The Florist and the Funeral

  The Florist and the Funeral

  Diana Flowers Floriculture Mysteries

  Ruby Loren

  Contents

  British Author

  Books in the Series

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  1. Merryfield’s Finest

  2. Funeral Flowers

  3. Catching a Killer

  4. The Chance of a Lifetime

  Books in the Series

  A review is worth its weight in gold!

  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

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  Prequel: The Florist and the Funeral

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  1

  Merryfield’s Finest

  Strange vegetables were commonplace in the Merryfield village allotments. The gardeners who frequented the communal grounds used all kinds of weird and wonderful (and quite possibly hazardous) methods to encourage their crops to grow, and the results were often startlingly unusual. Mutant marrows, bulbous pumpkins, and twisted carrots were all part of the scenery.

  The man in the hole was not.

  One of the last few butterflies, a relic of the summer season, settled on his rosacea riddled nose, before taking flight in search of sweeter pickings. Sprawled half in-half out of the freshly dug pit, the dead man stared up at the sky with open, unseeing eyes, waiting for someone to find him.

  Unfortunately, I was the person destined to be that ‘someone’.

  Autumn leaves spiralled to the ground when I walked down the narrow lane that led to the village allotment. It was early and the air had a crisp bite to it this morning that whispered of the coming winter. I observed the changing seasons and brushed a strand of my auburn hair back from my face. I’d had it cut into a long bob, hoping a more efficient hairstyle would save both time and the annoyance of constant hair fiddling. I hadn’t considered that it might get even more in the way, due to it being just too short to tie back properly. It was something that irked me, but hair would grow. Maybe next time I’d shave it all off - were it not for the dramatic effect it would have on my mother.

  I pulled my iPad from my coat pocket, opening it up to my planner app and checking to see which plants I needed to tend to today. The summer’s floral flurries had faded and there were only a few final flushes to worry about. They would do for the Saturday market at least. Then I’d be specialising in evergreen foliage and forced festive blooms for the next several months.

  A sigh escaped my lips as I approached the wooden gate and unlocked a padlock that had always seemed pointless to me - given that the gate barely came up to my midriff. I was twenty seven and had only just got round to realising that I was in the wrong job. Most of my life had been dedicated to education and then some more education on top of that. I’d achieved my masters degree and since then, I’d worked in London. Up until eight months ago, when everything had changed (for better or worse remained to be seen). I’d transferred labs. Now I commuted to a rural chemistry research lab, not far from the village I’d grown up in.

  My mother had been delighted when she’d realised that I was coming back home after all the years I’d spent away, building my education. She’d suggested I move back in with her. That had lasted all of a week before I’d rented a flat and watched my blood pressure return to normal. Speaking as a chemist, I liked to say that my mother was just fine… in small doses.

  The allotment had been a spur of the moment decision that hadn’t seemed greatly important at the time. When I’d leased the flat, my landlord, Jenny, had let me know that tenants were allowed to rent one of the allotment plots (which she also owned) for a reduced rate. She’d sold it to me as an outside space I was otherwise lacking. And when that had failed to garner interest, she’d told me that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead near the village allotments. That had sealed the deal.

  When I’d first visited my newly leased patch of land, it had been a barren wasteland with only a few weeds poking their brazen heads through the cracked earth. I’d surmised that the ‘amazing deal’ I’d been offered had been influenced by a clear lack of demand. My own little slice of paradise it was not. I’d been considering cancelling the deal, but a beautiful scent had drifted across the allotment and reached my barren patch of earth. On a whim, I’d investigated. I’d been examining the star-shaped yellow flowers when I first met Deirdre O’Donnell.

  “It’s winter jasmine. Isn’t it lovely?” she’d said and I’d agreed. After all, it had brought me across the allotments in search of its source. Deirdre was one of life's chatterboxes, and in the minutes that followed I’d learned all of the allotment gossip - seemingly spanning back at least ten years. I’d also gleaned that she was a regular seller at the local farmers’ market. She sold her surplus allotment veg and plants there every month but she lamented that the one thing the market was missing was a flower seller - not someone who sold plants, but actual flowers. Apparently the little market simply wasn’t big enough to tempt even the local florists. The only flowers she herself grew were to fill spaces that were unsuitable for vegetables. The conversation had then moved on and I’d been treated to a tour of Deirdre’s private slice of heaven. I’d been left with an earful of advice and the promise that she would be there to answer any questions about growing fruit and vegetables that I might have. I’d looked forlornly at her weird and wonderful rhubarb, purple sprouting broccoli, and asparagus, and had realised that I did not want to grow vegetables.

  That evening, I’d done some research with my mind still fixed on the scent of that winter jasmine. It was so pervasive that it was almost as though I were still smelling it - like a sign sent to me from above. The scientist in me discounted that as unlikely, but I’d still found myself searching the internet for flower growing tips. That was when I’d found it. The answer to everything.

