NINETEEN

      

       On the ride to John’s she and Jarvis were subdued. All energy reserves had been sapped. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a measure of satisfaction. She’d determined four of the five W’s: who, what, when, and where. Of course, the what, when, and where had been determined at the outset. She knew the who, but the why baffled her so thoroughly she couldn’t focus.

Suddenly Jarvis said, “I need a Coke,” and spun the wheel left into the fast food lane.

“Question: why was Sondergaard attacked at that specific time and place?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Both he and our perp were in Alton Bay for several days. Why follow Sondergaard all the way to Philadelphia to kill him? Why not do it here?”

“To throw suspicion in another direction?”

“There was no suspicion in any direction.”

“Our murderer wouldn’t know that,” Jarvis said.

“Possibly, but I believe there’s another reason.” Silence a moment while they waited for the Cokes to be passed through the window.

“I want this case over,” he said, steering the car back onto the main road.

“Tell me about it.” It would be nice to get this over with. And concentrate on her theater. Her theater. What nice words. Her dream was to put the tiny place on the theatrical maps. “Poor Donna. She really believed Sondergaard was taking her to Amsterdam.”

“You don’t think so?”

“He was married.”

Angie couldn’t help looking to see if Frank Chute’s curtains moved. They didn’t. John’s car was parked in front of his garage. Everything looked forlorn and quiet.

“Are we going to the greenhouse or the regular house?” Jarvis asked.

“Regular house. I specifically want another look at those Iris Society Bulletins. How will we get in?”

“Try the doors and windows, I guess.”

“Jarvis! Breaking and entering? You’re taking up a new career?” He ignored her and began searching around the back door, lifting the mat, checking under stones near the porch. Turning up nothing, he said, “Wait here. I’m going out back to see if there’re some keys there.”

While he was gone, she tried the windows, first the front of the house, then around the side and back. Everything was locked up tight. She rounded the corner of the house and came up short, a hand pressed to her chest. “Jeez,” she said, “You scared me about to death.”

“What do you think you did to Edna? She got up to use the toilet and saw movement over here.”

“And she sent you to investigate instead of phoning the police?”

Frank Chute chuckled. “I adore the wife, but even she doesn’t have that much clout.”

“So, why didn’t you call the cops?”

“Figured you had a good reason for traipsing around here.”

“How is your wife?” Angie asked.

“Nice of you to ask. Not good, poor thing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I see you’ve sold your house.” Angie nodded to the sign stuck in his lawn. “When are you moving?”

“About fifty year’s worth of stuff to sell first. The kids try to help but they’ve got their own lives.”

“Have you decided which one you’ll move in with?”

“The youngest. She’s got a big place in Colebrook with a couple extra rooms on the first floor. Edna can even bring her cats.”

“That’ll be very nice for her.”

“Damn things,” Chute said with a smile.

“You mentioned a vehicle that came down the road the night of John’s death. You said by the time you looked out, you couldn’t be sure if it had come out of Mr. Bloom’s driveway or had just turned around here. Can you describe the car for me?”

“Near as I can recall, dark, either black or navy blue. And big, one of those SUV things. It was really shiny and clean, that tends to stand out in the winter, with all the salt on ’em.”

“What time did you say you saw it?”

“’Bout nine.”

She gave another nod. “Did you get a glimpse of the driver? Even a hint of the identity? A sex?”

Chute gave a firm shake to his head. “No. Too dark. I’m fairly sure the car backed out of the driveway, so when it goes past here, the driver is on the far side.”

Angie smiled too then put out a hand for him to shake. “I’m happy to have met you, I hope your move north goes well.”

“Thank you. You’re a very nice lady to be so concerned.” He reached into his pants pocket and came up with something he dangled in the air between them. It caught the bit of light and flashed gold.

A key.

He handed it to Angie. “Before all the trouble in the neighborhood, Mr. Bloom and I exchanged keys. Don’t know what he woulda done with mine by now, but I kept his. Hang ’em all on a rack inside the back door.”

