Free Dead Lock by B. David Warner Page B

humorous. “Just doing a little research,” I said. “Talking with Corporal Cummins.”
    “Why, that’s funny,” Olson said. “I hope you don’t plan on writing anything. I’m covering last night’s murder. Crawford gave me the assignment and I’m here to interview Sheriff Valenti.”
    The words stung, but I tried not to show it. “Great,” I said, “I’ll be interested to read your story.”
    When I got to the newsroom, I set my purse on my desk and sat down. I wanted to cool off before confronting Crawford.
    I found Viola Brinkwater’s telephone number in my notepad and dialed her number. After some preliminary niceties, we agreed on meeting at her home at 10:30.
    I looked at the clock. I had just enough time to talk with Crawford before leaving the office for Mrs. Brinkwater and her damned gardenias.
    I found him at his desk, reading.
    “Why did you assign Carol Olson to the story of Shirley Benoit’s murder?” I asked.
    Crawford looked up from the papers he was perusing. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to having his assignments questioned and looked a bit surprised. “She’s one of our best reporters,” he said. “Besides you’ve got another story today.”
    “Yeah. Viola Brinkwater and her gardenias.”
    “There are a couple of weddings and a funeral we need written up for tomorrow’s edition, too. And don’t forget the list of ship passages through the locks.”
    “Gardenias, weddings, funerals and ships going through the damn locks. A cub reporter could handle those assignments.”
    That got Crawford’s attention. He reared back in his chair. “Look. You can’t walk in here off the street and expect to get preferential treatment. Even if you did work at a big Detroit daily.”
    “The woman who was murdered, Shirley Benoit? She and I were best friends.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Crawford paused for a moment; then came back at it. “But, that’s even more reason not to assign you to the story. Being that close to the victim can sway your judgment.”
    “My judgment is just fine. Apparently much better than yours.”
    “Prove it by bringing in a good story on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias.”
    Great . The news story of the century was blazing away overseas, the news story of the year was tearing apart my hometown, and I was in Sault Ste. Marie writing about Viola Brinkwater’s fragrant gardenias.
    That stunk.
     
     
     
    34
     
     
    I sat upright and much straighter than I wanted to, in a hard wooden chair in the sunroom of Mrs. Viola Brinkwater’s brown and white ranch home on Superior Street.
    All of eighty years old, Mrs. Brinkwater’s pinched face gave her the appearance of one of those people who are most comfortable being uncomfortable. She wore a plain white dress, a perfect match for the gardenias that filled the myriad of planters arranged about the sunroom. Their sweet, distinctive aroma permeated the moist air.
“Thank you for seeing me this morning, Mrs. Brinkwater.”
“My pleasure, dearie.” Mrs. Brinkwater’s mouth cracked into a smile.
“Your gardenias are beautiful.”
“Gardenia jasminoides. Thank you.”
“You certainly know your gardenias, Mrs. Brinkwater.”
“Why, ask anyone in Sault Ste. Marie. They’ll tell you no one knows gardenias like I do.”
“I’m sure they would.”
“Gardenias were discovered in China in the Eighteenth Century.”
    “And, how long have you been growing them?” Probably since they were discovered in China.
“I started as a teenager, actually.”
I looked down at my notes. “Tell me, Mrs. Brinkwater, what’s the secret of growing beautiful gardenias like these?”
“Coin.”
“Coin?”
    “C-O-I-N. It’s a way of remembering my system. C is for cool nights. Gardenias like fifty to fifty-five degrees. No more. No less.”
    “I see.” I scribbled in the notepad on my lap.
    “O is for oxygen. Important to their photosynthesis. The letter I stands for indirect light. You notice my windows are all shaded