“I know gut feelings don’t count,” I heatedly protested, “but I’m almost one hundred percent certain. The man I saw in the back hallway of the high school had to be Jason Hamilton. I know that doesn’t exactly prove anything about Roxanna’s murder, but maybe it eliminates John from our suspect list.”
“Or maybe it just means that purple—excuse me, plum—is a popular fashion choice for men this season,” Harry countered. “I think I’ve got a shirt that color in my closet too.”
It was a little after six PM, and we were once again sitting in the dining room. I’d already fed the dogs and finished a quick cold supper of my own so that I could be out the door again by half past the hour. I’d planned to have this conversation with Harry as soon as I’d returned from my walk. Unfortunately, he’d still been ensconced in the tower room, which meant I’d been impatiently waiting for the past couple of hours to share about my chance encounter with Virgie’s son. And all that built-up anticipation was why his pooh-poohing now was so deflating.
And then he added, “If nothing else, you’ve located another piece of our puzzle. I’ll admit that was good detecting on your part.”
“Well, I thought so,” I agreed, not quite mollified. Then, to change the subject slightly, I asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay here all alone while I’m at the workshop?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to leave all the inside and outside lights off so it’ll be obvious you’re not home. Since this Ryan person never called you back after that message you left him, he might be waiting for this opportunity. We’ll make it as easy as possible for him.”
Then he paused and gave me a considering look. “But I must admit, I’m a little worried about you. I know it’s not exactly the mean streets of Cymbeline out there, but you’ll probably have a bit of a walk to your car in the dark once that workshop is over. No, I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself”—he cut me short when I would have protested—“but under the circumstances, I’d feel better if you call me when you leave and stay on the line until you’re safely driving off.”
Now it was my turn to give him a look.
“Why, Harry Westcott!” I exclaimed in an exaggerated southern accent while I fluttered my eyelashes. “You really do care about me.”
“I can’t believe you ever doubted that,” he replied with a slow smile that made me suddenly catch my breath in a most unexpected way.
And then, before I could wonder if I’d misjudged our contentious relationship all this time, he added, “Anything happens to you, I have to figure out a new place to live until I can afford my own place.”
“Gee, thanks,” I managed, reminding myself that the only relationship between me and Harry was that of tenant-landlord. It made for a tenuous friendship but nothing more. “I think I can get to my car on my own. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied. “But if someone in a silver two-door drags you off the street and kidnaps you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Welcome, everyone,” John Klingel exclaimed as he ushered us into the workshop area at the rear of his flower shop. “I’m so excited to meet all you future floral designers. Now, find a seat, and we’ll get started.”
Like the other businesses on the block, Midsummer’s Night Flowers was housed in a converted private dwelling. While Queen Anne homes predominated on the block where Virgie’s Formals was located, the addresses here were primarily southern cottage-style architecture. John’s place was a larger version of Roxanna’s cute but modest house.
I’d arrived early enough before the class started that, once I’d grabbed my name tag, I had time to wander about the shop. The walls of what once had been separate living and parlor and dining spaces had been pulled down to create a single large retail area. Glass-fronted floral coolers lined the side wall closest to the shop’s main entry, their shelves holding oversized buckets filled with a jungle’s worth of greenery and blooms. A display of non-floral items—decorative vases, tiny gift book, stuffed animals, balloons, and even chocolates—took up the opposite wall.
Tables in the middle of the store held dried flora, everything from hydrangeas and pampas grasses to the obligatory baby’s breath and eucalyptus. Next to them, a counter-height table with stools was piled with the same sample books I’d seen displayed at the expo. This consultation space was conveniently set up alongside the checkout area, the latter easily identifiable by a kitschy hanging sign in the shape of a vintage pointing hand that read Check Out Here.