Angie took the key and reached up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” He turned away.

“Aren’t you going to ask why we want to get inside?”

“Nope. And you didn’t get that key from me.”

Angie thanked him again. Just then Jarvis joined them. Angie introduced them and handed him the key. “Look what I found.”

In the kitchen, Angie flicked on the overhead light and beelined for the pile of AIS Bulletins in the stack closest to the kitchen table. The first time she’d been here, the pile had been neat and straight. Now it was haphazard. Angie pictured the forensics detectives trying to gather data in this place, stacked floor to ceiling with papers, reports, brochures and books.

She steadied the pinky finger of her right hand on top of the stack and stretched her thumb down as far as she could reach. She lifted the bulletins a couple of inches, then let them flutter down the way she had the first time. The pages flicked past like frames on a movie reel. Angie concentrated on the cover photos. A muttered word of triumph escaped her lips.

Jarvis peered over her left shoulder. “What’ve you got?”

Angie lifted the bulletins and let the covers flutter past a second time. Yes! She hadn’t imagined it. Now to find exactly the right one.

She removed the top eight or so inches of issues and placed them on the kitchen table then sat in the chair she’d designated as John’s favorite. The top issue was printed in black and white, about fifty pages in thickness. She didn’t bother thumbing through it, she sought covers only. One by one Angie contemplated them. One by one they were discarded. She felt Jarvis watching and looked up. “I can’t find it.”

“If you’re sure of what you’re doing, keep looking, it’ll turn up.”

On the next cover were two men: one tall and thin; with cocoa brown hair and a goatee; the second man was short with white hair and a paunch. The taller man pointed at a lengthy field of blooming irises. The flowers were all light color, maybe purples, yellows and pinks, hard to tell in the black and white picture. The shorter man smiled, obviously agreeing with whatever the other man said.

“To save time, would you start looking in the dining room? Look for anybody who looks even slightly familiar.”

“Okay,” he said doubtfully.

Angie waited till he disappeared around the corner, then moved the bulletin closer to the light. She tilted it one way, then the other, squinting at both men. The date was August 1972. She squinted at the picture. Ho-lee shee-it. She’d found it!

Angie took a photograph—pilfered from one of Gloria’s envelopes—from her handbag and laid it beside the cover. Next she tore off the cover and placed them both in the handbag. Her eyes were burning. Even after squeezing them shut for several moments, the burning continued.

“Nothing?” Jarvis asked, making her jump.

“Not really. Come on, let’s go check on Mom.” She spoke little all the way back to town.

“You gonna tell me what you found?” he asked as he turned into his driveway. “I know you had a specific reason for asking me to take you there. I also know you sent me out of the room because you found something. What I don’t get is why you wanted me out of the way.”

How could he read her so well?

“I have to check on my mother, then I’ll tell you.” She dialed Tyson’s number. Jarvis called Sergeant Wilson. Two short phone calls went on simultaneously: “Tyson, I need a huge favor. Could you pick up my mother and keep an eye on her for about an hour? I’ll explain later.” And, “Wilson, Angie’s figured this thing out. You want to hear it, get to my house.”

Gloria was seated at Jarvis’s kitchen table, telephone book spread wide. “I just ordered more flowers. I got to thinking. Except for Jarvis, Bud has no family. I wanted to make sure there were enough flowers.”

Angie patted the wrinkled hand. “Good idea. I’ll be back in a minute.” She headed for the bathroom. As she closed the door, she heard the muted sounds of Tyson’s arrival. Angie sat on the closed toilet seat and made a phone call.

Moments later she arrived in the kitchen, Tyson held out a leather gloved hand toward Gloria. “I wondered if you might have lunch with me.”

Her expression became almost gleeful. Immediately it turned suspicious and aimed first at Angie, at Jarvis, then at Sergeant Wilson, just stepping through the door. He carried a stack of manila folders in his arms.

