Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (13 page)

“Here they are, my darling,” he called, and disappeared around the far corner.

We stopped next to the screened-in porch at the front of the cottage, where Orabell claimed to have overheard Pryce’s argument. I could just make out the Osborne home through the trees.

“Would Orabell have been able to identify who was arguing?” I asked Marco. “I can see only glimpses of Pryce’s verandah.”

“Let’s be sure to ask her how she knew who it was.”

We followed the path around the house to an expansive, quarter-moon-shaped patio that had been built from the back of the house right up to the edge of a bluff overlooking Haven Lake. There we found Halston, Orabell, Pryce, and Jillian sitting on the thick cushions of their black wrought iron deck furniture. A portable bar was set up on one side, with liquor bottles and a bowl of nuts on top. Everyone had a beverage but Jillian, who appeared pale as she tossed back a handful of mints, while Claymore hovered anxiously at her side.

The back of the Burches’ cottage looked nothing like the traditional front, bowing out into a modern, two-story semicircle of glass windows and French doors. A two-foot-high brick wall ringed the patio except for an opening out onto a cedar boardwalk. The boardwalk led to wooden stairs down an incline to the sandy shore at the bottom.

“Now it’s a party!” Halston called when he saw us. He rose with a martini glass in his hand and went over to the bar. “Anyone for a cocotini?”

“Just say coconut martini, Halston,” Orabell said, giving the others an exaggerated eye roll. “No one knows what you mean by cocotini.”

“What’s the fun in that?” he asked. “Besides, one
should never question what’s in one’s drink. One should just drink it.”

“How absurd,” Orabell said, then downed the remainder of her drink.

“But isn’t life itself absurd, Mummy?” Halston replied cheerily, as he refilled her glass. He seemed to be such a carefree person, I couldn’t imagine why he talked with his teeth so tightly clenched.

“What may I pour you?” he asked us.

“Water is fine,” Marco said.

“Do you have anything nonalcoholic?” I asked.

“Don’t say you’re still on the clock,” Halston said, handing Marco a tumbler of ice water.

“Shut up, Halston,” Orabell said over her shoulder. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise.” She turned to me with a smile. “I believe there’s lemonade in the house, darling. Come along and I’ll get you a glass.” She rose unsteadily but didn’t stumble or spill her drink as she walked toward the house.

Perfect. We’d be able to talk to Orabell alone,
and
I’d get to see the inside of her cottage. I motioned for Marco to follow.

“Wait for me!” Jillian called. “I want lemonade, too.”

“I’ll bring you a glass,” I called back.

Orabell opened a pair of French doors to admit us, then led us through the two-story great room that opened onto the kitchen at the far end. The great room was filled with overstuffed sofas and chairs in floral prints done in beige, tan, ivory, brown, and peach, with a natural stone floor underneath.

Separating the great room from the kitchen was a semicircular, eight-foot, earth-toned granite island. More granite counters filled a side wall punctuated by stainless steel appliances. Near a bank of windows on one side of
the kitchen was an oval, glass-topped table surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in ivory cotton.

I squeezed Marco’s hand, whispering, “This place is stunning. I can only dream of living in a house like this someday.”

“What are you dreaming about?” Jillian asked, coming alongside me.

“The day I can talk to Marco without you butting in.”

“No, seriously, Abs, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Jillian, darling,” Orabell called, “do close the door, please. We don’t want to cool the outdoors.”

As Jillian backtracked to shut the door, a striking collection of native plants and blossoms caught my eye, so I walked over to a plant stand under a tall window for a better look. “This is a beautiful grouping,” I said to Orabell, as she brought out a pitcher from the refrigerator. “Who did it for you?”

“I did,” she said proudly. “I collected every single one of those stems from around the property.”

“The arrangement of plants looks very professional,” I told her.

“Thank you, darling. I did it purely on instinct.”

“That’s how I work,” Jillian said. “Pure instinct.”

