Before we went to Petal’s Place, I needed to call Owen Parrish. I couldn’t focus on anything, even Lenny’s cute dimple, with the cover art on my mind and computer screen. I told Lenny to shut the door on his way out so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Owen’s number. He sounded more annoyed than ever. I wanted to hang up the instant he picked up. But I’d completed more difficult tasks than making a phone call. I’d brought three killers to justice. Surely I could tackle one unfriendly editor.
“Hello, Owen. This is Emmeline Prather, and I’m calling about the mock-up cover I received this morning.” So far so good. My voice was strong and clear, and my hoop earrings were silent.
“If you have concerns, you need to schedule a call,” said Owen. “I’m very busy.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I said. “Since we’re on the phone now, can we talk?”
“What is it?”
“The cover is a little … flowery.” I stared at the tangle of blossoms on my screen, trying to describe the problem. “I don’t think it relays the message we want to convey.”
“What message?”
“The early ways women found to express their creativity,” I said. “This book is about voice.”
“Gardening is a form of creativity,” said Owen.
My earring jangled, and I switched my black office phone to the other ear, determined not to let his unexpected responses distract me. “True, it is, but it’s not one of the forms I discuss in the book.”
He sniffed. “Maybe it should be.”
Was he kidding? The book was about writing, women’s writing. I was starting to believe he really hadn’t read it. Or he was joking. I attempted a chuckle. “It would hardly fit with the theme. Anyway, if we could try another cover, one with fewer flowers, that would be great.”
“Everyone likes flowers,” he said.
“Purple and pink flowers? I don’t think so.”
“The cover will appeal to women.”
“It doesn’t appeal to me, and I’m a woman.” The statement hung in the air like smoke from a gun. I was glad I’d said it because it was true. It was my book, after all. I’d written it. I’d spent hours with it. He acted as if it had materialized out of thin air, as if my opinion didn’t matter at all. Well, it should.
“What would appeal to you, Emmeline?”
I’d never detested the sound of my name so much. I might have been a two-year-old. I refused to be talked to like a toddler. “I’m glad you asked. I would like to see some form of writing, perhaps letters and a fountain pen or a typewriter. Something that conveys the art of writing.”
He puffed out a breath. “I’ll talk to our designer and get back to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Please don’t call again without an appointment.”
The line went silent, and I was glad I didn’t have to respond. I’d won a small battle. I wanted to end on that happy note.
Lenny opened the door. “You were great.”
“Were you listening outside the door?” I asked.
“Yep, and you held your own against that jerk.”
I pushed back my chair. “I did, didn’t I? He’s going to talk to their designer and get back to me.”
“Good.” He reached for the gray knit sweater on the back of my chair, holding it out for me. “We can go to Petal’s Place now. It’s too nice to be inside.”
Locking up, I noticed the hall was quiet for a Monday. No one was coming in or going out, and a familiar mustiness hung in the air. It was the disuse of summer, already settling into the cracks in the walls, the crevices of floorboards. When the warm air arrived, it would slowly fill the void left by students, leaving scholars to peruse their favorite tomes in peace for two blissful months. Then the cold fall air would snap their attention back to teaching, and the blithe summer days would go much more quickly than they’d come.
Thomas Cook stood in the hallway outside Barb’s office, and seeing him reminded me to ask him about the sonnet submitted for the contest. He was our resident expert on rhetoric and studied violent language on campuses. He and I had collaborated on a paper last semester that had recently been accepted by a prestigious scholarly journal. He might have some insights into the poem that I hadn’t considered.
Lenny and I greeted him with hellos. He explained that he was waiting for Barb to finish her phone call. Most likely she was talking to her niece. She spent most afternoons gabbing with her about her kids.
“It might be a while,” said Lenny.
“Tell me about it,” said Thomas.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you something the other night,” I said. “Mind if I ask you now?”
“I’m in no rush,” said Thomas, putting his hands in the pockets of his sleek jacket. “Obviously.”
“Great,” I said. “A submission came into the sonnet-writing contest that warned of trouble. At the time, Claudia wasn’t concerned, but with Tanner’s death happening shortly thereafter, I wondered if you might look at it. I gave the original to Giles. I have a copy in my office.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to. When?” asked Thomas.
I appreciated his willingness to give it a look. “We’re on our way out, but are you in tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here in the morning, around ten,” said Thomas. “I’m meeting with a student.”
“I’ll stop by your office afterwards.” I turned to Lenny. “Do you want to be there?”
