The Florist

Decode

            “Victim #3: Akira Ellen Wormer murdered October 17, 2005, left with belladonna. The poem reads: In the still of the night, you’ll lose the will to fight. Live the dream, thieves redeem, a deadly price on sight.”

            “Hmph. Well, Shakespeare he ain’t. Cause of death?”

            “Poison.”

            Capri took another bite of her pizza while the wheels turned in her brain. “Do you remember what I told you about yellow jasmine being mistaken for honeysuckle?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, the same goes for the berries of a belladonna plant. Often times, people think they’re blueberries.”

            “Very good,” he praised. “She died from consumin’ poisonous berries. Anything else you can think of off the top of your head?”

            “Via the language of flowers, Atropa Belladonna means silence. It’s nicknamed Deadly Nightshade and was once used as an herbal medicine. Her pupils were dilated, right?”

            “How’d you know that?”

            “Yeah, folks also used it as a cosmetic. Women thought enlarged pupils made them look more attractive and sexy. In actuality, it could cause blindness or blurred vision.”

            “Why do you know this stuff?”

            “Well that helpful tidbit came from the queen diva herself, Nia. She was a fashion and cosmetics major. She thought I’d get a kick out of bringin’ it up in one of my botany classes.”

            “Did you?”

            “I got extra credit for showing initiative and treated Nia out for drinks,” she replied with a smile. “Next one.”

            “Wait, what about the thieves redeem line and the deadly price on sight?”

            “Deadly price on sight refers to the dilated pupils, like I said. The line about thieves … I have no idea. We’ll have to throw that in the pile of missin’ links we still have to figure out.”

            “All right. Victim #4: Alton Van Boerne murdered March 14th, 2006, left with a rhododendron flower.”

            “Oh, goody, another beware of danger poem.”

            Mel’s eyes jumped at her prediction before reading it out loud. “Danger, danger; beware the dark stranger, with words so sweet but a tricky lone ranger. A dizzy and sick, careless bandit, your blood is payback for the endangered.”

            “Still think it’s not personal?”

            “I think you’re on to something if you can make sense of it.”

            “Rhododendron is another poisonous flower. Some people have died from consuming honey that was made by bees feeding on its toxic pollen and nectar. This Van Bueren guy…”

            “Van Boerne.”

            “Van Boerne. He didn’t have honey in his system by chance, did he?”

            Mel nodded. “He died from a gunshot wound to the chest, though.”

            “You mean the heart,” she emphasized before rising from her chair to pace in thought, her blood racing in exhilaration.

            “What is it?”

            “The Florist has nineteen victims, ten females and nine males.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “Have y’all bothered to notice the Noah’s ark theme we have goin’ on here?”

            “You’re referring to what, the four victims we just reviewed?” he scorned indifferently.

            “You forget, I’ve been doing my research on this guy, but it’s only been based on information from the newspapers. With an inside peek into these files, I can fill in some of the blanks. Now, since y’all haven’t paid attention to any patterns at all, I suggest you stop mockin’ me and start takin’ notes.”

            “Oh, is that what you suggest?”

            She shot a look of fury in his direction. “Look, Mel. Your boss has me onboard to help you.”

            “Help doesn’t usually feel like being ordered around.”

            “You can’t be serious. This is not a time for you to start nitpicking at who’s giving orders to whom! If ego trippin’ is the reason you cops haven’t got a hold of this guy, put it on pause so we can get some work done! I mean, my God! Do you want to catch The Florist or not?”

            Mel tenderly took a hold of Capri’s hand without warning and captured her breath at the same time. “You and I are supposed to be partners. You might possess a necessary knowledge for this case, but you cannot solve it alone and neither can I. I need you to work with me instead of tellin’ me what to do. Do you understand?”

            She recovered her breath, but it was no use. His touch had sent sensations of stimulation that invaded her skin and shot through her veins like an adrenaline rush. She could hear the acceleration of her heartbeat and feel the effects of it resonating all over her body. Oh, Lord. What the hell is wrong with me?

            “Capri?” he called with a light stroke to her face that caused her heart to race more.

