it in — on one of the newspaper’s cell phones. She had left her own phone at home when she heard that she would be covering this event. Wrigley would have to foot the bill for this one. She knew the cost of the call would irk the stingy bastard. Keeping that in mind, she described today’s event in minute detail. She had never loaded a story up with so many adjectives in her life.
As it turned out, she also paid for her moments of revenge — the battery on the cell phone went dead just before she reached the last bloated paragraph of the story, abruptly ending the call and denying her the chance to check her messages. Cussing out Wrigley for not investing in phones with a longer battery life, she inched her way home, smelling exhaust fumes, watching brake lights, and wondering if the paper in Modoc County was hiring.
At last, after spending nearly three hours covering a distance of about thirty miles, home was in sight. She pulled into the driveway, anxious to get out of the car. She hurried into the house, was snubbed by a preoccupied Cody, greeted the dogs, and went back into the bedroom to change.
She was surprised to hear the shower running; she hadn’t seen Frank’s car. But he might have parked in the garage or on the street. His clothes were in a pile and smelled heavily of smoke. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She was putting them in the bag for dry cleaning, wondering why her normally neat husband had just tossed them on the floor, then thought of the shower. Probably washing the smoke smell out of his hair. She imagined him in the shower, smiled, and quickly stripped. She was on her way out of the bedroom when she saw the blue kimono. She smiled again and put it on.
She stepped into the bathroom, heard a woman say, “Honey, are you awake now?”
Through a haze of red, she pulled the shower door open and yanked the temperature control so that the water went to one hundred percent cold.
Seth woke up, hearing two women’s voices shouting words that would have put him on restriction for weeks.
32
Wednesday, July 12, 5:45 P.M.
Garrity’s Flowers
He parked in the alley behind the florist shop, checked his pocket to make sure he had the photos, and got out of the car. The two vans parked at the back of the store were older than the one he had seen. They were white Chevy vans, but they didn’t look like the one at the cemetery. Emblazoned in red and green on the side panels and the back door of each was Garrity’s Flowers and the florist’s phone number (2-4- BLOOM). One of the vans had something in common with the van he had seen — its plate number. Even before he walked around to the front end, he knew the other plate would be missing.
He walked through a narrow breezeway between buildings to get to the front of the shop. A bell rang as he stepped in, but apparently it wasn’t heard over Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, which was playing over a speaker. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy both the music and the earthy scents of potted plants, the sweet and spicy mix of fragrances of roses and other flowers, the bright colors of summer blooms.
There was no one at the front counter at the moment. A set of glass climate-controlled cases filled with orchids and other exotic-looking plants stood behind the counter, and through them he could see an elderly woman working in the back of the shop. He heard her humming to herself as she created an elaborate arrangement.
Frank didn’t rush her. An avid gardener, he was quickly distracted by the colorful displays around him. Florists could order from greenhouses, of course, and while his own roses and zinnias and dahlias were doing fine, he couldn’t match the variety here. He walked slowly past bins of tulips, lilies, irises, snapdragons, carnations, daisies, and chrysanthemums. He made his way toward another set of climate-controlled cases at the back — these were filled with roses. Wending his way to it, he studied their various shades and shapes, wondering if he should surprise Irene by bringing her a dozen of them, a token of thanks for accepting two houseguests without notice — and a peace offering. It would surprise her — he didn’t stop at florists very often; not only because there were plenty of flowers right outside their back door, but also because he preferred to see flowers growing.
The aisles of the shop were narrow, crowded with blossoms, indoor plants, boxes of chocolates, and a limited assortment of other gifts — ceramic mugs with “World’s Greatest Granddad” and similar phrases imprinted on them; stuffed animals, mostly overdressed bears; hand-painted T-shirts, seemingly designed with cat lovers in mind. He negotiated his way between a display of Mylar balloons and a large potted palm and was bending to take a closer look at a bromeliad when the bell on the door rang again.
A young man entered the shop. He was tall. Not quite as tall as Frank — six two, maybe. His build was solid and muscular — so muscular that Frank thought his neat blue suit must have been custom-tailored. He had close- cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a small tattoo on his thick neck just behind his right ear. A wasp.
He walked directly to the counter, apparently not noticing Frank’s presence. His posture was ramrod straight, his manner assured.
For reasons Frank could not name, the man made him feel uneasy. He stayed still, watching from his crouched position, hidden behind the palm.
The wasp man used his large hands to beat sharply on the countertop. “Hello!” he called, more in impatience than by way of greeting.
The florist came out, smiling. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
The wasp man smiled back. “Excuse me, ma’am. I sounded a little impatient, didn’t I? I apologize. I guess I’m a little frustrated, is all. You see, I’ve been to almost every florist in town, so I hope you can help me out.”
Her smile grew at this engaging politeness. Frank felt more wary. He unbuttoned his jacket, to give himself freer access to his weapon. He prayed he was being paranoid.
“I certainly hope so,” she said. “You’re not wanting something completely out of season, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” the wasp man said, laughing a little. “Oh, it feels good to laugh. I haven’t laughed much today.” He suddenly grew solemn. “You see, we had a funeral today — my uncle’s.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He shrugged his big shoulders. “I really wasn’t close to him at all. But my mom loved him, and now she’s really upset — not just because of the funeral, but because of a little something that happened at it. You see, someone sent a big, beautiful spray of white flowers — gladiolus, mostly, or so my mom says — but the card must have fallen off of them, because we couldn’t find it after the service. The funeral home said they didn’t bring them to the cemetery, so they must have come directly from a florist. We checked with the cemetery, and they can’t tell us who brought them to his grave. Did you happen to make a delivery of white flowers to Good Shepherd Cemetery today?”
