SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery (2 page)

Hailing a cab on the street, Rex gave the driver the address of Elise’s flat in Mayfair Mews, and asked if he knew of any flower shops in the area.

“Up ’ere,” the cabbie informed him, pointing to a narrow turning as they took off over the wet cobblestones. “Say It with Flowers is the name of it. But it’s a one-way street and it’ll take us out of our way.”

Say It With Flowers,
Rex knew from his mother’s television viewing, was a nineteen thirties musical about an ailing London flower seller whose fellow stall owners organize a benefit at a local pub to fund her trip to the seaside.

“Is it the only florist near here?” he asked the driver.

“Only one I know of.”

“Can you
not find a parking space?”

“
Chance’d be a fine thing.”

Rex asked the cabbie to double back and take him to the shop, regardless. This proved no easy feat in the maze of streets, but finally the
manoeuvre was accomplished, and Rex asked him to wait outside while he made enquiries as to who might have purchased yellow chrysanthemums on Friday night. The sales clerk, dressed in a dark green canvas apron, remembered a “dishy foreign bloke what paid cash.”

“Stocky build?
Dark hair?”

“And with dreamy dark eyes.
Drop-dead gorgeous, he was.”

Had Elise dropped dead at this charmer’s hands? Rex wondered. “What time was this?”
he asked.

“We
was just closing. Must’ve been almost midnight. We stay open late Fridays and Saturdays for the theatre crowd.”

Rex thanked the young woman and left the shop. Had she gone to Gino’s flat to confront him about his standing her up, if such was the case? Had he tried to mollify her with flowers as he walked her back home?

“Wot, no flowers?” The cabbie seemed disappointed when Rex returned empty-handed.

Parked off the curb, the glistening black cab impeded the flow of traffic, and irate drivers tooted their horns as they navigated around it
in the downpour.

“What sort of flowers would you give your fiancée?” Rex asked the man, a fortyish skinhead possessed of a heavy jaw and thick neck.

“Roses, mate.”

“Not chrysanthemums?”

The cabby glanced pityingly at him through the sliding partition. “ ’Ardly. Them’s granny flowers, them is. Where to now, guv? On to Mayfair Mews?”

Rex reconsidered. The rain was coming down hard, and it had been a long day. He gave the driver the address of Wellington House where he was staying.

Dick Whitmore’s daughter was an investment banker currently working in Shanghai, and her London apartment was between sublets. A cosy studio with a small but well-appointed kitchen, it overlooked a park enclosed by iron railings containing a profusion of horse chestnut trees in full bloom. Rex was ready for the meal prepared and personally delivered by Whitmore’s housekeeper, who had already stocked the refrigerator and cupboards with the basic commodities: Milk, tea, bread, biscuits, and jam. He did not plan on wasting time dining in restaurants when he could eat in peace while working on the case. He was due back in court on Monday.

*

The next morning, Rex caught up with Giannelli as he was passing through the cemetery gates after the burial service. He explained he was conducting an inquiry at the behest of Mr. Whitmore, the Howes family solicitor, and begged the fiancé’s indulgence at encroaching upon his fresh grief. In point of fact, Gino did not appear overly distressed; more in a hurry to be off. Time was of the essence, Rex explained, since Sir Howes was anxious to locate the driver of the silver car in the absence of any progress made by the Metropolitan Police.

“Perhaps you were escorting Elise home on foot from Presto’s and stopped on the way to purchase flowers?” Rex prompted. “In that case, it lets you off suspicion of being behind the wheel.”

“I didn’t see her,” the Italian said with a slight accent, checking his Movedo watch. “And I didn’t buy flowers.”

Was it possible a handsome foreigner other than Gino had purchased chrysanthemums at Say It with Flowers that same night? On what pretext could he drag Elise’s fiancé to the florist for identification by the sales clerk?

“Important engagement?” Rex asked, nodding at the timepiece on the man’s darkly matted wrist.

He shrugged in an eloquent manner and gazed at Rex with defiant black eyes
. His heavily hooded lids could have given him a sleepy look were he not so tense.

“When did you last see her alive,
Mr. Giannelli?”

The Italian sighed. “I told the police all this. Last Sunday night. She went on a business trip the next day.”

“No plans for the following weekend?”

“She was supposed to call me, and never did.”

“Doesn’t sound like you two were that lovey-dovey.” Rex fiddled with the stem of the pipe in his jacket pocket. He’d given up smoking, but still found satisfaction in the familiar smooth feel of the stem and rosewood bowl.

“The wedding was putting a strain on us. She wanted to set a date and I wanted to wait.”

“Why was that?”

Again the shrug.
“Her father doesn’t like me. It made things uncomfortable.”

“When did you first hear
aboot the accident?” the Scotsman asked.

“Saturday morning. The phone woke me. It was Diana—Lady
Howes—in hysterics. Her husband came on the line and said the police would be questioning everyone closely associated with Elise. It sounded like an accusation, which I did not appreciate very much.”

Rex could not see any legitimate reason to delay
Giannelli further at this point and did not want to overdo his unwelcome. Perhaps more could be gleaned from the alluring and smartly hatted Shannon Smythe, who had peeled away from a group of mourners at the new gravesite slotted in the wet grass.

