Chapter 2 - THE FLOWER SHOP WINDOW
June opened Whitfield Flowers at 8:03 a.m.
Three minutes late.
Her grandmother would have complained.
The bell over the door still made the same tired sound.
The shop smelled like eucalyptus, damp paper, and dust from old radiator vents.
Home.
June stood behind the counter and breathed.
No guards.
No marble floors.
No men speaking softly because violence did not need volume.
Just flowers.
Her flowers.
Then she looked through front window.
Black sedan across street.
Of course.
Kent.
Not personally.
Probably Walsh.
She raised middle finger.
The sedan did not react.
Good.
At least they understood distance.
June unlocked register.
She had forty-three dollars in till.
Rent payment had been reversed.
She checked online.
Yes.
Good.
Three months past due again.
Strangely comforting.
Her debt was hers.
At nine, first customer entered.
Old woman buying carnations.
Normal.
At ten fifteen, delivery driver.
Normal.
At eleven, man in gray coat.
Not normal.
June saw before he reached door.
He looked at window reflection, not flowers.
Hands empty.
Shoes too clean for slush.
She considered calling Kent.
No.
Police first.
She pressed silent alarm installed after grandmother had been robbed years ago.
Then the man entered.
Bell rang.
“Morning,” June said.
“Morning.”
He looked around.
“Funeral arrangements?”
“We do them.”
“You handled Gallagher funeral.”
Not question.
June kept hands visible.
“Yes.”
“Beautiful work.”
“Thank you.”
“Special bouquet by casket?”
There.
June’s pulse rose.
“Which one?”
“White lilies.”
“I had several.”
The man smiled.
“Left side.”
Too specific.
June said, “That wasn’t mine.”
His smile vanished.
Good.
He reached inside coat.
June ducked.
Not gun.
Photograph.
He placed it on counter.
Patrick Bell.
Alive.
Standing beside Eleanor Gallagher three weeks earlier.
“What is this?”
June asked.
“Insurance.”
“Against?”
The man looked toward street.
Black sedan.
He saw.
“Gallagher is watching you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
That seemed to satisfy.
“Good.”
“Who are you?”
“Daniel Bell.”
Patrick’s son.
June stared.
“Your father is dead.”
His face tightened.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“Did Kent kill him?”
“No.”
“You sound sure.”
“I’m not.”
Good.
Daniel looked at photograph.
“My father called me last night.”
“What did he say?”
“That he made a mistake.”
“Which?”
“He let someone use funeral home.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say on phone.”
“Then?”
“He said if he died, Eleanor’s room wasn’t where listening started.”
June stared.
“What does that mean?”
Daniel took another photo.
Eleanor’s bedroom.
A small bouquet on side table.
Fresh flowers.
June recognized arrangement style.
Not hers.
“Where did this come from?”
“My father took pictures when he visited to discuss funeral preferences.”
“Before she died?”
“Two weeks.”
June looked.
Bouquet near bed.
Blue delphinium.
White roses.
Rosemary.
Beautiful.
Wrong.
Rosemary at bedside could symbolize remembrance.
Fine.
But winter delphinium expensive.
Likely supplied.
Then she saw ribbon.
Same edge-fused polyester.
Her stomach tightened.
“The wiretap bouquet wasn’t first.”
Daniel nodded.
“My father thought someone used floral deliveries to hide devices in her room.”
“Why didn’t he tell Kent?”
“He was scared.”
“Of Kent?”
“Maybe.”
“Or someone else.”
Daniel looked toward street.
Then:
“He said the killer was family.”
Of course.
Police sirens approached.
Daniel panicked.
“You called?”
“Yes.”
He stepped back.
“I came to help.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Neither did you know Kent.”
“And I didn’t call police on him because he was bleeding? Wrong story. Sorry, no. We need avoid meta. Let's rewrite sentence in narrative.”
June said, “That doesn’t make you safe.”
Daniel turned.
Door opened.
Two uniformed officers.
Behind them Walsh.
June glared.
“I called police.”
Walsh raised hands.
“I am not police.”
“Exactly.”
Daniel looked trapped.
Officers took statements.
Photographs copied.
No arrest.
Daniel had no outstanding warrants.
Walsh said little.
Good.
When officers left, June turned to him.
“You were told not to come in.”
“Immediate threat.”
“He had photographs.”
“He reached into his coat.”
“Fair.”
She hated fair.
Walsh nodded toward window.
“Mr. Gallagher wants to speak with you.”
“No.”
“He expected that.”
“Good.”
“He said to give you this.”
Envelope.
June stared.
“I’m not taking money.”
“It’s not.”
She opened.
Copy of floral residue analysis.
The bouquet contained preservative brand called EverLife Pro.
Sold primarily through three wholesale suppliers.
One supplier serviced St. Bartholomew Funeral Home.
Another serviced a private florist:
Belladonna House.
June knew name.
High-end florist in Gold Coast.
Owner:
Camille Gallagher.
Kent’s cousin.
There.
Family.
June looked at Walsh.
“Camille.”
“Yes.”
“Does Kent know?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing yet.”
June almost smiled.
“Learning.”
Walsh’s expression barely shifted.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Camille Gallagher was society floral designer.
Worked weddings, charity galas, private homes.
Eleanor used her often.
Access.
June looked at photo from Daniel.
Arrangement style.
Now she recognized.
Belladonna House used narrow asymmetrical spirals.
Camille’s signature.
