The Florist and the Funeral Read online

  Once in, I grabbed the first black dress I laid hands on and gave the dog some water and the left over chicken from last night. It accepted both with more of the wagging gratitude. Then, we hot-footed it to the church.

  I had a moment of despair when I arrived at the door with the dog still following after me. What was I going to do now?! I heard the organ playing and decided that there was nothing for it, it would have to come with me.

  I walked in through the church doors, cursing the fact that they were big double doors that made subtle entrances impossible. It was almost as if the designers had wanted latecomers to be shamed.

  Everyone swivelled their heads around when I walked in. Then the whispering started. I found an empty chair at the back (the pews were already full) and did my best to keep my head down. By my side, the dog was mercifully silent. I shot it a look of thanks, pleased that my new shadow was not the bark-ey kind of dog.

  I looked forwards but could see no sign of Nina’s orange hair. I knew she’d been arrested that morning, but I could see Walter Miller and Daniel Herald sitting in the pews already. I couldn’t imagine they’d have said no if she’d asked to attend. I could only assume that, true to her colours, she’d not cared a jot about Jim. I frowned, still mystified by what she’d had against me. What was it she’d said? You took what was rightfully mine. It didn’t make any sense.

  The fact that I didn’t even consider Nina’s real motivation as a possibility went to show just how unexpected the truth was.

  I found myself breathing a sigh of relief once the funeral was over and the congregation filed towards the doors. The village pub was hosting refreshments, and I knew plenty of villagers who would be eager for the chance to enjoy a pint in the middle of the day with the approval of their wives.

  “You were very well behaved,” I told the dog by my feet.

  “What is that?”

  I looked up, startled to discover that Freya was only a metre away from me, looking down at the hairball with horror on her face.

  “He’s the one who killed Jim,” I said and then hastily explained after Deirdre arrived and both women exchanged shocked looks. “So you see… it was all just bad luck really.”

  “Bad luck and the fish blood and bone fertiliser he used,” Deirdre said gloomily and then blushed when I looked at her in surprise. “I inherited Jim’s vegetable journals. I only found out today, but I must confess, I’ve already had a look through. That was his secret weapon for growing such wonderful vegetables.”

  I nodded, soberly. That explained the high level of phosphorous I’d found in the soil. It also answered why the dog had picked on Jim’s allotment. He’d probably thought there was food buried there.

  “You brought Jim’s killer to his funeral?” Freya hissed, looking horrified.

  I considered that for a moment. “I’m sure Jim would have wanted to know what killed him.” He’d probably have loved the drama it caused, too, I silently added.

  “It’s just like the big reveal at the end of a Miss Marple novel,” Deirdre said, growing misty eyed. “It was the dog all along! And there was me suspecting Byron Keller because of that whole weedkiller thing.” She waved a hand in the direction of the doddery pensioner currently walking down the aisle.

  I felt my eyebrows raise more than a fraction.

  “Looks can be deceptive. I know he keeps a ton of weedkiller in his shed. He says its because his wife doesn’t like him keeping it at home and they have a real dandelion problem, but I think temptation may have got the better of him,” Deirdre confided.

  I didn’t question her knowledge, Deirdre knew everyone’s business on the allotments.

  “Diana Flowers, you are under arrest,” Walter Miller announced out of the blue.

  “For what?!”

  “Murder, of course.” The detective gave me an ‘as if you didn’t know’ look.

  “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

  “Well, Jim Holmes’ will says differently. His granddaughter told us all about it. The old man left you a house that no one even knew he owned, over in Little Larchley. He also left you all the money in his savings account and some old flower growing journals, or something. It’s something you were willing to kill for.”

  I felt my mouth drop open. I shut it again. “No it’s not,” I said for want of something more intelligent to say. “I had no idea!” I protested. Was it even true? I looked at Deirdre and Freya and saw the knowledge on their faces. They’d already known about the will. Of course - Deirdre had just mentioned the vegetable journals she’d inherited. I wondered if Walter Miller had told them to delay me so he could make his big accusation in front of the entire village.

  Probably.

  I decided not to hold it against the pair, knowing that they’d never pass up the chance to catch a real-life killer.

  “Tell me how I killed him,” I said, scathingly.

  “Well, you dug the hole and pushed the old man in, knowing it would look like an accident.”

  “What evidence do you have?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  A strange red blush appeared on the detective’s face. “You have the allotment next to Jim’s. I bet you dig holes. He probably told you all about the will whilst you were buddying up to him on the allotment. Then, you couldn’t wait for him to die. …Why do you have a dog?” the detective finally asked, only noticing my companion when his trouser leg was sniffed.

  “This is the killer,” I told the detective and then explained the whole thing again.

  “You could have just made it look like it was the dog. You’re smart,” the detective said, his hands still on his handcuffs.