“If you wanted me out of the way, you only had to say so,” Gloria said.

“The case has come to a head,” Jarvis told her. “We need to talk. I’ll see you in a while.” Over Gloria’s shoulder, she mouthed thanks to Tyson.

She, Wilson and Jarvis sat at the kitchen table. Wilson laid three folders in the center and pushed a fourth across to Angie. She crossed her arms protectively over it, then, atop the trio of folders, she laid the red iris bud taken from Sondergaard’s dying fingers. And told the whole story—all but the why of it—because she didn’t know. Yet.

While she spoke, she withdrew the Bulletin cover from her handbag and laid it before the men. “Check the address label.”

“Jan Van Blozend Bloem,” Jarvis read. “So? We already know John changed his name.”

“What I don’t get is, if he was hiding here, why keep the membership in his old name? Someone at the post office would’ve noticed.”

“He has no criminal record,” Wilson said. “Nobody’s chasing him for money or back taxes. The name shouldn’t make a difference.”

“Perhaps not.” She warned herself to tread gently. “Look closely at the cover.”

Jarvis picked it up and gave it full attention. “What do you want us to see?”

Angie took out the photo from Gloria’s stash, slipped the cover photo from his fingers and laid the two side-by-side on the table. She watched Jarvis’s face gazing at the irrefutable evidence, and realized she’d underestimated him. His professionalism would rein in whatever other emotions spilled over.

“I knew there was something fishy going on the whole time. It was just too…easy.” He picked up the tiny pre-flower and chuckled. “And they say women can’t keep secrets. John’s not being able to keep a secret is what set this whole mess in motion.”

“You need to search this storage facility.” Angie reached for the notebook Jarvis always kept in his shirt pocket and wrote the company’s name. She tore off the page and handed it to the sergeant. He wore a brilliant smile as he phoned headquarters and sent a pair of men to the address on the paper.

Wilson spread out the folders and picked up one with Pedar Niels Sondergaard written across the tab. Inside were several photos; one showed Sondergaard standing in front of a bank, whose name was out of the frame. The next picture depicted a sprawling country estate, high on a hill and surrounded by tall white brick walls. On the back the words: Iridiceae. Estate of Pedar Evan Sondergaard. Photo taken 06-03-27.

“Wow.”

“Double wow,” Jarvis said.

“Can you bring a case to court without knowing a motive?”

Jarvis thumped the pile of folders with his knuckles. “If we have everything else, yes. I’m hoping there’s something in here that’ll give us our motive.”

“To make everything stick,” Wilson explained, “we need to know the whole connection between Sondergaard and Bloom: how and when they first met, who introduced them, details of their business arrangement. Where did the three million come from? Is three mill a standard amount to pay a researcher?”

“I want to know what’s so damned important about a red flower. And why someone’s willing to kill for it. I’m still having trouble wrapping my brain around the flower thing. It’s just a goddamned flower.” Jarvis stood up, got two beers from the refrigerator and handed one to Wilson, who pushed it away.

“On duty.”

“You want anything?” he asked Angie.

“You’re looking a little pleased with yourself.”

He sat, unable to stop his smirk from widening. “Sondergaard did say something on his death bed.” He sipped from his can, pushing out the images that assaulted his head and replaced them with the vision of he and Angelina alone here, having dinner. Maybe not at this table. She had nice furniture at her place; nothing like this worn out stuff. Since meeting her he’d thought a lot about redecorating, even done a little painting. Liz had always taken care of curtains and furniture; he’d thought maybe sometime he could ask Angelina’s help. Or maybe she’d do it after they were married.

Not much chance of that now. Not after his blunders of the past few days. He’d dumped hard on her over John’s computer hard drive. Why the hell had he done that?

“Jarvis!”

He started at the sound of her raised voice.

“What…did…Sondergaard…say?”