The back room where we were gathered now was far more utilitarian. A long table staged with buckets of dried flowers as well as foliage and fresh blooms took up space along one wall. At right angles to the flower table was a worktable, above which hung an impressive selection of ribbon—satin, velvet, burlap, even twine—in myriad hues and conveniently stored on a series of dowels. While normally the table would likely have been littered with scraps of ribbon and bits of discarded foliage, tonight it held boxed cookies along with pitchers of tea and water that John warned us were for break time later.
The class area consisted of three worktables lined up end to end, with enough chairs for twenty people. A few basic supplies—bowls, foam, scissors, and utility knives—were already staged in the center of each table. John took the spot at the head of the tables while the rest of us grabbed seats along the sides.
He gave us a few moments to settle in and introduce ourselves to our tablemates. I greeted the people around me, though I kept an eye on John as I did so. As usual, he was smiling, but tonight lines of stress had thinned his plump cheeks. And when he thought no one was looking, his lips drooped into an expression one could only call melancholy. Obviously, the situation with Virgie had taken a toll on him. Hopefully I’d be able to pull him aside at some point in the evening to offer what support I could.
After a minute, he raised a hand, indicating silence. “Again, welcome. If you will look around, you’ll see that we’re a diverse group tonight. That tells you that floral design is something anyone and everyone can learn.”
We all nodded as we surveyed our classmates. Roughly half were white ladies of retirement age who likely did fun classes like this on a regular basis. Another handful were women in their thirties—probably moms taking a night off. At the next table over, however, a college-aged Latino youth with a shaved head and the thinnest of moustaches sat next to a wizened white gentleman who had to be eighty. Across from me was a Black father-daughter duo, the shy little girl—Tisha, as her stick-on name tag proclaimed her—looking as if she could be in Buddy’s grade. Her bearded dad, who had previously introduced himself as Titus, grinned at me and shrugged.
“This is actually our Daddy date night for this month,” he explained. “We got tired of doing restaurants.”
Everyone was smiling, including me, and I realized that flowers were indeed the universal language, as I’d often heard claimed.
“We’re going to have fun and learn a lot tonight, so fasten your seat belts,” John continued. “First off, we’re going to review the five elements of design. They are line, space, form, color, and texture. Once I’ve explained those concepts, we’ll put together a very simple floral arrangement so you can see a real-life example of how those elements work together. Sound good?”
When we murmured our agreement, he continued, “After that, we’ll talk about the seven main design principles—accent, balance, composition, harmony, proportion, unity, and rhythm—and then work on a second arrangement that’s a little more advanced. And don’t worry, your work sheet has plenty of cheat notes so you don’t have to memorize everything right this minute.”
As promised, we spent the next hour on lecture and hands-on. Being someone who’d previously stuck grocery-store flowers in a clear glass vase and called it good—what John had smilingly told us was called the “chop and plop”—I was surprised at how much theory went into a professional arrangement. By the time we stopped for a brief break, my head was spinning with terms like floral mechanics, surface structure, and mature foliage. But I hadn’t forgotten one of my goals for the evening. And so, while the rest of the students eagerly rushed the cookies and drinks table, I sought out John.
“I heard about Virgie,” I told him as we move slightly away from the others. “I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”
He shrugged. “Not too bad.”
And then, smile slipping, he corrected himself. “Okay, it’s pretty bad. Virgie’s a mess, and so am I. Of course she didn’t murder Roxanna, but apparently someone overheard the two of them fighting right before Roxanna was killed. That makes her a prime suspect.”
“Oh, not good,” I replied, praying that neither of them ever figured out that I was the someone. “But I have to say, that’s a pretty big jump—to accuse someone of murder just because of an argument. Heck, I heard her fighting with you at the expo. I think that’s kind of what she does.”
“Yeah, yelling is definitely one of Virginia Ann’s main forms of communication,” was John’s wry reply. “But there’s also something about an embezzlement accusation, so things are even more complicated.”
I gave a sympathetic nod, hoping he didn’t notice my involuntary wince. But all he did was sigh and scrub a weary hand over his face.
