Chapter 3
THREE
The air was crisp, the scent of autumn heavy on the breeze. Scarlett tucked her scarf into her pea coat and shoved her hands in her pockets. Beside her, Archer seemed impervious to the cold. His suit jacket was open, his stride easy.
They’d seen Lucy and Cormac off, then helped with the cleanup at the Barlows’ place. Finally, feet aching, Scarlett had said her goodbyes. Archer had appeared by her side and walked out with her, even though she’d tried to slip out while he was busy in another part of the house.
Despite herself, as their steps fell into a rhythm, she was glad he was there. They walked back toward Pushing Daisies, her flower shop, under the streetlights and many-colored leaves, an easy silence settling between them.
“What kind of flowers does your mother like?” she asked as they turned a corner toward the florist’s shop that Scarlett had established four years earlier, when she’d first moved to Stirling.
Archer hummed. “She likes purple,” he said, sounding unsure. “You got any purple flowers?”
Scarlett’s lips twitched. “I have purple flowers, yes.”
“Some of those would be good.”
“I have violets and irises,” Scarlett said, lifting her head to inhale the fresh scents in the air. She loved fall, loved the coolness, the colors of the leaves, the last dregs of warmth to be enjoyed during the day. “I also have gorgeous carnations that are white with purple edges. We could mix a few of them with white roses or even lilies. I love irises and lilies together.”
Archer nodded. “Sure.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
He flashed her a grin. “None whatsoever.”
Despite herself, Scarlett huffed a laugh. She still felt wobbly, but it helped to be in the fresh air. And, though she wasn’t sure why, it helped to have Archer by her side. As they walked, his arm brushed hers. She wasn’t quite as alone as she’d felt earlier.
“Are you close with your mom?” Scarlett asked, realizing she didn’t know much about Archer at all. They’d been in the same circle of friends for years, but they hadn’t really spent much time one-on-one. Barring one notable exception, of course.
Archer was silent for a moment. In the distance, an engine revved and tires squealed. They both glanced up in time to see a silver car speeding through an intersection a couple of blocks ahead.
“So many maniacs on the road,” Archer grumbled, then added, “To answer your question, no, I’m not that close with either of my parents. But no matter how many times I disappoint them, I still find myself dancing to their tune.”
Surprise splashed through Scarlett, cool and bright, and she glanced at the man beside her. His lips were pinched, his gaze far away. “How could they be disappointed? You’re one of the most successful contractors in town.”
Archer owned Jones Contracting, a company he’d started in his midtwenties. She knew he was always busy, and the wait list to get him to take on a project was months-long. He was handsome, successful, funny, charismatic—how could anyone not be proud to have him as a son?
“My parents wanted me to go to college,” Archer said, voice more clipped than Scarlett had ever heard it. “That wasn’t in the cards for me. I don’t think they’ve really forgiven me for it.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Scarlett said, “I’m still paying off my student loans from my political science degree, which I used exactly zero times since I graduated. And don’t even get me started on my master’s.”
“Not worth the investment?”
“Last time I checked, an investment is supposed to make you money.”
His laugh was more of a short, sharp exhale. “How’d you get into the flower business?”
“I had a job at a florist in college, part-time. Worked all through undergrad and my master’s degree. Then when my job hunt post-graduation got me nowhere, I took a certificate in floristry to tide me over. I liked working at the shop, and I figured I might as well upskill. That led to me managing the shop and then eventually starting my own.”
Archer met her gaze, his expression oddly guarded. “So you’re one of those smart people, huh?”
“Depends who you ask,” Scarlett answered drily.
Archer’s lips twitched. “It was similar for me. I apprenticed as a carpenter after I just scraped by with a high school diploma, thinking I’d make a bit of money while I figured out my next move. My parents were pushing college hard, but I didn’t have the grades. There was just no way. I…” He drifted off, grimacing. “Anyway, I discovered I liked working with my hands, signed up for trade school, became a carpenter, and eventually got my contractor’s license and started working for myself.”
Scarlett smiled. “You should be proud of yourself, even if other people don’t realize the amazing thing you’ve done.”
Their footsteps were the only sound on the street besides the rustling of the leaves. The silver car’s engine had faded in the distance, and Scarlett’s nerves settled a little bit more. She’d overreacted earlier. No one was looking at her any differently. Archer hadn’t mentioned Jimmy since he’d followed her to the powder room, and everyone had told her her speech was great.