  “Oh, stow it, Walter! It was plain as day when you told the girl about her inheritance that it was the first time she’d heard it. I was surprised enough that he left me his veggie journals!” Deirdre said when the detective refused to back down.

  “Anyway, it’s not like he left it all to her. He left his allotment and his cottage to his granddaughter, the ungrateful brat. I hope she doesn’t move here,” Freya said and then covered her mouth, remembering her place. Vergers were probably not supposed to make such damning judgements about people.

  “She’s selling. It was part of her rant about how much she detests the entire village,” Walter confessed.

  “Am I under arrest or not?” I asked, my voice dripping with disdain. My mother would be furious if she returned from her holidays to discover that her only daughter had been arrested.

  “I suppose not,” the detective wisely decided. He shot me a look filled with the promise that this wasn’t over. I made a note to watch my step over the next few months. I had a feeling that Walter Miller would try to drag me in if he so much as caught a whiff that I’d flouted the speed limit. “Deal with that dog. It’s dangerous to have a stray around civilised pets.” And so it began.

  “Oo, you’ll want to go over to Mr Hemingway the vet. He’s not at the funeral because there was an emergency over at Plawdown Farm. He’ll be back for the pub lunch, mark my words!” Deirdre told me.

  As ever, Deirdre’s knowledge of the comings and goings of the villagers proved infallible. Mr Hemingway was in the middle of proceedings with half a cold roast chicken in hand. His jolly face and rather protruding belly gave away his penchant for eating. I supposed that at least as a vet, and not a doctor, you couldn’t be accused of not following your own health advice.

  By my side, the dog whined and looked up at the chicken. I privately thought that at this rate, it was going the right way to be named ‘Bottomless Pit’.

  “Hullo! What have we here?” the vet asked, putting down his chicken for a moment and wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. He bent down and looked at the hairy monster. “We’re in a bit of a state, aren’t we?” His eyes returned to his chicken for a moment and then the spread of food beyond. With marked reluctance, he suggested we pop down to his practice.

  Half an hour later, the hairy monster was looking a lot less black and hairy and a lot more like a
fuzzy, dark brown dog.

  “There we go! He looks a lot nicer now, doesn’t he?” the vet said, placing the shears down. He’d apologised in advanced for not being a professional groomer, but I’d said that anything was better than the way the dog had looked prior to the clipping. “No microchip. You caught yourself a genuine stray,” the jovial man told me. “He was probably bought as a puppy and then abandoned. I can tell he’s nervous of new people, but he so badly wants to be liked. It’s tragic really.”

  I nodded, feeling my heartstrings being tugged. I had a sneaking suspicion that it was exactly the reaction the vet was hoping for.

  “So, what are you going to name him?”

  I opened my mouth and shut it again. “I don’t think I can keep him. I rent an apartment…” I said, forced to face reality.

  “What about the house you just inherited? I don’t know what it’s like, mind you, but most places around here are good for dogs!”

  I blinked. I’d forgotten about the house. “I don’t know much about that,” I confessed. “I suppose if it really is mine…” I knew there’d be some taxes to pay, but hopefully whatever money I’d also mystifyingly been left would cover that. My only other reservation was that I had no idea what this mystery house was like, but it would be fine… wouldn’t it?

  “I suggest you drive over to Kingston Hill pronto and see Ms Farley. She’s the one charged with handling the will.”

  I nodded, caught in a daze and then asked Mr Hemingway how much I owed him. The man waved the idea away, explaining that it was high time someone was charitable to the poor animal.

  “I wonder how he managed to be around for so long without anyone noticing him,” I mused.

  For just a second, the vet looked guilty. “I had been hearing talk of a wild animal on the loose. The locals seemed to think it was a black shuck - you know, one of those ghost dogs. I’m afraid I paid them no mind, thinking it was just superstition and shadows. Boy, do I feel bad now.”

  “All things considered, he seems to be in okay shape,” I said to reassure the vet. The dog was definitely on the lanky side, but I could tell that in part it was due to him not quite being fully grown, rather than starving. I spared a thought to wonder just how big he was going to get and how much it would cost to feed an animal like that before I quashed it. I wasn’t really thinking of taking him on, was I?

  “I need to find out about that house,” I said aloud, still looking at the dog.

  “Yes you do,” the vet agreed cheerily. “Anything you need, come to me! He’ll need all of his shots soon…” and on he pattered, telling me everything that the stray required in order to be accepted as a healthy member of the canine community.

  It would appear that I had acquired a dog.

  4

  The Chance of a Lifetime

  Waiting outside the lawyer’s office was more nerve-racking than any job interview. Was it true that Jim Holmes had really left me a house, or was it all some crazy misunderstanding?