“You have a degree in fashion design, Jillian,” I reminded her as I looked over the mix of flora. “I recognize most of these, Orabell—hosta, mint, fern, sage, and eryngium—”

“Please, darling,” she said, handing me a glass of lemonade, “use English.”

“Sorry. I should have said sea holly.”

“What’s this one?” Jillian asked, touching a cluster of delicate orange and yellow blossoms.

“People around the lake call it Fireglow,” Orabell said.

“Fireglow?” I took a closer look at the bright orange bracts and tiny yellow flowers of my diary’s namesake, and fire
works
went off in my head. This was the perfect opportunity to put my plan into action.

I’d given my diary the odd name of Euphorbia to frighten off Jillian, who was so superstitious, she refused to carry a mirror in her purse for fear of cracking it. She had managed to find and read every diary I’d ever owned, and I was determined that she wouldn’t read my new one. Now I had to plant the seeds of fear, pun intended, and hope she was gullible enough to fall for it.

“Wow, Orabell!” I exclaimed, moving back. “You have a
Euphorbia griffithii
.”

“Is that good?” Jillian asked.

“I’ve seen photos of this plant in my floral magazines,” I continued, “but they certainly didn’t do the blooms justice. This is amazing.”

“So it’s good,” Jillian said.

“That depends. You know about the sap of the euphorbia plants, don’t you, Orabell?”

“What’s wrong with the sap?” Jillian asked, examining her fingertips.

“It’s poisonous,” I said. “It can cause severe skin irritation and even temporary blindness if it gets in your eyes—in any form, even vapors.”

Jillian took a step back, whirled around, and darted to Orabell’s sink to wash her hands.

“I’ve heard that the name
euphorbia
carries a curse with it,” I added. “That’s why people call it by its common name.” Totally made-up, but, judging by Jillian’s alarmed expression, effective.

“I believe I’ve heard that poinsettias are from the same family,” Orabell said.

“That’s right,” I said.

Over Orabell’s shoulder, I spotted Marco walking
around the room taking in all the details, no doubt completely bored with flower talk.

“But I love poinsettias,” Jillian said in dismay, accepting a glass of lemonade. “They’re my favorite flower—or were! Thanks, Abs. Now I’m never having another live poinsettia in my house as long as I live.”

“You needn’t go to such an extreme, darling,” Orabell said. “Just be careful not to get the sap on your fingers.”

“This flower,” I said, touching a bright scarlet blossom, “reminds me of a poppy.”

“Well done,” Orabell said. “It’s a California poppy.” She hiccuped as she said
poppy
, then pressed her fingers against her lips. “Pardon me!” Then she hiccuped again.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“I’m—
hic
—fine, Addie. Do you know what these small violet flowers are?”

“Abby.”

“I’ve never heard of an Abby flower,” Orabell said, looking confused.

“I meant my name is Abby.” I examined the woody vine that held light purple flowers with yellow stamens, purplish leaves, and red berries. “I hope this isn’t a deadly nightshade vine, Orabell.”

“Don’t be a goose, darling. Why on earth would I have a deadly plant in my home? It’s bittersweet vine.”

Marco cleared his throat. I glanced around at him, and he tapped his watch, then nodded in Jillian’s direction. He was ready to get on with the interview, but first we had to get rid of the Nosy One.

I gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

Step one: Enlist the aid of a bystander.
“Orabell, do you ever buy fish from local fishermen?”

“I leave that to the restaurateurs,” Orabell said with a light laugh, followed by a hiccup. “You couldn’t pay me to gut a fish.”

Jillian was about to take a drink of lemonade, but stopped, the glass touching her lips.

Step two: Up the ick factor.
“What about the eyeballs?” I asked.

“It’s quite the thing to leave them in, you know,” Orabell said. “The fish is flash fried and put on the plate whole. It’s up to the patron whether to eat or remove the eyes.”

Step three: Wait for it.

Jillian set the glass on the counter with a clunk and hurried toward the open French door.

