Gurney replayed half a dozen times the two short video segments in which that individual appeared. The first showed a dark blue minivan pulling into the parking area—nondescript, except for a sign on the driver’s door: FLOWERS BY FLORENCE. The second, with audio, showed the driver entering Carol’s office, announcing a delivery of flowers—chrysanthemums—for a Mrs. Marjorie Stottlemeyer, and asking for and receiving directions to her condo unit.
The driver was small and frail-looking—just how small was hard to tell from the high, distorting angle of the camera—wearing tight jeans, a leather jacket, a scarf, a headband, and wraparound sunglasses. Despite repeated viewings, Gurney couldn’t say for sure whether the thin little person was a man or a woman. But something else did become clearer with each viewing: despite the mention of only one name, two bouquets of mums were being delivered.
He went and got Carol Blissy from the front office and replayed the segment for her.
Her mouth opened in surprise. “Oh, that one!” She pulled a chair over and sat quite close to Gurney. “Play it again.”
When he did so, she nodded. “I remember that one.”
“You remember … him?” asked Gurney. “Or was it a her?”
“Funny you should ask. That’s exactly what I remember, that question in my mind. The voice, the movements, they didn’t seem quite like a man’s or a woman’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“More like … a little … pixie. That’s it—a pixie. That’s the closest I can come to it.”
The echo of Bolo’s use of the word petite struck Gurney. “You directed this person to a particular condo, correct?”
“Yes, to Marjorie Stottlemeyer’s.”
“Do you know if the flowers were actually delivered to her?”
“Yes. Because she called me later about it. There was some problem about them, but I can’t remember now what it was.”
“Does she still live here?”
“Oh, yes. People come here to stay. The only turnover is when a resident passes away.”
Gurney wondered how many of those who passed away ended up in Willow Rest. But he had more urgent questions to resolve. “How well do you know this Stottlemeyer woman?”
“What do you want to know about her?”
“How good is her memory? And would she be willing to answer a few questions?”
Carol Blissy appeared intrigued. “Marjorie is ninety-three years old, clear as a bell, and very gossipy.”
“Perfect,” said Gurney, turning toward her. Her perfume was subtle, with the slightest hint of roses. “It would be a big help if you could call her, tell her that a detective has been asking questions about the person who delivered those flowers to her last November, and he’d appreciate a few minutes of her time.”
“I can do that.” She stood, her hand just grazing his back as she passed him on her way out to the front office.
Three minutes later she returned with the phone. “Marjorie says she’s just about to take a bath, and then she’s going to take her nap, and after that she’ll be getting ready for dinner, but she can speak to you on the phone right now.”
Gurney gave Carol a thumbs-up and took the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Stottlemeyer?”
“Call me Marjorie.” Her voice was high and sharp. “Carol tells me you’re after that peculiar little creature who brought me the mystery bouquet. What for?”
“It could be nothing, or it could be something quite serious. When you say he brought you a ‘mystery bouquet,’ what did—”
“Murder? Is that it?”
“Marjorie, I hope you understand, at this point I have to be careful about what I say.”
“Then it is murder. Oh, my Lord! I knew there was something wrong from the beginning.”
“From the beginning?”
“Those mums. I didn’t order anything. There was no gift card. And anyone who ever knew me well enough to send me flowers is already senile or dead.”
“Was there just one bouquet?”
“What do you mean, just one?”
“Just one bunch of flowers, not two?”
“Two? Why in heaven’s name would I get two? One was ridiculous enough. How many admirers do you think I have?”
“Thank you, Marjorie, this is very helpful. One more question. The ‘peculiar little creature,’ as you put it, who delivered your flowers—was it a man or a woman?”
“I’m ashamed to say, I don’t know. That’s the problem with getting old. In the world I grew up in, there was a real difference between men and women. Vive la différence! Did you ever hear that? That’s French.”
“Did the creature ask you any questions?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Any questions at all.”
“No questions. Didn’t say much of anything. ‘Flowers for you.’ Something like that. Squeaky little voice. Funny nose.”
“Funny how?”
“Sharp. Like a beak.”
“Anything else odd that you can remember?”
“No, that’s it. Hooked beak of a nose.”
“How tall?”
“My height, at the most. Maybe even an inch or two shorter.”
“And your height would be …?”
“Exactly sixty-two inches. Five foot two, eyes of blue. My eyes, not his. His were hidden behind sunglasses. Not a speck of sun that day, mind you. But sunglasses aren’t for the sun anymore, are they? They’re a fashion item. Did you know that? A fashion item.”
“Thank you for your time, Marjorie. You’ve been a great help. I’ll be in touch.”
Gurney broke the connection and handed the phone back to Carol.
She blinked. “Now I remember what the problem was.”
“What problem?”
“What Marjorie called me about that day. It was to ask if the delivery person had left a gift card by mistake at the desk. Because there wasn’t any with the flowers. But what was that question you were asking about the number of bouquets, whether there was one or two?”
“If you look closely at the video,” said Gurney, “you’ll see that those chrysanthemums were in two separate wrappings. Two bouquets were being delivered here, not one.”
“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“It means that the ‘little creature’ made a second stop on the property after he saw Mrs. Stottlemeyer.”
“Or before seeing her, because she said he only had one bouquet with him.”
“I’d be willing to bet that the other bouquet was stashed temporarily outside her door.”
“Why?”
“Because I think our little creature came here to kill Mary Spalter, and he brought the second bouquet along to give him a cover story for knocking on her door—and to give her a reason to open it.”
“I don’t follow you. Why not just bring one bouquet—and tell me that he was delivering it to Mrs. Spalter? Why bring Marjorie Stottlemeyer into it at all? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I think it does. If there was a record in your visitors’ log of a delivery being made to Mary Spalter shortly before her death, the whole affair might have been looked into more carefully. It was evidently important to the killer that Mary’s death appear to be accidental. And it worked. I suspect there wasn’t even a thorough autopsy.”
Her mouth was open. “So … you’re saying … we really did have a murderer here … in my office … and in Marjorie’s house … and …”