“Miss
Smythe, my name is Rex Graves, QC,” he said as he approached on the path and held out his hand.

“I know who you are,” she said taking it. “I saw you yesterday at the funeral
parlour.” Emerald eyes, green as the grass and accentuated by a glossy black brim, appraised him with frank interest. “Mr. Whitmore said you had questions about Elise’s whereabouts on Friday night.” Her voice was fashionable young London, imbued with an appealing huskiness.

“
Aye, and I hope you’ll be kind enough to answer them. Did you know of any plans Elise might have had? I realize you’ve already gone through all this with the police, but there’s a gap in the timeline.”

“I have no idea what her plans were. She was working late Friday catching up after her trip to Paris. Her door was closed. I left the office around six. We didn’t typically see each other at weekends, except professionally.”

“Why was that?” Drops of rain began to fall, and Rex opened his brolly in an attempt to shield the young woman in her black silk suit and hat.

“We had our own sets of friends.

“But you were chummy in college.”

“True. But then Elise started seeing Gino, and I really don’t care for him and his playboy crowd. It was obvious he was using her for her money.”

“In what way?”

“Only last week he hit her up for a large loan for his car import business.”

“Her own private money?”

“Yes, but capital that could have been invested in Head Start!
to develop our line in handbags and other accessories. Naturally, I was opposed, but Jennifer told her sister the loan was a sound investment, and Elise listened. Jenn only said that to butter Gino up, who it’s obvious she has the hots for.”

“I take it you dislike Jennifer?” Rex inferred from her disdainful tone.

“She likes to snoop and cause trouble.”

“Give me a for instance.”

Standing close to him under the brolly, Shannon Smythe gazed up at him with a gleam of amusement in her fine eyes. “You are very persistent, Mr. Graves. Well, all right then. When I stayed at the Howes’ home one time when Elise and I were students, Jenn caught us sneaking out late to go to a club. She told Sir Howes, who’s a strict old bugger, as you probably know. Jenn has always been jealous of her sister having loads more boyfriends. And she was positively green over Gino.”

“I thought Jennifer was looking for a rich husband,” Rex asked disingenuously, aware of the looks of longing Jennifer had cast in
Giannelli’s direction at the funeral home.

“Gino’s doing all right for himself. He was expanding his business.
Hence the loan.”

“I hear your business was on the up and up too.”

“Elise and I made a good team. I took care of the merchandising, she had the flair and the contacts. My own family is not rich and connected,” Shannon stated.

“What will you do now?” Rex switched the
brolly to his other arm to relieve his aching muscles. He had hoped for some mellow May sunshine for his trip south.

“
Now I’ll have to hire a new designer.” Shannon chewed on her lip, looking in that moment more like a schoolgirl than a London sophisticate. “Look, I have to go, but you can come by my office anytime.” She pulled a business card from her black suede handbag, declining his offer to escort her to her car.

Rex watched as her high heels propelled her around puddles to the zippy Fiat 500
Cabrio parked at the curb. Not exactly a sports car, as defined by the nightclub witness, but silver grey nonetheless. And how reliable had his account been, after all? Presumably he’d had a few drinks that night.

Rex decided to dig around some more, proceeding with the chauffeur.

Erik Christiansen was waiting by the silver stretch limo, taut as steel and professionally impervious to the rain, his black cap dripping onto the darkening shoulders of his black uniform. Rex approached, anticipating a frosty reception, and was not disabused. Christiansen claimed to know nothing about the hit-and-run and little about the personal affairs of the family. He merely drove the various members about town and occasionally into neighboring counties to visit friends at their country estates. Unlike the melodious intonations of Gino Giannelli, he spoke flawless, almost unaccented English, interspersed with the occasional Americanism. An experienced Crown prosecutor, Rex felt certain Christiansen knew more than he was telling. The words sounded rehearsed, the pale eyes veered from his own or else held them too long. At that moment, Sir Howes appeared at the gate with his wife, his remaining daughter, and the relic aunts. Christiansen took off toward them with a golf umbrella, leaving Rex to plan his next move. Lunch.

*

Presto’s proved to be more illuminating this time around, once Rex circumvented the tight-lipped wait staff and convinced the behind-the-scenes employees he was not from the police. He discovered that the head chef, when adequately compensated for the information, had a cousin who was a house agent, and said cousin had sublet a body repair shop to “GiGi,” as Gino Giannelli was affectionately known at the bistro. Most of the employees were from the same region in Southern Italy as GiGi, if not the same town, and “took care” of their own. Yet they would sell their grandmother for a big enough bribe, Rex ruminated as he left the premises with a considerably lighter wallet—and the name of the property agent in Soho.

Next, he made his way to Elise’s home on foot and
arrived at a late Georgian building split into ten flats and serviced by a porter wearing a waistcoat. Doubtless apprised by Sir Howes or Mr. Whitmore of Rex’s business, the elderly man let him into number five without a murmur of protest. Here Rex found Jennifer dressed in slacks and a puce angora sweater sifting through a morass of papers and photos in the front drawing room. Joining her on the white leather sectional, Rex told her his business and apologized for the imposition.

“You’re the Scottish barrister who solved the murders at
Swanmere Manor.”

“Among others.”

“And you’re hoping to find the hit-and-run driver?”

“If at all possible.”

“Could be anyone. London is a big place.”