            Damn it, stop touching me, she screamed inside herself. But his hand didn’t retire, and the more he caressed her face, the more her insides fluttered with butterflies. Oh, God, never stop touching me.

            “Capri?”

            “Yes,” she moaned provocatively. The look of shock on his face struck her back into the reality of the moment. “I mean, uh, what? What did you say?”

            “I said that if we’re going to be partners, we have to learn to work together. You know, as a team.”

            “Right, a team. Okay, so, there are some things that I’ve noticed about The Florist case, and I think it would really help if you could please look into them.”

            He smiled just before grasping a paper and pen. “I am taking notes, Miss Winters.”

            “As I was saying, there is a Noah’s ark theme afoot with ten female victims and nine male victims, one alternatin’ the other.”

            “So, you think the next victim will be male?”

            “Accordin’ to the pattern, yes. And 9 times out of 10, he’ll be killed around the middle of the month – between the 11th and the 19th – by poison or a bullet through the heart.”

            “That’s not necessarily true. What about Miss Woodruff?”

            “Please call her Nia; I do, and she was an exception. I don’t know why she was an exception but …”

            “She was an exception in a lot of ways,” Mel murmured. The accidental slip immediately caught her attention.

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “Miss Winters …”

            “Capri,” she harshly insisted.

            “I don’t – I don’t know how to tell you this.”

            “Tell me what?”

            Mel let out a light sigh before putting a picture of the flower and poem that was left with Nia’s body on display. Capri examined it closely as puzzlement filled her face. He stood by in anticipation of her next words.

            “It’s a zinnia flower. And this poem’s as easy as 1x1.”

        He nodded sorrowfully while she surprisingly fell back in laughter. His lips curled in curiosity, baffled by her amusement. “You wanna tell me what’s so funny about a setback?”

            “A setback? Oh, Lord. Are there any more like this?”

            “Huh?”

            “Are there any more poems that are as direct as this one?”

            “No.”

            “Good. Then we’re not as screwed as I thought.”

            “What chu talkin’ ‘bout? We’re completely screwed! We don’t know if this creep has somebody else workin’ with him or if this note is forged to frame …”

            “To frame a serial killer already at large? Not likely there, Mel.”

            “Oh, yeah? Then what are your theories because the previous one doesn’t apply.”

            “Yes, it does. It applies to The Florist case; this either has very little to do with it or everything to do with it.”

            “Okay, now you’re talking in riddles.”

            “No, you’re just not listening. The Florist writes in limericks; five-line poems where lines 1, 2, and 5 rhyme and are longer than lines 3 and 4 which only rhyme with each other. This is like a damn nursery rhyme. Roses are red, violets are blue? Are you kiddin’ me?”

            “I already said it was different, Capri. We know that. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

            She tilted her head intrigued by the challenge. “The Florist has been playin’ in the shadows for ten years. Never once responded to media attention and vanishes the scene without a trace. These victims die a quiet yet violent death, emphasis on quiet.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “He works very hard to keep his identity secret. Havin’ an accomplice is too much of a risk for someone this private.”

            “So, it’s a fake.”

            “Yeah, it’s a fake, but not because the person’s tryna frame him,” she laughed. “What you’re dealing with here, Perrin, is a copycat.”

            He paused allowing her words to settle. “A copycat?”

            “Someone who knows this case and has idolized The Florist so much that they decided to pay tribute to him by addin’ to his garden.”

            “Wait a minute. If this copycat was a true fan, wouldn’t he have played closer to The Florist’s pattern?”

            “Mel, how often do you know an imitation to be better than the original? This person is cocky. He figured that with one glance, the cops would see the flower and the note, and rule it as another Florist killing which y’all did. The difference between the two: the Florist tries to be a little more poetic and he always leaves a poisonous flower, whether the death is via poison or not.”

            “So, a zinnia flower is not poisonous?”

            “No. And this person didn’t leave it there; he disposed of the rest of them.”

            “What do you mean the rest of them?”

            “Nia’s mom had a bouquet of zinnias delivered for her birthday. It’s tradition. She even paid extra money to have the delivery guy come at 8:00 in the morning so Nia would see them before she went to work,” she told.

            “Flowers are a tradition?”

