Free Floral Depravity by Beverly Allen Page A

times.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” I went to the doorway and peeked through the shop. Sure enough, Kane Bixby, a bulging folder tucked under his arm, stood uncomfortably in front of the bay window. Then he tented his eyes and peered inside. I waved at him.
    He waved back.
    â€œThis just got weird,” I said.
    â€œBetter go talk to him,” Liv said.
    I hung my apron on the hook and walked through the shop. He was still out front when I pulled open the door and joined him on the sidewalk.
    â€œMiss Bloom,” he said.
    â€œSomething I can do for you?” I asked.
    â€œI’d like to talk with you.” He gestured down the street, where the sidewalk tables from the Brew-Ha-Ha were getting the morning sun. “Coffee?”
    He didn’t wait for me to answer, just started walking down the street in long strides that made me half jog to keep up.
    â€œI’m not sure I have anything to add to the statement I already gave you.”
    He opened the door. No sunny table for me today. The air-conditioning and the aroma of coffee were pleasant enough, though. We ordered at the counter, where the display of scones and other baked goods fresh from Nick Maxwell’s bakery tempted my eyes. But I was good. (I only ordered one.) We carried our drinks to a large table near the window before he spoke.
    â€œI didn’t actually ask you here to go over your statement.” He pushed his coffee cup to the side of the table and opened the folder. “I have the statements here from the other witnesses at that compound. I wondered if you’d be . . . well, I’d like if you’d look over them with me.”
    I practically choked on my scone. “Like, work with you?”
    â€œAs my receptionist has pointed out to me on more than one occasion, just this morning, in fact, sometimes a fresh set of eyes on a problem helps put everything in perspective. Foley can’t or won’t offer me more men to work on this. I can’t pull mine from Ramble to work on something outside their jurisdiction. So I wondered . . .”
    â€œWhat about Lafferty?”
    â€œHis day off. And he and my daughter are off making wedding plans. She’d kill me if I called him in to work.” Bixby sipped his coffee. “He, on the other hand, might thank me.”
    â€œCongratulations. I didn’t know they were engaged.” I smiled. “But yes, grooms are usually less excited about the details.”
    â€œI hope you’re not offended if we don’t get flowers from you. My daughter was all for it. She saw that thing in the paper about you and the language of flowers and all that. But with my allergies, we’ve been trying to talk her into silk.”
    â€œWe do silk flower arrangements, too. But if you’d rather someone else . . .”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t aware. She’d like that. I’ll let her know.”
    And I’d probably kick myself later, but I pulled the folder closer to me. There were five paper-clipped bundles at the front.
    â€œI put the most likely suspects first.”
    â€œWhy are these the most likely, again?”
    Bixby’s face went blank as if he were trying his best to hide a scowl. I’d bet money on it. He took a sip of his coffee. “They best knew the victim. Friends. Relatives. Co-workers. Of course, we can’t eliminate the possibility that Barry Brooks was not the intended victim. For all we know, someone wanted to wipe out the whole camp. But these still seemed a good place to start.”
    â€œOf course.” As I skimmed through the top pages, I almost spewed my coffee across the table. “Kathleen Randolph is a suspect?”
    â€œKeep. It. Down,” Bixby said with a forced smile, then nodded to a patron across the restaurant before leaning in closer. “Did you know that Kathleen Randolph was once married to Barry Brooks?”
    â€œNo, she hadn’t thought to