THREE

 

       The six-foot rectangular sign for Northeast Nurseries loomed at the head of John Bloom’s driveway. Snow capped the length of the top and caked in the lower corner of the frame obliterating the first and last letters of the word nurseries. The grass hadn’t been mown around the posts, sad brown clumps poked through the snow like wayward corn tassels.

Jarvis swerved the vehicle to the right and they skidded to a stop. On the single garage door the headlights lit up flaked paint like tiny stars. The overgrown grass and peeling paint contrasted so radically with her impression of John that Angie had to close her eyes. When she opened them, Jarvis was already out of the vehicle and moving around the front, using the hood for support.

He pulled open her door. She didn’t want him touching her right now, but if she said so it would start a row that was inappropriate to have here. Wind swooshed into the vehicle, biting her cheeks and snapping at her nose. She crammed her feet back into the unsuitable shoes and got out, only to have them re-fill  with white stuff. Snowflakes tickled her eyelashes; she brushed them away with the back of a hand as they lurched and slipped to the three snow-covered steps leading up to the back door of John Bloom’s house, a single-story ranch with siding of some dark color.

John had left the porch light on, but little of it trickled between the quarter-sized flakes. The scent of meat—hamburger probably—pushed out at them when the door opened. The light over the stove illuminated an immaculate stove and countertop. A dish drainer held a plate, butter knife and frying pan. Across the room, things weren’t in such a tidy state. Piles of books and papers crowded the floor and every available surface, standing as tall as five feet in most places. Haphazardly atop each stack lay hand garden tools, trowels and such. The tabletop wore piles a foot high all around the edge except for an uncluttered path from where John obviously sat to eat—a drinking glass with something brown sat on a paper placemat—all the way to the window that overlooked the driveway.

Angie braced a palm on top of the closest mound and dumped snow out of her shoes. Then, stretching her thumb down, she flicked through the stack. “They’re all iris related,” she offered, not surprised.

“This pile has some catalogues from plant and tree companies, but you’re right, it’s all about irises.”

“Irises are his life.”

“Bo-ring.”

“Rhapsody,” she called softly, holding up her long skirt and bending to peer under the table and around the clean but cluttered linoleum. “I guess Rhapsody’s not a dog. She would be barking by now.”

Jarvis opened each kitchen cabinet in turn. “I don’t see any kitty litter or pet food.”

“There’s no bird cage. Or water bowl. Or snake—what do they keep snakes in anyway?”

“Aquariums, I think.”

The house was so silent she could hear the shush of snow against the windows. Jarvis flicked a switch, revealing a hallway with several closed doors. The first on the left entered a small dining room. The walls were nearly invisible behind stacks of cardboard boxes. It looked like he’d never finished unpacking. A long plastic picnic table sat in the middle of the room…piled with books and newsletters. Here though, interspersed with the books on irises were science fiction and fantasy novels. She lifted an eyebrow at Jarvis.

“Who’d a thunk it?”

They finished an examination of the living room, bathroom and two bedrooms, the second of which had no furniture, just floor to ceiling shelves—all bowed under the weight of books and papers.

“How long has he lived here?”

“I don’t know,” Angie said, then called, “Rhapsody! Chirp, meow or bark so we can find you.” She squinted in corners. No tentative whisker poked out. She gazed into gaps between stacks. No wary eyes looked back. Nothing but silence greeted them in the congested living room. The far right hand corner held a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. It had no iris magazines or brochures or newsletters—only novels. Angie slipped one from an eye-level shelf: science fiction.

There were two bedrooms; the only furniture in one was a desk dead center of the room, hidden under more brochures and magazines. The other bedroom was John’s personal space. It too bore piles around its perimeter, framing the double windows like foot-thick wallpaper. The bed was made. The mirror shone with newly polished brilliance. A stack of folded laundry sat on the edge of the dresser. John wore briefs, not boxers. She didn’t think it was the sort of observation she should mention to Jarvis.

“Rhapsody, are you in here?” Angie hiked up her gown, knelt and lifted the corner of the polyester—motel-type—spread. She got to her feet, shaking her head. “Where is she?”

Jarvis opened the closet. Angie stepped past him to examine John’s clothes. Two dress shirts, one white one blue. Two plastic cleaners’ bags, one held a velvet-collared tuxedo, the other a good quality suit coat and slacks. Side by side in the corner, a shiny pair of medium-quality dress loafers and well-used pair of Nike sneakers. Angie backed out.

Jarvis shut the door and joined in calling for the illusive pet. They were met with total silence until the furnace clicked on with a hearty thunk that shook the house.