            “Ever since we were … I want to say five … our parents would give us a bouquet of the flowers we were named after. Well, she was named for the flower; my name just so happens to be a flower’s meaning.”

            “What flower is that?”

            “Purple carnations. They mean capriciousness.”

            “So, basically, you’re named for being unpredictable?”

            “More or less, yes. My mom was told she couldn’t have kids, that she was barren. Sometime later, she was sick with the flu and her illness got so bad, my dad took her to the hospital. Turned out it wasn’t the flu; it was me, and my parents wanted to name me after such a miracle.”

            “Did Nia have a similar story?”

            Capri shook her head. “Aunt Tristeza just liked the name Zinnia.”

            “So Nia was your cousin?”

            “We’re not blood related, but she was like a sister to me. We knew nothin’ else but each other. Been best friends our whole lives. Our parents were all friends, so we were destined to be too.”

            “So what happened to Nia’s dad? Did him and Tristeza not work out or something?”

            “I guess. I mean, no one’s ever met him. Aunt Tristeza never talked about him.”

            “Did she date often?”

            “She did but … the relationships never lasted long.”

            “Why’s that?”

            Capri shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Aunt T always said she would introduce us to her beau if it was serious. It just … never seemed to get that serious. But I’m not surprised. I mean, if Aunt T is a serial dater, it explains why Nia was.”sausage. I already dug in a bit.”

            “Huh. What time is it?”

            “About 8:00.”

            “Really? I’m so sorry, Mel. I didn’t mean to tie up your room. I only wanted to take a nap, but I guess I was a little more tired than I thought.”

            “It’s all right. Come’re,” he invited patting the cushion next to him. “Have a seat, get some food in your stomach.”

            “Umm, shouldn’t we eat at the table? Keep from makin’ a mess?”

            He scoffed. “You’re kinda used to being in charge, aren’t you?”‘

            “I just like to enforce common sense is all. Here, I’ll help.”

            Capri took his plate and placed it on the dining room table before rushing to move the pizza boxes to the kitchen counter. When Mel got up from the couch to join her, he remembered to mention the files he brought.

            “Well, let’s see them!”

            “Uh, I think you should eat first.”

            “You’ve gotta be kiddin’. I can eat and work. Besides, the sooner we find The Florist, the sooner he’ll be off the streets. You’ll just have to show everything to me so I don’t stain the papers with all this grease. And please keep the pictures of dead bodies to yourself. I’d rather not throw up on your lovely floor.”

            “Thanks for the tip. What do you want to start with?”

            “Start with the basics: name, date of murder, flower and poem.”

            “That’s it? You don’t want to know their D.O.B., race …”

            “You said you guys looked into that already and found no direct connection, right? Why waste time verifyin’ your work? I’d like to think y’all have been doing your job. Besides, if my theory is right, you have all the information you need. You just don’t know what to do with it yet. Let’s get started.”

            “Victim #3: Akira Ellen Wormer murdered October 17, 2005, left with belladonna. The poem reads: In the still of the night, you’ll lose the will to fight. Live the dream, thieves redeem, a deadly price on sight.”

            “Hmph. Well, Shakespeare he ain’t. Cause of death?”

            “Poison.”

            Capri took another bite of her pizza while the wheels turned in her brain. “Do you remember what I told you about yellow jasmine being mistaken for honeysuckle?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, the same goes for the berries of a belladonna plant. Often times, people think they’re blueberries.”

            “Very good,” he praised. “She died from consumin’ poisonous berries. Anything else you can think of off the top of your head?”

            “Via the language of flowers, Atropa Belladonna means silence. It’s nicknamed Deadly Nightshade and was once used as an herbal medicine. Her pupils were dilated, right?”

            “How’d you know that?”

            “Yeah, folks also used it as a cosmetic. Women thought enlarged pupils made them look more attractive and sexy. In actuality, it could cause blindness or blurred vision.”

            “Why do you know this stuff?”

            “Well that helpful tidbit came from the queen diva herself, Nia. She was a fashion and cosmetics major. She thought I’d get a kick out of bringin’ it up in one of my botany classes.”

            “Did you?”