  According to the internet, cut flower sales were booming in the UK. There had been a recent switch back to ‘local is best’ thinking, which had seen blooms previously out of favour make a return. The article I’d read had also reminded the reader that, with the prospect of a bumpy Brexit on the way, imports would cost a lot more. The homegrown revolution was already underway, and making a living growing flowers apparently wasn’t as fanciful an idea as it might once have been.

  For a moment, I’d entertained the idea of myself standing in a field of flowers with the sun rising in the pink summer skies of the early morning. Then I’d given myself a swift dose of reality. I was not going to fall into the trap of thinking that it would all be sunshine and lollipops. What did I even know about growing flowers? Nothing - if you didn’t count the endless research I’d done on soil samples and fertilisers, analysing their composition and writing up the results. The lab I worked for was often commissioned by the government and private agencies to approve various fertilisers. Farmers had even been among our private clients, wanting to know if what they were splashing their crops with was legal, and if there was anything about the earth they were growing on that they should be aware of. I’d diligently processed everything, never bothering to take much notice of what the results could mean out in the real world. It hadn’t mattered to me. All I’d been interested in was the science. Or at least, that’s what I’d told myself this far.

  It had take
n the sudden implosion of a longterm relationship for me to realise that I was miserable, really miserable. My whole life had been spent chasing degrees, awards, and accolades, but what had I really achieved? I had a stable salary and a job that made me dread Monday mornings.

  “Careful, Diana,” I’d warned myself, knowing I was probably seizing on the first shiny object that'd popped into view. Why flowers? I’d asked and had answered that I’d already rented the allotment, so I may as well do something with it. And flowers were cheery. I’d then followed that up by thinking I probably wouldn’t be any good at flower growing anyway. I’d been certain, then, that floriculture was something that was passed down through generations. My family was about as far from agriculture as you could possibly get. Our floral last name was like a bad joke. I doubted that I’d have miraculously inherited a green thumb.

  Even though I’d braced myself with these harsh realities, and had accepted that I’d probably never produce anything good enough to actually sell, I’d gone out and bought a bunch of bulbs and some young plants and seeds that had looked pretty on the labels and had promised ‘easy growth’. Then, I’d researched how to care for them.

  I’d been surprised and pleased to discover that plant care wasn’t as distant from my area of expertise as I’d believed. Soil type was important when it came to growing plants. You had to know whether yours was acidic or alkaline. Then there were other things to consider, like whether you were growing on clay, chalk, or limestone. I’d taken a soil sample into the lab and completed a full analysis on my lunch break. Then I’d adjusted my planting accordingly. Caring for plants was also another exercise in chemistry. After examining all of the commercial plant food available, I’d created my own food and fertilisers, using the best ingredients on the market and off it. There were benefits to working in a lab with access to top grade chemicals.

  Since starting way back in March, my barren allotment had blossomed beyond my wildest dreams. And as my flowers had begun to bloom, so too had my dreams of starting my own cut flowers business.

  The allotments were silent apart from the early morning birdsong. Working at the lab didn’t leave me with a great deal of ‘me’ time, so I had to burn the candle at both ends to make my floral side-hustle work. Every time I dragged myself out of bed in the early hours of the morning, I reminded myself that this was my way out. I was growing more and more sure of it every day.

  Unfortunately, I was also growing more and more sure that my little allotment simply wasn’t big enough for my business plans. At the moment, I was making seasonal bunches of flowers and taking them to all of the farmers’ markets in the local area every week to sell. I’d been doing pretty well with it, but I knew I needed to branch out if I wanted to succeed.

  Setting myself up as a proper business would be the first step. I had a techie friend who owed me for an analysis of an unknown liquid I’d done (no questions asked) and I was hopeful that the favour owed could be cashed in the form of a website. The only thing stopping me was my lack of a good business name. That and the conundrum of not being able to deal with any business that might come my way after I put myself out there. I needed more space. But in the South East of England, space came at a huge premium. My current job wasn’t exactly poorly paid, but I doubted any bank would risk giving me a loan to purchase or rent the fields and equipment needed for a flower business to blossom.

  Then there was my mother to consider.

  She’d been over the moon when I’d picked chemistry and had followed a route that, in her eyes, assured the furthering of our humble family roots. However, I also accepted that she’d believed I would be happily married by now and ready to carry on the family line. That hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Why not disappoint her twice?

  Most importantly of all, I wasn’t convinced that I had what it takes. At university, I’d watched others drop out to chase dreams I’d imagined were crazy, foolish dreams. More often than not they’d failed - exactly the way I’d expected them to. After walking the safe path for so long, I knew that part of me believed I deserved to fail as well.

  Every time I had these thoughts I referred to the business plan I’d drawn up one long night after my first successful crop. It was my little secret. Whenever I looked at it, I was reminded that it could be done. If I could only make the numbers in real life reflect those on my spreadsheet…

  If not now, when? I thought as I picked my way through the sprawling pumpkin and marrow leaves, escaping from their designated quarters. Even though I didn’t exactly feel it, I was still young. I was in my twenties. People changed careers all the time these days. If it all went wrong, well… chemistry wasn’t exactly a competitive profession, which was a big influencing factor in why I’d picked it in the first place. There was a stable future and good job security. It was only recently that I’d realised stability was A - overrated, and B - not as stable as I’d imagined. Perhaps I was just rebounding from rejection, but I wanted to do something that mattered to me, not just my paycheque.