“Furnace needs cleaning.” Jarvis stepped into the hallway and pulled open the last uninspected door. The drone of the furnace increased. “Wait here.” He flipped the light switch and went down, calling Rhapsody’s name. In a minute he returned. “Nothing there.”

“Packed with stuff, too?”

“Believe it or not, it’s empty, just a furnace and water heater. Come on, Rhapsody’s obviously not coming out for us.”

“John said—”

“I realize that. But whoever Rhapsody is, she’s obviously hiding. It’s warm here. She’ll be fine. We’ll come back in the morning.”

“It is morning,” she said, stepping back into the kitchen. She couldn’t smell hamburger any more. Now the scent was of musty paper, like a place long closed to fresh air.

Angie’s eyes burned. Her back ached. She buttoned the coat she hadn’t realized she’d unbuttoned. Before tugging open the door, she called Rhapsody one more time. She even pursed her lips to add a few squeaky sounds like she’d heard people use to call their cats or puppies.

“Man, this place is an arsonist’s dream,” Jarvis said.

“There must be stuff dating back to the beginning of the Printing Age,” Angie said.

“I don’t think there was a Printing Age.”

No kidding. “Rhapsody. Come out come out wherever you are.”

Together they stepped into the snowstorm and locked the back door. Angie bundled her collar against her nose and mouth to ward off the sting of the wind. Another inch of snow had fallen while they performed the wild Rhapsody chase. She stepped off the bottom tread. Snow poured into her shoes, wedging itself in huge clumps around her insteps and heels. A shiver, not entirely related to the weather, devoured her. Something wasn’t right.

Jarvis took her elbow, sidetracking her from the worrisome thought and reminding her she was still angry. He aimed her toward the Jeep. A yellow glow to the left caught her eye. She stopped, nearly knocking Jarvis off his feet. A rectangular glow, a long narrow strip across the horizon about fifty yards away.

Jarvis took her arm again. “Let’s go home. I have the feeling tomorrow—um, today—is going to be busy.”

“Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”

Angie plucked her sleeve from his grip and started toward the greenhouse. He cursed. Not only didn’t John paint his garage, mow his lawn, or throw anything away, he apparently didn’t shovel snow either. Throughout the season, the snow had been trod on, and frozen. Now and again, the moon shone through the storm clouds, casting light on ruts that showed as blue-black voids. Even with the newly fallen snow, some were more than six inches deep, regions where entire feet might be lost, and never seen again. The image almost made her giggle. For some reason, she found the thought of tottering around on leg-stubs funny.

“Angelina!” Jarvis’s irritated voice broke through her thoughts. She stopped and gazed back at him, still standing in the driveway. A blast of arctic air whistled under her dress and stung her tender flesh through the skimpy panties.

“What!” she called.

He threw up his hands and started toward her. “Do you really think he’d keep a pet out there?”

She said, “She isn’t in the house,” but her feelings had suddenly led away from Rhapsody being a living being.

She stumbled in one of the crevasses. Thankfully, Jarvis got a grip on her arm and kept her from a plunge into foot-less-ness. She yanked her shoe from the abyss and giggled seeing the foot still attached. Surely the expensive shoes were junk by now. Ahead, the enormous glass hothouse shimmered like a beacon. Midway along its length, a tall yellow rectangle marred the sideways appearance of the structure. A tall rectangle meant a door. The color yellow meant the door was open. John’s words shot into her head: “She needs to be kept warm.”

Angie broke into a run, swaying and tripping on the irregular ground, a desperation to her movement that froze Jarvis in place. She covered the last fifty feet like a marathoner and launched herself through the door that flapped back and forth in the wind. Snow had blown inside and piled three feet high against the nearest obstruction, some sort of table with a row of shelves underneath.

She stood a second letting her eyes adjust to the light given off by a small watt bulb at the far end of the room. In other greenhouses she’d been in, the aromas had been pleasant, a gentle melding of warm, damp soil and sweet flowers. Here, the scent of soil stood out above the rest. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t pick out the aroma of flowers at all. Neither was the air warm. It was downright freezing. The furnace blew hot air blew from a ceiling heater at the far end, not doing a bit of good against the January air driving through the doorway.

Then, her eyes allowed her to see. And Angie nearly dropped to her knees in dismay. The raging storm had destroyed everything in sight. Three rows of tables stretched the length of the building—one along each wall and one down the center. The tables were actually long boxes filled with soil that until recently held plants. Now, they lay like corpses on the snow-covered floor.

“Don’t touch anything,” Jarvis said, stepping up beside her.