“He said m—He said a name.”

“Why you little weasel!” Angelina swung at him, landing a glancing blow on his upper arm. He assumed an injured, innocent expression. Wilson laughed as she said, “So that’s why you accepted my theory without argument.”

Not the only reason, but let her think that for now. Angelina pointed a copper colored fingernail at him. “Wait a minute. Wait just a cotton-picking minute. If you knew the name, why didn’t you get the airline passenger list?” He shrugged. “You weasel!”

He laughed and patted her hand. Touching her had been a bad idea and he stood up quickly. “We already had the passenger list, my darling. FYI, Sondergaard only said the first name.”

“Damn,” said Angelina and Wilson together.

Jarvis flopped in the chair and picked up the photo of Sondergaard. They were right. What was the world coming to when a case was solved by a flower—a bloody, stinking flower?

A bloody, stinking, three million dollar flower.

“You’re still a worm,” she said.

“You said weasel.”

“Same thing. Did I tell you Frank Chute is moving to Colebrook to live with his youngest daughter?” Jarvis gave her a what-does-that-have-to-do-with-anything look, to which she replied, “That’s where he’ll be when you need him to testify about the vehicle being there the night of the theft.”

Wilson opened another folder and took up the topmost sheet, a fax from the Danish Police. “I’ll give you an encapsulated version: Sondergaard was squeaky clean. No arrests. Nothing subversive. The only blemish on his record is a ticket for loitering at the age of fifteen. Educated at the University of Amsterdam. Graduated with honors and immediately opened his iris nursery. Apparently he went to a symposium in London and met up with a number of people dedicated to developing the red. Looks like his sense of self got in the way and he spent every penny working on it.”

“He told Donna he was broke,” Angelina said.

“Check out the name on the picture—Pedar Evan Sondergaard,” Wilson said. “That’s our guy’s father. And before you get to thinking about inheritances and all that, word around Amsterdam is that he squandered the allowance his father generously bestowed on him, and Daddy-O shut off his supply. That’s when coincidence shone on him in the name of John Bloom. One, or both, of them found an investor,” he gestured at the photos on the table, “willing to put up the three million.”

“Might’ve been more,” Jarvis added. “I’m thinking Sondergaard got a hefty finder’s fee for putting the deal together.”

“Three years ago, the three million was deposited in Bloom’s account, and work began. I think we know most of what happened after that—from the Sondergaard angle anyway.”

Jarvis closed the folder, slapped it on the table and then separated a third folder. One with the name of their suspect scrawled in black magic marker across the front. He withdrew several stapled sheets, scraped the chair back a couple of feet, crossed his left ankle over his right thigh and set the pages on the triangle his leg formed. He didn’t read, or otherwise look at them, though. They were pretty much committed to memory by now. He handed the folder to Angelina. “This is the background check.”

Her eyes lit up and he felt a giddy rush. Finally he’d surprised her. Jarvis popped the top on the second beer while she read. The multitude of expressions that crossed her face made him smile. Five minutes ticked off the kitchen clock.

Why had all this happened to him? Something had brought him, as a person, to the perp’s attention.

“What are you grinning at?” Angelina asked. She laid the pages on top of the pile. “Do you want me to break the news to Trynne?” she said.

“I’ll go with you. You can do the talking.”

“She won’t be happy to see you.”

“She’s right,” Wilson said, “Angie and I will go.” That moment his cell phone rang. “Hello.” Wilson’s eyebrows shot up, he nodded. “That’s what we thought. Okay, thanks for letting us know.” He set the phone on the table and ran a hand through thinning hair. “That was State Police. They’ve traced the loooong money trail.”

“No surprises?” Jarvis asked.

Wilson shook his head. “Nope. Just the motive for drawing you in.” He stood up. “What if I pick you up in about an hour? You two need time to talk.”

Jarvis opened his mouth to protest, but Wilson was gone.