Gardenias and a grave mi.., p.1
Gardenias and a Grave Mistake, page 1
part #1 of Diana Flowers Series
Gardenias and a Grave Mistake
Diana Flowers Floriculture Mysteries
Ruby Loren
Contents
British Author
Books in the Series
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1. A Bad Beginning
2. All the Wrong Reasons
3. Cake Calamity
4. Newly Dead
5. Digging up the Truth
6. The Bitter Taste of Murder
7. Barkimedes
8. Suspicious Soil
9. A Spot of Skulduggery
10. The Showdown of the Summer
11. Skeletons and Secrets
12. The Final Piece of the Puzzle
13. Burying the Past
Edible Flower Guide
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Books in the Series
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Also by Ruby Loren
British Author
Please note, this book is written in British English and contains British spellings.
Books in the Series
Gardenias and a Grave Mistake
Delphiniums and Deception
Poinsettias and the Perfect Crime
Peonies and Poison
The Lord Beneath the Lupins
Prequel: The Florist and the Funeral
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1
A Bad Beginning
In under a year, I’d been to two weddings and a funeral. By the time June rolled around, and the third wedding loomed, I was feeling quite miserable. I knew that I was just at that time of life when my friends and acquaintances were all getting married, but for the first time ever, I was feeling a bit jealous.
I’d spent the latter part of my teenage years and the majority of my twenties focusing on a career in chemistry - specifically chemical analysis. During that time, I’d had one serious, long-term relationship. It had ended with a bang big enough to make it necessary for me to transfer laboratories away from the man I’d thought I was meant to be with. Several things had happened since then. I’d been transferred to a rural lab, that just so happened to be a few miles to the west of the village where I’d grown up. I’d moved back into the village, (renting an apartment after lasting all of a week staying with my mother) and I’d slowly started to realise I was in the wrong job.
It had begun with the allotment. When I’d rented the apartment, I’d been offered the outside space for a small extra fee. I’d said yes on a whim, but when I’d visited for the first time and had met my allotment neighbours and seen the interesting plants they were growing, something akin to an inner awakening had occurred. I’d governed my whole life logically for as long as I could remember. Study hard at school, go to university and get a good degree that guarantees a job, work hard at that job and make a good living… I’d done it all perfectly. It had only been after my relationship had gone so spectacularly south, and the world wasn’t covered in roses anymore, that I’d been open to the idea that I might have missed something. That something had turned out to be flowers.
I knew that there were those in Merryfield village who found it amusing that my last name, which is Flowers, seemed to be telling me what to do all along. To them I would say that both my mother and father still used that last name and neither of them could grow so much as a stalk of cress, nor had any desire to. I was the family oddity.
I was also dangerously close to becoming the family outcast having handed in my notice at the laboratory in order to give my cut flower business a real go.
For my sister, Charlotte, this year had turned out to be her year. She’d been known as the wayward one when we’d been growing up, often being dragged out of pubs and clubs in the nearby town of Kingston Hill by our mother (much to the amusement of the locals). We’d never been the closest of sisters. Unfortunately, it was only now that I was starting to understand how my dedication to studying and attaining that ‘little-miss-normal’ life contributed to pushing her away.
The first wedding had been hers. She’d married a Londoner who worked trading Forex. According to my sister, it wasn’t the kind of job you loved, but he would probably be able to retire at fifty. Then they’d live the rest of their lives in relative comfort. When she’d told me that she’d followed it up by saying: ‘You understand, I’m sure’. It had been another catalyst in my recent decision to change the direction of my life. With Charlotte’s journalism career finally starting to land her some credit, she was starting to look like the sensible and reliable one in the family.
I didn’t begrudge her it at all. In some ways, Charlotte had been right all along.
Her wedding had been way back in January. It had been the only time her now-husband, Garrett, had been able to book off work.
The second wedding had been for my childhood best friend, Heather. She had married the man she’d been dating practically since they were in primary school together. It had only taken them this long to get hitched because they’d been focusing on building their B&B business in the rambling farmhouse that Todd’s parents had left to him after they’d emigrated to the South of France. Apparently it was the family tradition to pass on the farm whilst still living, in order to give the next generation a head-start in whatever they chose to pursue. I privately thought that some people had all the luck.
I’d been maid of honour back in May for that wedding, and it had been a beautiful occasion.
Prior to all of the weddings had been the funeral. A village man named Jim Holmes had met his end when he’d fallen into a hole and broken his neck. Jim had been my allotment neighbour. I’d done my best to figure out what had happened to him when the police had expressed their doubts that there had been any foul play involved in Jim’s death.