That’s when she realized—the storm hadn’t caused this devastation. The plants hadn’t blown over. They’d been lopped off! The place looked like an autumn cornfield after the chopper went through. Someone deliberately destroyed John’s life’s work. For a fleeting moment, Angie felt glad he was dead. If he were here, surely this sight would give him a coronary.

Her feet backed away, turned her around. Escape…such a cowardly thing to do, yet she couldn’t stop herself from moving toward a wood door to the right. As if having minds of their own her feet stepped over downed plants. The big door was unlatched and open about an inch. Her right foot nudged it open, flinching at the high-pitched squawk of protest.

She found herself in John Bloom’s office, on a cement floor covered by a cheap throw rug in a deep green color. It didn’t take Miss Marple to know whomever wreaked the havoc in the greenhouse had also been here. Except for a very new looking flat-screen computer and blotter, the desk was completely bare. All the drawers stood open and, except for jumbles of paperclips and the like, empty. All eight drawers of the pair of metal filing cabinets along the right hand wall were open—and empty. Against the wall shared by the greenhouse stood a heavy, very old looking safe. Open, and empty.

Angie stumbled out of the room passing a pink plastic wastebasket lying on its side, also empty. The thief, or thieves, hadn’t left a single thing behind. Except the computer. Strange. Computers were the first place people stored information. Why did the burglar bypass it? She backed out of the room feeling as forlorn as this place. She wished she could magically transport away to a time—before Act Four, before John’s death, before Jarvis’s  jealous remarks.

His arm snaked around her waist and eased her from the room. He let go long enough to dial the cell phone. Angie faced the destruction and took note of details. The plants were all one type: long spear-like leaves, large-petaled flowers in many colors of the rainbow. Unless she missed her guess, they were irises. What had John mentioned about them in particular? For weeks, he’d talked endlessly about the things. Angie should recall something of what he said. A special discovery yes, but what about it? Try as she might, every time she tried to envision John talking about his flowers, she saw him lying on the stage, a river of blood spurting from his chest. Bloodied lips whispered, “Please take care of Rhapsody.”

“Okay,” Jarvis said, and put the phone in his pocket.

Angie pointed to the mess on the floor. “I think Rhapsody is a plant.” She ignored his snort of disbelief. “John kept talking about a discovery. I didn’t hear most of it because—”

“Because it was freaking boring.”

“I think that freaking boring talk holds a clue to what’s going on here. This wasn’t a random act.”

“How do you know that?”

Ignoring his cynical tone, Angie found a chair, brushed the scattered soil and leaves off the white plastic surface and sat. She took off a shoe and massaged her cold, wet, aching toes. “Because whoever did it, didn’t bother going in the house.”

Jarvis shook his head. “Maybe he did go in. And kidnapped Rhapsody.” With a grunt, he crouched and picked up a decapitated stalk, shaking the soil from the multi-hued pink petals. He held it toward her. “Somebody must’ve been really angry.”

He was right. Destruction like this signaled a very strong emotion. What? Revenge for something John did? He’d seemed so easygoing. Yes, but he’d also seemed tidy. What else triggered devastation like this? Jealousy maybe. The word sparked a flame of annoyance and she glanced at Jarvis, now on his feet.

“I think we should go back in the house,” Angie said.

“To look for…?”

“A possible motive.”

Moments later, Angie stood on tiptoe in John’s kitchen looking through a stack of publications on top of the microwave. With thumb and forefinger—to keep fingerprints to a minimum—she sifted through dozens of Iris Society Bulletins. As the front covers flickered past, a familiar face caught her eye. She thumbed back through one at a time, examining each cover photo, seeking the face. One by one she discarded them. All the pictures were of men. Why then had she thought she’d seen a woman?

“You got something?”

“I thought I recognized someone on one of these covers.” Angie examined the newsletter covers individually, moving each to a new pile. “I don’t understand it. I thought I saw a woman but the cover pictures are all of men. Oh well. Guess I was seeing things.”

Jarvis opened the refrigerator. Angie laughed. “What do you expect to find in there?”

He tossed her a scowl and bent to look inside. “Nothing much in the way of food: a few condiments, a quart of milk and a cooked cheeseburger on a plate and covered with Saran wrap.” He shut the door and turned around.

The tiny corner of something protruded from the pile about six inches from the top: a single sheet of white paper, tucked between the June 2003 and July 2003 issues. Angie plucked it out.

“Find something?”

“The header says Nielsen Nurseries, 1417 Kierkergaard, Amsterdam, Holland. It’s dated the 30th of January 2003. ‘Dear Mr. Bloom, This is in reference to your letter dated 14 December. I feel it would be best if we discuss this in person. A partnership of some sort may be profitable for us both. Please telephone at your earliest convenience.’ It’s signed, Pedar Sondergaard.”