            “I got extra credit for showing initiative and treated Nia out for drinks,” she replied with a smile. “Next one.”

            “Wait, what about the thieves redeem line and the deadly price on sight?”

            “Deadly price on sight refers to the dilated pupils, like I said. The line about thieves … I have no idea. We’ll have to throw that in the pile of missin’ links we still have to figure out.”

            “All right. Victim #4: Alton Van Boerne murdered March 14th, 2006, left with a rhododendron flower.”

            “Oh, goody, another beware of danger poem.”

            Mel’s eyes jumped at her prediction before reading it out loud. “Danger, danger; beware the dark stranger, with words so sweet but a tricky lone ranger. A dizzy and sick, careless bandit, your blood is payback for the endangered.”

            “Still think it’s not personal?”

            “I think you’re on to something if you can make sense of it.”

            “Rhododendron is another poisonous flower. Some people have died from consuming honey that was made by bees feeding on its toxic pollen and nectar. This Van Bueren guy…”

            “Van Boerne.”

            “Van Boerne. He didn’t have honey in his system by chance, did he?”

            Mel nodded. “He died from a gunshot wound to the chest, though.”

            “You mean the heart,” she emphasized before rising from her chair to pace in thought, her blood racing in exhilaration.

            “What is it?”

            “The Florist has nineteen victims, ten females and nine males.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “Have y’all bothered to notice the Noah’s ark theme we have goin’ on here?”

            “You’re referring to what, the four victims we just reviewed?” he scorned indifferently.

            “You forget, I’ve been doing my research on this guy, but it’s only been based on information from the newspapers. With an inside peek into these files, I can fill in some of the blanks. Now, since y’all haven’t paid attention to any patterns at all, I suggest you stop mockin’ me and start takin’ notes.”

            “Oh, is that what you suggest?”

            She shot a look of fury in his direction. “Look, Mel. Your boss has me onboard to help you.”

            “Help doesn’t usually feel like being ordered around.”

            “You can’t be serious. This is not a time for you to start nitpicking at who’s giving orders to whom! If ego trippin’ is the reason you cops haven’t got a hold of this guy, put it on pause so we can get some work done! I mean, my God! Do you want to catch The Florist or not?”

            Mel tenderly took a hold of Capri’s hand without warning and captured her breath at the same time. “You and I are supposed to be partners. You might possess a necessary knowledge for this case, but you cannot solve it alone and neither can I. I need you to work with me instead of tellin’ me what to do. Do you understand?”

            She recovered her breath, but it was no use. His touch had sent sensations of stimulation that invaded her skin and shot through her veins like an adrenaline rush. She could hear the acceleration of her heartbeat and feel the effects of it resonating all over her body. Oh, Lord. What the hell is wrong with me?

            “Capri?” he called with a light stroke to her face that caused her heart to race more.

            Damn it, stop touching me, she screamed inside herself. But his hand didn’t retire, and the more he caressed her face, the more her insides fluttered with butterflies. Oh, God, never stop touching me.

            “Capri?”

            “Yes,” she moaned provocatively. The look of shock on his face struck her back into the reality of the moment. “I mean, uh, what? What did you say?”

            “I said that if we’re going to be partners, we have to learn to work together. You know, as a team.”

            “Right, a team. Okay, so, there are some things that I’ve noticed about The Florist case, and I think it would really help if you could please look into them.”

            He smiled just before grasping a paper and pen. “I am taking notes, Miss Winters.”

            “As I was saying, there is a Noah’s ark theme afoot with ten female victims and nine male victims, one alternatin’ the other.”

            “So, you think the next victim will be male?”

            “Accordin’ to the pattern, yes. And 9 times out of 10, he’ll be killed around the middle of the month – between the 11th and the 19th – by poison or a bullet through the heart.”

            “That’s not necessarily true. What about Miss Woodruff?”

            “Please call her Nia; I do, and she was an exception. I don’t know why she was an exception but …”

            “She was an exception in a lot of ways,” Mel murmured. The accidental slip immediately caught her attention.

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “Miss Winters …”

            “Capri,” she harshly insisted.

            “I don’t – I don’t know how to tell you this.”

            “Tell me what?”