The biggest surprise of all had come when I’d been told he’d left me his house and a chunk of money to go with it. Prior to that, I’d been pursuing my flower business on the village allotments the best I could with the limited space available. Jim’s surprise bequest had included the fields surrounding a house in a hamlet, just outside Merryfield village. It was the perfect place to start a cut flower business and Jim Holmes had known it - although, I was certain he hadn’t imagined he’d be passing it along quite so soon. All the same, I said a silent prayer of thanks to my unlikely benefactor every day.
I looked at myself in the age-spotted full length mirror and tried to smile. My pointed chin and high cheekbones somehow seemed to sneer that I wasn’t fooling anyone. I relaxed my face again, back to its usual no-nonsense expression. People (mostly men) had often informed me (mostly unasked) that there was something intimidating about my mannerisms. I silently agreed with them and had always been grateful for the fact that I was not someone who looked approachable. As far as looks went, I was happy with my shoulder-length hair with its gentle wave at the bottom. My only vanity was that I tinted it red. Beyond that, I usually let what I saw in the mirror be. I had blue eyes, fairly dark eyebrows, a narrow, straight nose, and lips that didn’t need rouge to tint that fashionable shade of pink. I certainly wasn’t envious of my best friend Heather, who was beautiful in a fair, English rose kind of way, but whose open face meant she got all kinds of attention - both good and bad. I was happiest left alone.
“I wish you were invited,” I muttered to the hairy brown dog lying on the bed behind me. He lifted a fuzzy ear when I addressed him but then lowered it again, giving me a tired snort as his response. Diggory was about as enthusiastic about this particular wedding as I was.
I looked back at my reflection in Jim Holmes’ old mirror and wondered if it was obvious that I was trying too hard. I’d broken my ‘minimal makeup only’ rule and had gone to town on my face. My skin was already a lot more tanned than its usual milk-white - courtesy of my recent indoor to outdoor lifestyle change. It meant I didn’t actually have any foundation or concealer to hand that matched my skin, but also fortunately, the weather and hard work seemed to have worked some magic on my skin. I currently had zero blemishes. I was twenty seven and had long since discovered that spots, albeit only a few, do indeed stick with you long beyond your teenage years.
I batted my pumped up eyelashes and asked myself what all of this was for. It’s armour, I decided, before giving myself the final once over, saying goodbye to Diggory, and walking out of the door to go to the wedding of my childhood sweetheart.
* * *
Perhaps it’s exaggerating to call him a childhood sweetheart, I considered when I stood outside the quaint Kingston Hill chapel. The bells were already ringing in celebration of the special day. I felt the same butterflies floating around in my stomach that I’d experienced as a teenager when I had been totally and utterly in love with Spencer Byrne.
Everyone from Merryfield and the surrounding villages had attended the local comprehensive school in Kingston Hill. That was where I’d first laid eyes on Spencer. He’d been in the year above me and was very popular with girls. I hadn’t been particularly popular with anyone, but there had come a time around sixth form when I’d decided that I liked myself, so it didn’t matter what others thought about it. Back then, it had been a surprise that this actually translated into people liking me a whole lot more. In between manically studying for my A levels, I’d finally bitten the bullet and had gone to ask Spencer out… only for him to ask first. We’d gone on
Until now, anyway.
I sighed and joined the throng of people filing into the chapel ready for the service to start. Francesca Steele. How on earth did Spencer end up with her? I wondered as I sat down near the back, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I hadn’t laid eyes on either the bride or the groom for years. The invitation had arrived at my mother’s house and had come as a complete surprise. I still wasn’t sure why I’d been invited - beyond Spencer somehow wanting to make amends. Although, if that were the case, it was a funny way to go about it.
The groom himself stepped out from the front row and stood at the altar, looking back in anticipation of his bride appearing.
He was still as gorgeous as ever, I noted, my heart sinking even lower. Why had I come? This was like volunteering for torture.
I’d already stalked Spencer on Facebook after the invitation had been passed on to me. He was apparently working as an entrepreneur. There would have been a time when I’d have turned my nose up at that vague and dreamy title, but now that I was giving the entrepreneurial thing a shot myself, I could hardly judge. If he’s getting married, he must be doing all right for himself, I reasoned, thinking of my best friend and her husband, who had wanted to wait until they’d achieved their financial and business goals. Maybe I’ll be the same, I thought, fantasising for a moment about a wedding to an entirely fictitious man.
I was still blinking the ridiculous imaginings away when the church doors opened and the organ started up. In front of the altar, Spencer’s face lit up with a smile I remembered from a time when he’d looked that way at me. I tore my gaze away and watched the bride walk down the aisle in a cloud of white.
I did my best to stop my jaw from hanging open. Even half an acre of tulle and embroidery could not hide the fact that Francesca Steele was very, very pregnant.
