Not if you paid me.” She turned to place Grace’s dress on a pile of laundry in a low, canvas-sided pushcart. “How about you?”

“I wasn’t interested in anyone either. Wasn’t that shocking news about Jonas Treat being killed?”

She glanced over her shoulder, then covered one side of her mouth, as though there were someone else in the room to overhear us. In a confidential tone she said, “He had his share of enemies.”

“Really? For instance?”

She wagged her index finger at me, grinning. “Hey, you’re investigating this, aren’t you? Sure you are. You can’t fool a fool. Look, all I know is what I pick up from rumors—people are always gossiping in here—but have you ever heard of Hank Miller? He owned the farmland on the west side of town where Chateaux en Carnations is now.”

I cringed at Iris’s
cha-tux.
Jillian would slap her silly. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, Miller’s name has come up more than a few times, let me tell you. There was bad blood between him and Jonas. And that Lennox woman was going around town bad-mouthing Jonas, too, not that I ever met her, but you know, you hear things.”

“Robin Lennox, his former girlfriend?”

Iris’s upper lip curled in distaste. “That’s her, the witch.”

A strong opinion for someone who’d never met Robin. “What did she say about Jonas?”

“Oh, you know, what an a-hole he was, how he led her on, how she’d like to kill him.” Iris glanced at me, as though expecting a reaction. “Personally,” she continued, “I thought Jonas was a complete gentleman. He always treated me like a lady.”

“Was he one of your customers?”

“Indeed he was. He brought his dry cleaning here every Wednesday evening at five.”

That was a connection I hadn’t expected.

“He had the most gorgeous suits, I’ll tell you that. Italian silk, cashmere, wool, always the best.” She heaved a sad sigh and for a moment was lost in thought. Casting me a quick glance she added sheepishly, “I was just thinking about how I’ll miss those suits. You don’t find that kind of quality much in New Chapel.”

Iris was going to miss his
suits
? I had a feeling she meant Jonas but was too embarrassed to say so. And why the vitriol against Robin when Iris had never met her?

At that moment, an older version of Iris trudged out of the back room to retrieve the cart of clothes. She had the same overly large head and hollow-cheeked face, small eyes, and beige smock, and walked hunched over, as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. She had to be Mrs. Frey.

Iris glanced around with a start. “Excuse me,” she said to me, then turned to say quietly, “What are you doing here, Mama? I thought you left an hour ago.”

“What am I gonna do when that stupid girl calls me and says she can’t come in?” the older lady muttered. “You wanna tell the customers they can’t have their laundry on time?”

Iris whispered something in her ear, then came back to the counter with an apologetic grin. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was about to ask how you heard about the Cloud Nine event.”

The older woman paused to cast Iris a wrathful look before pushing the cart away. Iris’s face flushed red under her scrutiny. She tore off the lower half of my ticket and pushed it across the counter, waiting until her mother moved away to mutter, “A friend mentioned it.”

I wanted to ask if that friend was Jonas, but from the signals I was getting, her patience for my personal questions was growing thin. I tried something safer instead. “Was that your first time at a speed-dating event?”