He shook his head. “Iambic pentameter is not something I set my alarm for.”
Thomas laughed. “I hear you. I’m not a big fan either.”
“By the way, I enjoyed visiting with Lydia at Bluff View,” I said. “I wish she’d let me talk to the history chair. It’d be nice to have her on campus.”
He tilted his head. “She likes working from home.”
“She might like it here better,” said Lenny. “You never know.”
He glanced into Barb’s office. “It looks as if she’s off the phone. See you tomorrow, Emmeline.”
Once we were in the stairwell, Lenny gave me a look. “Did you notice how he brushed off my question? I wonder why he doesn’t want her teaching here.”
“There’s something we don’t know,” I said. A blast of cold wind hit my face as I opened the back door of Harriman Hall. I quickened my pace to Lenny’s car.
Lenny unlocked the doors. “So many mysteries, so little time.”
* * *
Petal’s Place was owned by Petal Petersen, whom I’d met last Christmas while poinsettia shopping. She had the loveliest—and the most expensive—red and white plants in town. They were also the healthiest, for I still had mine in my bay window. A Christmas fanatic, I wasn’t about to throw my poinsettia away just because the season had ended. Even Dickinson was resigned to it being there. She hadn’t touched it for months.
Petal’s Place was packed with colorful blooms, and as we passed under the creaky wooden sign that marked the entrance, it was like entering another world, a world of gardens and high tea and stolen kisses in gazebos. I almost forgot we were here because someone had left me an ill-intentioned pot of pansies. The idea seemed silly in the midst of so much beauty. How could the gesture feel sinister? It occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t. Unlike begonias or marigolds, pansies had a pleasant meaning. Was it possible they were a gift, sent by an admirer? Someone who liked me? In the context of other recent events, I doubted it.
“Claudia was right,” said Lenny. “Your eyes are violet.”
I smiled. Maybe the enchantment of the place was rubbing off on Lenny, too. Or maybe it was the purple hydrangeas I was standing next to. “Do you see any pansies?”
“Not yet,” said Lenny. “Let’s look around.”
The store was small, with several nooks and crannies. Every corner was stuffed with plants, potpourri, or plush animals to send as gifts. The delicious smells changed from one nook to the next—roses, then lilies, then carnations. But no pansies.
“Em, over here,” called Lenny. On the other side of the store, he’d found the perennials and annuals. As I approached, he held up a pot of pansies identical to the one I’d found on my porch. “Is this it?”
“It is.” I turned the pot around, looking at it from all sides. I was certain of the match.
“Aren’t those gorgeous?” said a peppy voice. “I just put them out on Saturday. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the backroom.”
It was Petal. I remembered her heterochromatic eyes, one blue and one brown. They were distinctive, just like her flower shop. “Yes they are,” I said. “I was given one yesterday.”
“How nice,” said Petal. A heavy canvas apron covered her top and jeans. She must have been cutting or arranging flowers when she heard us come in.
“Normally, it would be,” said Lenny. “But this was different. Someone’s been leaving flowers as signs, messages. The pot of pansies was left on Em’s doorstep overnight.”
“Out in the cold? Terrible.” Petal brushed her blonde pixie hair off her forehead. “Who would do such a thing?”
I could tell Petal took the carelessness personally. “We thought you might be able to tell us. If you just put them out Saturday, maybe you remember someone buying one.”
She bit her lip while she considered the question. “I was here Saturday morning and then left to do a wedding. I don’t remember selling any.” She paused. “I don’t have a security system, but I could review the receipts for that day. Maybe someone used a credit card. Would that help?”
“That would be great,” said Lenny.
We followed her to the cash register then waited while she reviewed her list of sales. The local radio station crackled over the speakers. An announcer reminded listeners of the upcoming party at Harmony Music Museum for Shakespeare’s birthday on April 23. Free and open to the public, it was the final event before the folio left campus.
“Let me check one other place,” said Petal and disappeared into the backroom. I could see her looking through rolls of receipts near a file cabinet. She returned with a shrug. “Sorry. According to my receipts, I didn’t sell any.”
“Does any place else in Copper Bluff have pansies?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Petal. “I’m usually the first because I have space for them indoors.”
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “We appreciate it.”
“I hope you find whoever left them,” said Petal. “It’s not nice to leave flowers out in the cold.”
Lenny and I shared a look. Disregard for flowers might be the least of this person’s sins.