  I filed into Ms Farley’s office with the dog still by my side. I hadn’t wanted to leave him at my apartment and risk the wrath of my landlord. She’d been at the funeral along with everyone else and would surely know by now that I was towing a stray dog around with me.

  “Georgina Farley,” the woman said, extending a hand when I walked in. My first impression was that she was a formidable woman and did nothing to hide it. Her glasses were fashionable but unfussy, and her hair shone in a way that hinted someone spent a lot of time (and a lot of money) making it look that way.

  “Diana Flowers,” I told her, shaking her hand. “Sorry about the dog,” I continued, feeling I should explain.

  She shrugged. “Not at all. I do a lot of work for the local zoos. A dog is one of the more predictable animals I’ve had to share a work space with.” She smiled. “Now, shall we get on to your inheritance? I’m sorry I missed you when I visited Jim’s granddaughter to discuss the will with her. I’m sorry again that she didn’t take the news well,” the lawyer added, diplomatically. “You never know how people will react when there’s money involved. I always think it’s best to expect nothing at all and be grateful for anything you do get, but it’s as I said - people are funny when there’s money involved.”

  I nodded my agreement, silently thinking that I certainly hadn’t been expecting anything from Jim Holmes.

  “Let me see… here we go!” Georgina Farley said, pulling out a small stack of documents. “All you need to do is sign here and the house, money, and the journals he left for you are yours - pending probate and the usual legal hoops, of course. But that’s my job and I don’t think there’ll be any problems.” She leant forwards. “After all - I was the one who put Jim Holmes’ will together.” She shot me a confident smile.

  “What exactly are the journals?” I asked, curious for some reason about that above all else. Deirdre had said they were flower growing journals, but I wanted to check.

  “Hmmm it says that they’re floriculture journals. Is that of some interest to you?”

  I nodded mutely. Jim had always been willing to help me out with a tip or two, but I was starting to think there was a whole different side to him that I’d never known. I hadn’t imagined he’d ever had an interest in growing flowers. His vegetables had been his all-consuming passion.What would the journals contain? I wondered.

  “The money should cover all the usual bills associated with executing a will and then you’ll probably be left with fifty thousand or so. To be honest, I think you’re going to need it. That is - if you’re thinking about actually living in the house,” the lawyer said matter-of-factly.

  “Is it a bit rundown?” I asked.

  Georgina Farley raised her eyebrows and looked down at the file. “You could say that.”

  So, it was a hole. That was okay. It was a hole that belonged to me, and I had fifty thousand pounds on top of that to do whatever I pleased with. It was enough. It was more than enough. I could start my cut flowers business!

  I signed on the dotted line and then we drove over to view my new property.

  “There’s a lot of land,” Georgina Farley said when we were standing in the middle of an overgrown field looking at the wilderness before us, which included a very abandoned looking stone cottage. “It’s not actually as bad as it looks once you’re inside. The roof is sound and everything is dry, if a little outdated.”

  “It’s amazing,” I said, bowled over by the huge swathe of land. I’d never ever in a million years have been able to afford anything like this in the South East of England. I’d been stunned by Jim Holmes’ startling bequest to me, but it was only now that I truly understood he had answered my prayers.

  The lawyer looked pleased. “I can tell you really mean it. If I may be so bold, I think that Jim Holmes made a good choice,” she confided before passing the key over to me. “Any problems, give me a shout. Technically, there are still some legal loopholes to jump through before all of this officially belongs to you, so don’t move in right away. But I see no harm in you starting work. The will is as plain as anything. No one can contest it and win. Boundaries are clearly marked, but I’ll send you the plans. Electricity and water are still connected, although, I’m not sure when anyone lived here last. I checked the house yesterday and there are a few bits to sort out, but that's for you to decide. Anything inside it now belongs to you and it’s up to you to decide what to do with it.” She hesitated for a second. “The estate will cover any bills up until now. You’ll receive what’s left at the end, which should still be a good amount,” she assured me. “You’ve got something in mind for all this, haven’t you?”

  I gave the lawyer a surprised look, knowing it was surely not a question she asked most of her clients. However, everything about this situation was out of the ordinary.

  “I do,” I told her, feeling a smile of utter happiness spread across my face. I hoped Jim Holmes was looking down on me right now with an answering grin. He’d given me my very own slice of paradise
.

  It was almost enough to make me feel bad about shacking up with his killer.

  The sound of Georgina Farley’s car engine faded away, leaving me alone with the dog and my new property.

  “Diggory… how about that? Because you like to dig holes?” I said, addressing the dog.

  The killer-dog wagged his tail in response. I took that as a yes.

  The autumn breeze whisked across the landscape, tossing the overgrown meadow and scrubby bushes back and forth. It was wild and unkempt. It was dominated by unwelcome weeds. It was a huge challenge.

  But it was the chance of a lifetime.

  I was not about to waste it.

  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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  Ruby Loren

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