“Both bouquets came from her shop.”
Walsh’s face hardened.
“Certain?”
“Very.”
“Could staff assemble?”
“Yes.”
“Could anyone buy supplies?”
“Yes.”
Important.
Not guilt.
June grabbed coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Belladonna.”
“No.”
She stared.
Walsh corrected.
“Mr. Gallagher requested—”
“Did he?”
Walsh stopped.
June waited.
“He said you should not be brought anywhere against your will.”
Better.
“Then I’m going.”
“Police?”
“I’ll call Detective after I know what question to ask.”
Walsh sighed.
“May I drive?”
“No.”
“My car is warmer.”
June looked at her old delivery truck.
He had a point.
“Fine.”
At Belladonna House, Camille Gallagher was arranging orchids.
Elegant.
Forty-six.
Black turtleneck.
Hands perfect.
She looked at June.
Then Walsh.
Her face changed.
“What happened?”
Walsh said, “Kent wants—”
June interrupted.
“I want to know who assembled your aunt’s bedside arrangement two weeks before she died.”
Camille stared.
“Who are you?”
“June Whitfield.”
“The florist.”
Interesting.
She knew.
Camille set scissors down.
“I did.”
June’s pulse changed.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Aunt Eleanor asked.”
“Who delivered?”
“I did.”
Walsh’s face hardened.
“Was anyone else with you?”
“No.”
June looked at her hands.
No trembling.
“Did you hide recording device?”
Camille laughed.
Then saw no one else did.
“What?”
June showed photo.
The wiretap.
Camille went white.
“No.”
“Your ribbon. Your preservative. Your construction.”
Camille looked at arrangement.
“That one is mine.”
“Funeral bouquet too?”
“No.”
“Same materials.”
“My staff use them.”
“Who had access after Eleanor died?”
“Everyone in shop.”
“Names.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t work for Kent.”
“No.”
“Then why answer?”
June said:
“Because your aunt was poisoned.”
Silence.
Walsh looked at her.
June had not been authorized to reveal.
Too late.
Camille’s scissors slipped.
“What?”
Real shock.
Maybe.
“A compound was given for weeks.”
Camille sat.
“My God.”
“Who handled her flowers?”
Camille looked up.
“Nina.”
“Who is Nina?”
“My assistant.”
“Last name?”
“Perry.”
Walsh’s face changed.
June saw.
“What?”
He took phone out.
“Attorney Perry.”
Kent’s family attorney.
“Nina is his daughter.”
Camille nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
Family again.
Attorney Perry controlled Eleanor’s will.
Kent had ordered him to withhold announcement.
Why?
Maybe because will mattered.
Walsh called Kent.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
His face changed.
Kent always answered Walsh.
“Where is he?”
June asked.
“Estate.”
“Call security.”
Walsh did.
No answer.
Then June’s phone rang.
Unknown.
She answered.
A woman’s voice.
Calm.
“June Whitfield?”
“Yes.”
“You should not have gone to Belladonna.”
June froze.
“Who is this?”
“You found something that was not yours.”
“Wiretap?”
Silence.
Then:
“Kent Gallagher will die exactly like his mother if you keep helping him.”
The line ended.
Walsh had heard enough.
His face became cold.
June looked at him.
“Call police.”
“I’m calling Kent’s men.”
“No.”
He stared.
“If someone can silence estate security, your men may be part of problem.”
That landed.
Camille whispered, “Kent.”
June called 911.
Then Walsh’s phone buzzed.
Security camera alert.
Gallagher estate.
Fire alarm.
June’s stomach dropped.
Not fire.
Diversion.
They drove.
Police ahead.
At estate gate, two guards unconscious.
Alive.
Sedated.
Inside, house alarm screamed.
Kent’s study door locked.
Walsh kicked once.
Twice.
Police breached.
Kent lay on floor beside desk.
Breathing.
Barely.
A glass of water shattered near hand.
Same method.
Slow poison? No.
Acute dose.
June knelt despite officers shouting.
His pulse weak.
Skin clammy.
“Ambulance!”
Kent’s eyes opened.
Found her.
“Flower girl.”
His voice barely there.
“You’re terrible at staying put.”
June almost laughed.
“Same.”
Then his eyes closed.
On desk lay Eleanor’s sealed will.
Opened.
One page missing.
And beside it, a single white rose wrapped in Belladonna House ribbon.
June did not trust Daniel automatically.
That mattered.
The fact that his father was dead did not make him safe.
Grief does not certify character.
She asked Detective Ortiz to copy Patrick’s notebook before she handed over anything else.
Daniel looked offended.
Then thought about it.
“Fair.”
Good.
June was beginning to like people who could survive the word fair without turning it into surrender.
Before leaving the shop, Daniel stopped beside the broken window.
“My father liked your grandmother.”
June looked at him.
“What?”
“Florists. Funeral directors. Same clients.”
“That sounds less romantic than you think.”
He smiled sadly.
“He said your grandmother never let rich families buy silence with flowers.”
June’s throat tightened.
That sounded exactly like her.
“What did that mean?”
Daniel shrugged.
“She once refused to change a memorial card because a family wanted to erase the dead woman’s first husband.”
June laughed softly.
Yes.
Her grandmother had believed arrangements told truth even when families preferred decoration.
Maybe that was why June noticed the wrong bouquet.
May you like
Not because she was brave.
Because she had been trained to see when something had been placed where it did not belong.