  I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I nearly fell right into the pit that someone had dug in the middle of the path.

  It was only when I’d stopped teetering on the edge that I realised the hole had a resident.

  “Oh no. Jim.” I whispered, my voice refusing to make any more sound. I swallowed and allowed my analytical mind to take over.

  Jim Holmes, my allotment neighbour, was dead. Of that much, I was certain. His face had a waxy pallor to it, and his open eyes were starting to film over. Most striking of all was the way his head was turned at an angle that wasn’t humanly possible. He’d broken his neck, probably when he’d fallen into the hole. I spotted a torch lying in the loose dirt at the bottom, still switched on, and deduced that Jim had been lying here since some time last night. That made sense. In the summer, when I’d been working overtime encouraging my plants to produce their very best, we’d often been the final two in the allotments. Jim had liked to garden late into the evening.

  What didn’t make sense was the pit in the path.

  I took a revitalising breath and pulled out my mobile phone, dialling the emergency number. The authorities could work it out. Jim would have been gardening late in order to give his vegetables some last minute attention, so that they’d be at their best this weekend for Merryfield’s Harvest Festival vegetable competition. Most of the allotment owners were taking part, and things had got competitive to say the least. There’d even been some whispers of sabotage and foul play. I was sure that there would be a logical explanation for the mysterious hole that had been the end of Jim Holmes. All the same, whilst I was explaining the situation to the operator on the other end of the line, my eyes fell on the blackened, curling leaves of Jim’s prize pumpkin plant, and I couldn’t help but wonder…

  It took half an hour for the police to arrive, by which time I am sorry to say I’d moved on to deadheading the last of delphiniums and giving the plants that needed it a good drink. With winter on its way, I was turning my attention to my evergreens, but there was still a final flurry of flowers and some wonderful autumnal foliage to take notice of. I was sure I’d do well on the stall I’d booked at the Harvest Festival this weekend.

  I was idly wondering who would win the various vegetable categories and best in show, now that Jim Holmes was out of the running, when my train of thought was interrupted by someone swearing. I popped my head around the corner of my little shed. A lone police officer stood looking down at the hole.

  He saw me and had the good grace to blush, realising I’d overheard his bout of unprofessionalism. “He really is dead then,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’m not in the habit of making hoax calls, Walter Miller” I told the man. Coming from a village as small as Merryfield was both a blessing and a curse. Everyone knew everyone. Whilst it was good for community spirit, the smallness of our immediate environment meant that, if you didn’t get on with someone, it was pretty tough to make a point of avoiding them.

  “It�
��s Detective Miller to you,” my old acquaintance informed me.

  I shrugged, knowing I didn’t look impressed. The village gossip had it that Detective Miller had only been given his promotion by default when the old Detective, Sam Michaels, had dropped dead whilst trying to chase down a litterer. He’d been close to retirement, although many had imagined he’d try to cling on longer. No one was much surprised when he’d finally gone too far in pursuit of justice. The village’s bakery had also felt the loss of their star customer.

  Way back in the mists of time, my mother and Walter Miller had apparently dated - long before I’d been born. There was a lot of animosity between the pair and some of it had spilled over to me. That was why I was less than thrilled that Walter Miller was the best the police had to offer when it came to assessing a body.

  “When did you find him?” he asked.

  “Right before I called you,” I replied, trying not to get uppity too soon. I found it exceedingly frustrating when people preferred to beat around the bush rather than asking the important questions.

  “I think it’s possible he was murdered,” I said, deciding to say it rather than wait to be asked anything else that didn’t further the investigation by establishing the important facts.

  It had the desired effect of making Walter Miller’s jowly mouth gape open and shut. “Murder? Now see here, young lady…”

  “Look around you. A pit has been dug in the path. The leaves of the pumpkin plants - the surviving ones at least - have been torn and crushed, potentially by Jim falling into the hole. From that, I deduced that the hole may have been partially concealed before Jim fell. The torch at the bottom of the hole tells me that Jim was here late enough last night to require its use. That probably made it even harder to see that someone had dug a trap for him. When you add it all together with the sudden death of Jim’s prize pumpkin…” I gestured to the shrivelled plant. “…and consider that the village vegetable competition is this weekend, I think it sheds some light on the motive,” I informed the detective, cutting him off before he could try to tell me I was wrong. “I don’t know if the perpetrator intended it to be anything more than a dirty trick, but it tragically turned out to be the death of Jim Holmes when he broke his neck in the fall.” I shot a sorry look in Jim’s direction. He’d been a good man, for the most part. He’d possessed a cantankerous nature, and was quick to draw up battle lines if you wronged him, but Jim had been one of only two people I’d told about my full-scale business plans, and he’d believed in me. I was sorry to see him this way.