“Anyhow, thanks for your concern, Nina. What I’m concentrating on right now is trying to raise the bail money and then finding a criminal attorney to represent her. And that’s not easy when the two of us are both strapped for cash.”
“Well, if things get too bad, I’d be happy to donate to the cause.”
“Not necessary, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
He looked at his watch and summoned a smile. “We’ve still got a few minutes of break time left. Why don’t we grab some cookies and a drink?”
I smiled back as we joined the others, but my expression of pleasure was as false as his. A friend was dead and an innocent woman was accused of the crime—the latter most likely because of me. And here I was, munching sugar cookies and arranging flowers like life was good.
But I didn’t want to be the one to cast a pall over what so far had been a fun learning experience. And so, when the lecture resumed a few minutes later, I did my best to keep up that smile as John launched into a quick demonstration of what he called the mechanics. He’d shown us earlier how to use green floral foam soaked in water as a base for the arrangement. Now he led us in forming a tape grid, which was exactly what it sounded like—a crisscross pattern of cellophane tape atop the mouth of a vase. As he did so, he explained how it was the simplest way to keep the flowers upright and separated.
Once we’d mastered that, we learned a similar technique using chicken wire. A flat piece could go over the vase’s top, like a premade tape grid. But he also showed us how to shape the wire into a ball that was inserted in the vase just above where it began to narrow. Despite my earlier lapse into melancholy, I couldn’t help but be buoyed by John’s passion for his craft. I had regained much of my original enthusiasm by the time he demonstrated what he called the “cheats”—a chunk of Styrofoam at the bottom of a too-tall vase; an inverted bowl to fill space in a too-broad dish; a cheap plastic pail slipped inside a vintage wooden bucket.
“And now, students,” he exclaimed, once he’d displayed the final bit of floristry magic, “it’s time to turn you loose with your new knowledge. You each already have a vase with a tape grid sitting in front of you. You can choose what you like from the buckets of flowers and fillers and foliage to create your own original floral design to take home with you. You’ve got thirty minutes. And, go!”
We rushed to the table like we were taking part in a game show, laughing as we picked and chose, trying out colors and textures and exchanging advice.
“Give everyone a chance at all the buckets,” John called over the hubbub. “Remember, you want at least three different selections for your design. Maggie”—he indicated one of the retirees, who already had an armful of pink carnations—“be a dear and put a few of those back for someone else. And, don’t forget, people—line, space, form, color, and texture!”
I’d opted to go with an arrangement that was a bit more Zen-like. While the rest of the class was sorting through the usual carnations and tulips and baby’s breath, I was drawn toward the foliage and what John had called the “form” flowers—iris, bird-of-paradise, anthurium. I moved over to one side of the table to avoid the worst of the crush. And that’s when I noticed the small vase of dried lotus pods—some natural, others dyed—tucked behind a bucket of white daisies.
Instinctively, I reached for the lotus pod that was painted gold…and realization hit me so hard that for a moment I thought I’d been slapped.
But while I wanted to shout out my brainstorm to the entire class, I clamped my jaws shut. I finished making my choices, then concentrated on putting together my arrangement. John made the rounds while we labored, offering advice if asked but otherwise letting us do our own thing. And when it was nine o’clock, he used a paring knife to clink on a tall glass vase, signaling time’s up.
“Good work, ladies and gentlemen,” he praised us. “Every one of you did an excellent job with your original arrangements. You now are official floral apprentices. Please, give yourself a hand.”
He led us in a round of applause, then added, “I have certificates of completion for all of you. And remember that because you’ve taken this class, you are eligible for a ten percent discount for all your future supply purchases here at Midsummer Night’s Flowers.”
With that, we rose and gathered our arrangements, then followed John out of the workshop and back into the main store. There we queued up beneath the pointing-finger sign while John handed out more kudos along with the parchment certificates. I smiled a little at the beaming expressions of Titus and his daughter standing in front of me. They held matching arrangements of red and yellow gladiolas, miniature carnations, lilies, and ferns, Tisha barely able to see over the top of hers.