Orabell looked at me in astonishment. “Goodness. I didn’t realize Jillian had such a sensitive nature.”

“That’s my cousin,” I said with a sigh. “She loves all of God’s creatures, even fish.” I put out my hand behind my back, and Marco gave me a low five.

“Is it okay to get started on your interview now?” I asked Orabell, pulling out a chair at the end of the oval glass table.

“Absolutely, darling,” she said. “May I get you some more water, Marco?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” He sat at the head of the table while I took a seat at his left and Orabell at his right. I pulled the notebook and pen from my purse and nodded that I was ready.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Pryce this evening?” Marco asked.

“For a short while,” she said. “The dear boy seems to be handling things quite well. Don’t you think so, Annie?”

“Abby,” I said.

“Do you still feel Pryce is responsible for Melissa’s disappearance?” Marco asked.

Orabell shook her head. “Not at all, darling. Not. At. All. I’ve changed my mind entirely about who’s to blame.” She took a drink, then set the glass down and smiled lopsidedly before hiccuping again.

“Would you tell us?” Marco prompted.

“If you’d like, although I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out, considering all the flirting going on beneath our very noses.”

“Are you talking about Lily?” I asked.

Orabell made a sputtering sound. “Don’t be silly, Aggie. Lily is a thief and a flirt, yes, but I’m talking about Halston.”

“I
t’s Abby,” I said to Orabell, forcing a smile.

“No, darling, it’s not Abby! Listen to me carefully now. It’s
Halston
.”

“You actually believe your husband is responsible for Melissa’s disappearance?” I asked, giving Marco a quick, shocked glance. “This afternoon you were convinced Pryce was behind it.”

“Some detective you are,” Orabell said. “Everyone can see how distraught Pryce is.”

I turned to gaze out the back windows and saw Pryce slap Halston on the back, laughing as if he’d been told a great joke.

“You see,” Orabell said, leaning toward us on one elbow, “Halston has had a crush on Melissa for over a year now. How I wish you could have witnessed the delirium in his eyes when I told him that Pryce had broken off his engagement. Like a lovesick schoolboy, he was. Completely besotted with her.” She shook her head pityingly. “And as soon as he heard the news of their breakup, he moved right in.”

“To Melissa’s apartment?” I asked.

She gave me a bleary-eyed stare. “Her apartment?
No, darling. You misunderstand once again. He moved in for the kill—or, in his case, for the catch. From the time we got together on Friday evening until Saturday after supper, the old goat wouldn’t stop mooning over Melissa. It was disgusting.”

“Then what makes you think he had something to do with her disappearance?” I asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Orabell asked. “Melissa spurned his attention, so in a fit of jealous rage, he got rid of her.” She made a slicing motion across her throat.

The woman was obviously drunk.

“Has Halston ever given you a reason to suspect him before?” I asked.

“Do you mean to ask if he’s cheated on me?” Orabell’s lips tightened in anger. “He’s always had women after him. Loose women, that is. Married, single, widowed—didn’t even matter to them that he wore a wedding ring. He was quite the young stud in his day, you see.”

He was
still
quite a stud, if truth be told.

“Has Halston ever behaved in a way that makes you suspect he’s capable of harming anyone?” Marco asked.

“Well,” Orabell said slowly, “there was that one time he chased off a magazine salesman. If I remember correctly, he threatened to clean the miscreant’s clock.” She lifted her eyebrows to impress upon us just how dreadful that was.

“Have you ever seen Halston do anything violent?” Marco asked.

She hiccuped. “He’s been violently ill a few times.”

Marco gave me an exasperated glance. I could see by the flat look in his eyes, he considered the interview a waste of time, so I stepped in. “Did you actually hear Melissa spurn Halston?”

“Didn’t have to, darling.” Orabell tapped her temple. “A wife knows these things. I can’t tell you how many women I’ve had to chase off over the years.”

“Is Lily one of them?” I asked.