            Mel let out a light sigh before putting a picture of the flower and poem that was left with Nia’s body on display. Capri examined it closely as puzzlement filled her face. He stood by in anticipation of her next words.

            “It’s a zinnia flower. And this poem’s as easy as 1x1.”

            He nodded sorrowfully while she surprisingly fell back in laughter. His lips curled in curiosity, baffled by her amusement. “You wanna tell me what’s so funny about a setback?”

            “A setback? Oh, Lord. Are there any more like this?”

            “Huh?”

            “Are there any more poems that are as direct as this one?”

            “No.”

            “Good. Then we’re not as screwed as I thought.”

            “What chu talkin’ ‘bout? We’re completely screwed! We don’t know if this creep has somebody else workin’ with him or if this note is forged to frame …”

            “To frame a serial killer already at large? Not likely there, Mel.”

            “Oh, yeah? Then what are your theories because the previous one doesn’t apply.”

            “Yes, it does. It applies to The Florist case; this either has very little to do with it or everything to do with it.”

            “Okay, now you’re talking in riddles.”

            “No, you’re just not listening. The Florist writes in limericks; five-line poems where lines 1, 2, and 5 rhyme and are longer than lines 3 and 4 which only rhyme with each other. This is like a damn nursery rhyme. Roses are red, violets are blue? Are you kiddin’ me?”

            “I already said it was different, Capri. We know that. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

            She tilted her head intrigued by the challenge. “The Florist has been playin’ in the shadows for ten years. Never once responded to media attention and vanishes the scene without a trace. These victims die a quiet yet violent death, emphasis on quiet.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “He works very hard to keep his identity secret. Havin’ an accomplice is too much of a risk for someone this private.”

            “So, it’s a fake.”

            “Yeah, it’s a fake, but not because the person’s tryna frame him,” she laughed. “What you’re dealing with here, Perrin, is a copycat.”

            He paused allowing her words to settle. “A copycat?”

            “Someone who knows this case and has idolized The Florist so much that they decided to pay tribute to him by addin’ to his garden.”

            “Wait a minute. If this copycat was a true fan, wouldn’t he have played closer to The Florist’s pattern?”

            “Mel, how often do you know an imitation to be better than the original? This person is cocky. He figured that with one glance, the cops would see the flower and the note, and rule it as another Florist killing which y’all did. The difference between the two: the Florist tries to be a little more poetic and he always leaves a poisonous flower, whether the death is via poison or not.”

            “So, a zinnia flower is not poisonous?”

            “No. And this person didn’t leave it there; he disposed of the rest of them.”

            “What do you mean the rest of them?”

            “Nia’s mom had a bouquet of zinnias delivered for her birthday. It’s tradition. She even paid extra money to have the delivery guy come at 8:00 in the morning so Nia would see them before she went to work,” she told.

            “Flowers are a tradition?”

            “Ever since we were … I want to say five … our parents would give us a bouquet of the flowers we were named after. Well, she was named for the flower; my name just so happens to be a flower’s meaning.”

            “What flower is that?”

            “Purple carnations. They mean capriciousness.”

            “You’re named for being unpredictable?”

            “More or less, yes. My mom was told she couldn’t have kids, that she was barren. Sometime later, she was sick with the flu and her illness got so bad, my dad took her to the hospital. Turned out it wasn’t the flu; it was me, and my parents wanted to name me after such a miracle.”

            “Did Nia have a similar story?”

            Capri shook her head. “Aunt Tristeza just liked the name Zinnia.”

            “So Nia was your cousin?”

            “We’re not blood related, but she was like a sister to me. We knew nothin’ else but each other. Been best friends our whole lives. Our parents were all friends, so we were destined to be too.”

            “So what happened to Nia’s dad? Did him and Tristeza not work out or something?”

            “I guess. I mean, no one’s ever met him. Aunt Tristeza never talked about him.”

            “Did she date often?”

            “She did but … the relationships never lasted long.”

            “Why’s that?”

            Capri shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Aunt T always said she would introduce us to her beau if it was serious. It just … never seemed to get that serious. But I’m not surprised. I mean, if Aunt T is a serial dater, it explains why Nia was.”