“Great job,” I told them. “Those look really professional.”
“I was the designer,” Tisha proudly spoke up, while Titus smiled through his beard. “Daddy just did what I told him.”
While normally I’d be impatient to be on my way home after an event like this, I had deliberately lagged behind the rest of the class. And so I was the last in line for my certificate.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight, Nina,” John said with a tired smile. “Usually these classes perk me up, but I have to admit, it was hard staying focused tonight.”
“Don’t worry, I doubt anyone noticed. And I learned a lot, so thank you.”
I paused, waiting until Titus and Tisha had left through the front door so that only John and I remained in the shop. And then, setting my arrangement on the checkout counter, I told him, “I know that Virgie didn’t murder Roxanna, and now I can prove it.”
John gave me stunned look. “What are you talking about? What could you know that the sheriff doesn’t?”
“This.”
I plucked the gold-painted lotus seed pod from my arrangement and held it so he could see it. “Remember at the expo when Virgie was yelling at you in her booth? And then she saw one of these painted lotus seed pods and freaked out. She has this phobia.”
“Trypophobia,” John confirmed. “She’s had it ever since I’ve known her. It’s not really a fear. It’s more this visceral reaction to the sight of hole clusters and little dots. There’s some theory about it being an evolutionary holdover…but what does that have to do with murder?”
“Roxanna was strangled with the scarf she was wearing. And her scarf had a pattern that looked like this,” I said, indicating the lotus pod. “If Virgie reacted so violently to this flower thingy, I don’t see how she’d be willing to put hands on a yard-long scarf all covered in tiny circles.”
John frowned. “That’s true. The problem is, you and I know it, but I doubt the sheriff would believe your theory.”
“Maybe not. But Deputy Jackson knows all about trypophobia. He said his sister has it. If we talked to him, maybe he could convince Sheriff Lamb to dig deeper for another suspect.”
“Maybe,” he echoed, sounding uncertain. “I don’t know, Nina. I really appreciate what you’re trying to do, but for now I just want to get Virgie bailed out. But I’ll be sure to mention this to the attorney when we find one.”
I managed a smile. “Good. Thanks again for the class, John. It was fun.”
Grabbing up my vase, I hurried out to the street while the florist locked the door behind me. I’d expected John to be more enthusiastic about my hypothesis, but best I could tell, the revelation had hardly resonated with him. Maybe I should do as I’d suggested to him and call Deputy Jackson myself. For now, I’d worry about getting my flower arrangement—and myself—safely home.
The street parking had already been full when I’d arrived around quarter to seven, meaning I had parked my Mini Cooper the next block down. But with my fellow apprentice florists having already driven off into the night, the street was now empty. And with only a single streetlamp on the corner, the block was mostly bathed in darkness.
I glanced back at the florist shop in time to see the interior downstairs lights dim in quick succession, followed a moment later by a single upstairs light turning on. Apparently, John was one of the local merchants who lived above his business. Everyone else on the street had long since left for home elsewhere or else was already tucked in bed, for no other lights were evident.
Too late, I remembered Harry’s flip comments about Cymbeline’s mean streets and prowling silver cars. Not that I didn’t think he was exaggerating—a lot. But needing both hands to manage my top-heavy floral design made it difficult to follow those familiar personal safety tips for walking alone after dark. You know, like having one’s phone in one’s hand ready to dial 911 at any instant or holding one’s car keys’ pointy ends out like a weapon. Though, on the bright side, the vase was sturdy enough to make a decent cudgel. And as I had only a block and a half to traverse and I didn’t see any traffic about, I wasn’t worried.
That is, until I reached the corner. I looked both ways, then stepped off the curb—only to see a flash of silver in the glow of the nearby streetlamp as a small sedan barreled toward me.