Angie laid the letter on the table, beside a glass of something that looked like flat cola. “What do you bet this guy also breeds irises?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Did you know Donna Marks breeds irises? She has over three thousand.”

“The florist? No, I didn’t know.”

“She told me John had twenty-three thousand.” Jarvis’s silence said his jealousy had reared up again. Angie ignored it. “She also said there’s been all kinds of money spent developing a certain color, I think it’s true red. Hundreds of thousands of dollars by one Oregon breeder in particular.”

“Is she trying to get a red also?”

“That I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

He flung an arm around her shoulders and rotated her toward him. “Did I mention you look sexy in that gown?”

Angie ducked out of his embrace. “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

“I’m serious. It’s just that the idea of spending so much money on a flower… when there’s people starving all over the world.”

A sound in the driveway brought both of them to the window. Two cruisers slid in beside Jarvis’s car. Three officers got out. Angie and Jarvis went out to meet them. Jarvis explained the situation then took her arm as they started the long trek to the greenhouse again. She wanted to walk back out there about as much as she wanted to go home and wake up her mother.

The head officer, a short balding man with a narrow mustache, introduced himself as Sergeant Ralph Whitcomb.

Jarvis gave a quick run-down of the situation. “Apparently the thieves concentrated on the greenhouse and office. The house hasn’t been touched.” He told them about the letter from Amsterdam. “I don’t know if it’s related or not; we found it buried under a mile-high pile of Iris Society Bulletins. It’s on the kitchen table.”

Angie ducked into John’s office amid warnings from one of the sergeants to not “touch anything.” She used a fingernail tip to hit the light switch just inside the door. A single-bulb fixture in the ceiling illuminated the barrenness in frightful clarity. The computer was one of the newest models, a 17” flat screen with the works inside: no bulky boxlike thing taking all the space on the desk. Using the tip of a fingernail, she punched the ON button. Nothing happened. She hit the button again. Still nothing. She located the cord and followed it to the outlet.

“Something wrong?” Jarvis asked from the doorway.

“I think I figured out why the thief didn’t take the computer. It’s broken.”

He strode to the desk and hit the ON button the same way Angie had. When nothing happened he said, “This machine is too new to be broken. Yeah yeah, I know they break but it’s more likely they downloaded what they wanted and busted the thing so nobody else could use it.”

“It doesn’t look busted.”

Jarvis shrugged. He drew a jackknife from his pants pocket and poked the tip in the slit where the back and front of the computer joined. He’d barely touched the knife to the opening when the back of the computer popped off and crashed to the floor. Jarvis bent to peer into the machine.

He wiggled two fingers at Angie. “I’ve never seen inside one of these things. Does everything look all right to you?”

She’d never examined the inner workings either. A guy from Nashua, Montez Clarke, maintained her home computer and the one in the theater office, plus he designed and maintained the Prince & Pauper web site.

Two officers raced in from the greenhouse. The officers bent beside Jarvis. With their tan uniforms framing Jarvis in his dark clothes, they looked like an inside out Oreo. God, she was getting punchy. She squinted to read the numbers on her watch dial: 5:12 in the morning.

“Well, that explains it then,” Jarvis said.

“Explains what?” she asked.

“The hard drive is missing,” replied the tall officer in a tone that implied he’d already said this. His nametag said Lieutenant Randolph Spicer. “That’s why they didn’t have to move the whole computer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They will install the hard drive into another computer,” Spicer said as if everyone should know this.

“Why not just download it? Send it to—” Jarvis asked but Angie interrupted with, “Because it’s traceable.”

Jarvis took hold of her arm. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

They stumbled and staggered back to his vehicle. The storm had dumped more than six inches, most of which felt like it was in Angie’s shoes. Daybreak struggled to break through the dense layer of clouds still shrouding the area. The coldest temperatures of the day brought a series of bone-jarring shivers. A snowplow had cleared the roadway but left an eighteen-inch windrow of snow the Jeep pushed through as if it weren’t there.

She folded her arms around herself and leaned her head back. “I guess there’s no doubt John’s murder is related to the mess in his place,” she said, not opening her burning eyes.

Jarvis didn’t answer. She raised her head to look at him, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. The dawn light showed him in profile, cheeks and jaw clenched tight, lips almost invisible.

Someone had wanted John dead. They lacked the courage to do it themselves and used Jarvis as the vehicle. How awful it must be to know you’ve killed someone. The urge to escape, not only the prevailing guilt, and thoughts of the victim’s family, but the sleeplessness and resulting fallout had to be compelling.

