Free You Only Die Twice by Edna Buchanan Page A

with his hand to mask ill-fitting dentures that clicked as he spoke. “Then, maybe six weeks or so ago, some fella came by looking for her.”
    â€œA man? What did he look like?”
    He shrugged. “Shortish, Anglo, dark hair, late thirties, early forties. Had a sly way of looking atcha. In a big hurry, wanted help to find ’er. Didn’t stay long. He came back right quick, wanting to know if anybody else had been asking ’bout ’er or visiting that plot lately.”
    â€œDid he leave his name or a card?”
    â€œNope.” He readjusted his baseball cap over wispy hair.
    â€œDid you see his car?”
    â€œLooked like a rental.”
    â€œWho brought the flowers?”
    â€œMust have been the woman. I seen her out there a coupla weeks ago. She’d been tidying it up. Didn’t speak. When I rode the mower acrost that strip between the front row and the fountain, saw ’er just kneeling there, real quiet. Didn’t really see her face, hidden by sunglasses and a scarf, but she looked young. It’s funny,” he said from behind his hand. “Nobody all these years till now. What’s the sudden interest in that one?”
    â€œI hoped you could tell me,” I said. I gave him my card and asked that he call me if anyone else came looking for Reva Warren.
    Across the street, within a block or two of the cemetery entrance, were three small florists’ shops. White roses, I asked at each one, sold about two weeks ago? The first two shook their heads when I showed them a glossy News file photo of Kaithlin Jordan.
    â€œTal vez, maybe,” said the third, a flower importer from Colombia. He set down the sharp cutting tool he’d been using to snip the thick stems of a bird of paradise, wiped his hands on his apron, and picked up the photo in an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture. Lipspursed, he studied it thoughtfully, the air around us moist, cool, and fragrant.
    â€œUn poco mayor, a little bit older.” He raised huge, sad eyes from the photo. “When was this taken?”
    â€œMore than ten years ago.” I held my breath. “Más de diez años.”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not.” He studied it again, shrugged dramatically, and stroked his sleek mustache. La cliente, if she was the one, wore a scarf, he explained. He never saw her eyes. She never removed her large dark glasses. He suspected at first that she might be a celebrity but he couldn’t place her face, and a celebrity would not be alone. “¿Sí? There would be a bodyguard, an entourage. ¿No? ”
    American and well dressed, she had come by taxi and paid in cash. His red roses were beautiful, a fresh shipment that morning, full, lush, and passionate. But she had insisted on white. “Una dama muy bonita, pero triste. ¿Sabe?” He gestured expansively. A pretty lady, but sad. She said little, but left the impression that she had come from a distance to pay her respects to a loved one. After she left, he watched from his front window and saw her cab swing through the cemetery’s wide wrought-iron gates. He could not remember the name on the cab but thought it was yellow. Yes, yellow.
    Something clandestine about her, he confided, made him suspect el muerto was an old lover, a former husband, perhaps someone else’s husband. Of course, he confessed, he was dedicated to amor . He wished he had seen her eyes, he said. They always tell the story.
    I left his tiny shop, full of fragrance and romantic fantasies, and called Rychek. “The mother is definitelydead,” I told him. “I’m at the cemetery. Guess who was here?”
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    Rychek told me that Fuller G. Stockton, R. J.’s lawyer, was already en route to Florida State Prison to inform Jordan. Stunned by the revelation that his client was actually innocent, he had hastily regained enough presence of mind to schedule a 6 P.M . press conference. He’d be back by then