They must have had to rush the wedding preparations. Social media had also revealed the relatively short period of time the pair had been in a relationship together. I hoped for Spencer’s sake that there was more to it than the conservative need to hang around for the sake of a child. After all - I was a product of what happened when your parents tried to make that work. I remembered Francesca Steele being a popular, but not exactly pleasant, girl in the year below me. She’d also been several sandwiches short of a picnic, but perhaps motherhood would change her.
I resigned myself to listening to insipid vows and wished that I had never replied to the invitation. When the service ended, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. My congratulations to the bride and groom were so swift I wasn’t certain they even realised who I was. I was in the car and driving back home through the summer sunshine before the photo taking had even begun, silently grateful that I was unlikely to bump into Spencer or his new wife.
If only I’d been thinking things through - like just what Spencer was doing getting married locally after all of these years away - I might have realised that I was categorically wrong about that assumption.
* * *
The sunshine streaming down on my house and the surrounding fields cheered me up, just the way I’d known it would. I may only be five miles away from the church where the man I’d once loved had just got married, but it felt like a world away. I was not going to get hung up on the past when I had a future to bring to life - in a very literal sense.
I parked up by the old stone cottage and reflected that it looked a good deal better than when I’d inherited it. Jim Holmes had mostly lived in a cottage he’d owned in Merryfield. I supposed it must have been because the house and land had got too much for him to manage in his old age. I still wondered why he hadn’t just sold the place, given the premium he would have got for the property and land in the current housing environment, but whatever his reasoning, I was happy he’d kept it. After a hard autumn and winter’s work, clearing the largest field of weeds, shrubs and various debris, I’d ploughed up the land, analysed the soil, and was currently reaping the benefits of the winter’s work with a flowering field of nigella, cornflowers, aquilegia, and sweet peas with the promise of more to come.
When I’d grown frustrated with the tough land, I’d wrestled with the house itself. A power wash of the exterior and a patch up, using some of the money Jim had left me, had been enough to keep the property standing upright for a few more years. I always reassured myself that the stone cottage, which was over two hundred years old, had remained in one piece for all that time. It wasn’t going to fall down now. However, I also knew that all things came to an end, and I would have been a fool if I hadn’t called in the professionals to at least make sure the place wasn’t going to crumble to dust. Any jobs that didn’t need professional input I’d taken on myself and slowly, but surely, the old-fashioned and outdated cottage I’d been given was starting to become a home.
“Now I’ve just got to make all of this pay for itself,” I said, allowing the breeze to carry away my words. Thanks to Jim’s kindness, I didn’t need to worry immediately, but having a good and profitable summer would see me through a tougher winter, when most of what I’d be able to sell would be evergreen foliage. It would also prove to those who’d doubted me and, most importantly, to myself, that I hadn’t gone completely crazy and quit a career in chemistry for a folly in flowers.
At least my new business had already garnered some local interest - albeit, not all of it good. Everyone in the village knew about the local girl who’d quit a fancy job (that had surprisingly inspired envy) to grow and sell flowers on a local market stall. At least - that was the only place where they saw me selling my flowers. On the plus side, it had definitely led to pity sales, but it didn’t do a lot for my pride. But I would have to put all that aside if I wanted to succeed. It was about working hard, working smart, and praying that mother nature and a healthy dose of luck were on my side.
It was going to be an interesting year.
“What on earth…?” I muttered, pushing open the door to the house and seeing the carnage within. My immediate thought was that Diggory had run wild whilst I’d been at the wedding. He was pretty skilled at getting himself into trouble, but since I’d adopted him, he’d turned into more of a loller than a destroyer. The broken window further contributed to my conclusion that this wasn’t the work of my wayward dog.
I’d been burgled.
2
All the Wrong Reasons
I threw the disarray a cursory glance before rushing upstairs to check that Diggory was okay. To my relief, he was still snoring on the bed in the same position I’d left him.
I frowned. “Some guard dog you are!” All the same, I was pleased he hadn’t tangled with the intruder. Broken glass could be mended, things could be replaced, but the safety of the animals and people we care about is something precious.
I walked back downstairs and had a better look around. With the gift of hindsight, I wondered if I’d accidentally barged in on the robbery in progress, but upon my return downstairs, I was reassured that there was no one else in the house. I was willing to believe that animal instinct had told me that from the start. The broken glass was from one of the large windows that looked in on the lounge/diner. It was definitely big enough for someone to climb through. Why they had chosen to climb through, or break in at all, remained a mystery. As far as I could tell, nothing had been taken. I didn’t own a TV but my laptop was still sitting in its case by the toaster, and other than the mess, everything was much as I’d left it. I would have to take a more careful look around once I’d reported the crime, but it was a real mystery.