Everything would be okay.
They reached the street where Scarlett’s shop was and turned the corner.
Archer cleared his throat. “Scarlett, I know, before, we said?—”
He paused when he noticed Scarlett had stopped walking. Scarlett barely noticed his questioning glance, only distantly heard his words. Her eyes were on the front of her shop, on the jagged petals of broken glass marring her front door. Heart hammering, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
Someone had broken into her shop. Or had they just thrown a rock at her window? Vandals? Something worse?
This had happened to Camilla a few years back, and they’d discovered that the local shady loan shark, Frankie Smith, had been behind the vandalism. But Scarlett hadn’t had any dealings with Smith, so it couldn’t be his fault her shop had been targeted.
Pushing Daisies was her sanctuary. It was the one thing she’d managed to do right. It was the one thing that no one could take away from her…or so she thought.
All the feelings she’d experienced earlier came rushing back. She didn’t belong. Nothing would ever go right. She couldn’t rely on anyone else, because things always ended in disaster.
Archer finally followed her gaze, shifting to stand in front of Scarlett like he could shield her from a threat.
“Stay here,” he said. In four long strides, he was at her door.
“Don’t go in there,” she said, voice hoarse. “What if someone’s inside?”
The blinds covered the door and the front window. She always closed them when she locked the shop, but she regretted not getting one of those expandable security cages. It hadn’t seemed necessary; what thief would be tempted by a few flowers and some petty cash?
“Call the police,” Archer ordered, testing the door. It was unlocked. The bottom of the blinds clacked against the metal edge of the door, and he froze.
They listened, but the shop was deathly silent. Scarlett crept closer, her heart beating so hard it felt like a steady hum in her chest. Her phone was in her hands, but she hadn’t dialed the police yet. In the distance, a dog barking made them both startle.
Archer gritted his teeth and pulled the door open, striding inside. “Whoever’s in here, show yourself. The police are on the?—”
Scarlett flicked the light switch as Archer spoke, and as the overhead lighting came on, they both froze where they stood. Archer’s words died, and Scarlett couldn’t manage anything more than a squeak.
This was not how she’d left the shop that afternoon. It wasn’t the tidy, small space bursting with life and beauty. This space held evidence of a struggle. It was messy, chaotic, violent.
This was the scene of a crime.
To the left, the console table where Scarlett kept her orchids had been knocked aside and overturned. The orchids littered the ground, with soil strewn all over the floor. A few footprints were visible in the dirt. Most of her orchids wouldn’t survive; Scarlett could already tell. One of the buckets on the far wall that held bunches of cut flowers had been overturned, and the water had mixed with the dirt from the orchids to form a muddy mess along one side of the room.
But that’s not what made her chest feel hollow as a drum.
Sprawled out on the ground in the middle of Scarlett’s shop was an old lady with iron-gray hair. She wore a floral top and a navy skirt, and her lids were half-closed. She was utterly still. Her purse had slipped off her shoulder and fallen open at her side, a tube of lipstick resting just outside the flap. She was partially on her side, as if she’d fallen sideways and slumped back in a twist.
Around the elderly woman’s head was a pool of liquid that looked nearly black in the center but lightened to vivid red near the edges. Soil from the orchids had soaked into one side of the puddle. Scarlett didn’t have to get any closer to know that the liquid was blood, and the woman was dead.
Her heart thumped, and it felt like the great tolling of a bell. It took long moments to take in the scene, to make sense of it, to recognize that it was real. The smell was what did it: rich floral notes, turned earth, and the metallic tang of blood. Her sanctuary had been violated.
Archer sucked in a breath, and Scarlett came back to herself, stomach twisting itself into a knot. He stood frozen in front of her, his arms out to stop Scarlett from entering the space. She’d taken in the whole scene staring over his outstretched arm. An awful, final silence blanketed the room.
Then Archer’s arm shifted, and he pointed to a piece of metal Scarlett hadn’t noticed at first glance. It was bright silver, half-shoved under the table near the window that held her succulents. It looked like a tool of some sort, with a bit of blue tape wrapped around the end. In the shadows beneath the table, she thought she could see a dark splatter on its other end.
“That,” Archer said in a low, trembling voice, “is my wrench.”
Scarlett blinked. “What?”
“And that,” he continued, shifting to point at the woman, “is Ethel Brown.”