Did John have family? Angie knew he’d once been engaged to Trynne, but not whether he had an ex wife or children, parents or grandparents. What must Trynne be feeling right now? A man she’d once loved had died. An event such as this would revive long-buried emotions. After some sleep, Angie would visit Trynne.

Neither she nor Jarvis spoke again till he stopped in front of her condo. The plow blade had cast a huge barrier of white stuff against the front door. The walks hadn’t yet been shoveled. The porch light lit the area around the doors. No lights on inside; Gloria was probably asleep. Angie said a thank you for small favors. A slight wind whipped stray flakes off the roofs and swirled them in front of the car like albino autumn leaves.

“What do you think about all this iris breeding stuff?” Jarvis asked.

The inane question was intended to postpone something inevitable: he didn’t want to go home. Probably couldn’t face being alone right now. She could invite him inside. But Gloria would be up soon, and bombard them with insensitive questions. Angie loved her mother dearly, but these days she didn’t seem to comprehend how her words affected people.

Angie half-turned on the seat to face him. He took her hand and absently played with her fingers, opening and shutting them like box tops, watching the action as though it were some momentous event.

Though he probably didn’t expect an answer to his question, she said something part reply and part expression of her thoughts, “The topic of iris breeding is coming up too often to be coincidence.” She extracted her hand from his and counted on her fingers. “First there’s John, who’s some kind of iris-genetic-aholic. Then there’s Trynne.” The mention of Trynne’s name made Jarvis frown. “Remember, her parents and John’s were partners in a nursery in Oregon. She and John were once engaged.”

“I don’t see how that’s related.”

“It might not be. I’m just pointing out the coincidences. Donna breeds irises too. What do you want to bet she’s breeding for a red?”

“Nothing surprises me any more.”

Angie would bet the substitution of his service revolver for the prop gun came as a surprise. She didn’t say so.

“Everything comes down to money,” Jarvis continued. “How much is spent, or how much something can make is all that matters these days.”

“Not sure where you’re going with this.”

“That letter from Amsterdam talks about money. Well, it insinuates anyway.”

“Is that how you interpreted mention of a partnership?”

“Why else would two strangers in different countries merge like that? I don’t believe for a minute that it’s all about the simple betterment of a flower.”

“No. If someone spent hundreds of thousands on the development of the flower, then no, I don’t believe it’s enough. I agree with you that everything comes back to money.”

Jarvis made a scoffing sound between his teeth. “Millions spent on stuff like freaking flowers. Nothing on feeding starving people or fixing global warming.”

She let him ramble till he wound down looking totally deflated. “Want to come in?”

He looked about to say no, then changed his mind. “A quick coffee.” They got out of the Jeep and met in front of it. Jarvis peered around. “Where’s your shovel? I’ll get rid of this snowbank for you.”

“Don’t have a shovel, the association clears it. Someone will be here soon. It’s not even six yet.”

He took her arm to help her over. She lifted her right foot. “By the way, your father’s very handsome.”

Jarvis dropped his hand and she nearly tumbled headfirst into the snow. She righted herself using the doorframe for support.

“What are you talking about?”

“I forgot to tell you, your father came to the theater yesterday looking for you. I told him where he might find you. I didn’t know you were still in the building.”

Usually that trio of lines over his nose gave him a thoughtful look. They’d bunched together now, wrinkling his whole face.

“How come his name is Dodge—not Jarvis?”

The wrinkles tightened. Jarvis’ keys jingled as he jammed his hands in his pockets. He turned away and began marching across the parking lot. Walking like a man late for an appointment, he disappeared around the side of her building.

What did she do? Should she follow? No, probably not. He would come back when he got over whatever was wrong . She unlocked the front door and crawled over the hump of snow.

Cozy, vanilla-scented air greeted her. Home. Angie kicked off her shoes and hung her coat in the hall closet. Why would the mention of Jarvis’ father upset him? Carson Dodge seemed nice enough, though she wondered about the dark circles under his eyes. At first she’d attributed them to the lighting in the theater. Now, she wondered. The circles coupled with his sallow skin color suggested something health-related.

The thought of health brought her mother to mind. Just what prompted Gloria’s arrival in town? She hated New Hampshire. A metallic thunk in the kitchen said Mom was up. The absence of a coffee aroma said she hadn’t been up long.

As Angie passed the hall clock, it began chiming. Six times. She’d now been up two straight nights. She should be exhausted. But only felt restless. What the hell was wrong with Jarvis?