And I was his last stop.
I hugged the arrangement tighter. “Well, you can come with me,” I offered.
“Can I?” He perked, like a golden retriever who’d finally been asked to go for walkies.
“Yeah. We can get to the bottom of this thrilling mystery together,” I said, referring to the arrangement. “Why would my dad send flowers to a stranger’s house?”
“Maybe he knew them from somewhere?” Ben guessed.
“He did have poker games. Maybe it’s one of his buddies from that?” But I doubted he’d send them daylilies. He’d send them orchids or corpse flowers or—something a bit more his brand. Daylilies weren’t his style at all.
My frown deepened as I thought, prompting Ben to propose, “We’ll see when we get there, I suppose.”
“I hate surprises,” I agreed with a sigh.
Foxglove Lane was one of those quiet streets adjacent to the main drag where you could just see yourself buying a house behind a white picket fence and growing old in it. The houses were all different colors of Charleston-type designs, with porches that faced the west and narrow builds. When I was eight or nine, I went to a birthday party for someone who lived on Foxglove Lane. Adair Bowman, maybe? It was a slumber party and they broke out the Ouija board and I sat back and had absolutely nothing to do with it.
One, because Ouija boards were mass-market trash made by a toy company to sell the occult to the middle class.
Two, because even though Ouija boards were mass-market trash made by a toy company to sell the occult to the middle class, I still refused to poke the bear.
Adair called me a scaredy-cat. I definitely was. But I also slept perfectly well that night while the rest of the kids had nightmares about old General Bartholomew from the cemetery coming to haunt their dreams.
The house in question was halfway down the lane, far past Adair’s old family home—though I think they moved the year after I’d solved the infamous murder. It was smaller than the others, but very well loved. The front lawn was quaint, with trimmed azaleas around the house and a colorful flower bed, newly planted for spring.
I climbed the brick steps to the front door and rang the doorbell.
It took a moment, but an old lady finally answered. She was hunched over, wrapped in a fluffy pink housecoat and darned slippers, and had the most beautiful wide brown eyes. “Oh,” she said, opening the glass door. “Hello.”
“Mrs.—” I checked the name and address on the card, written in Dad’s sloppy handwriting. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” she replied, nodding, “that’s me, dear.”
I offered up the daylilies. “These are for you.”
Her eyes lit up at the arrangement, and she took it gently with gnarled and bruised hands. There was dirt under her long fingernails. She gardened. Alone?
“Florence,” I heard Ben whisper, because he saw the gentleman first.
There was a shimmer in the hall behind her, an older man in an orange sweater and brown trousers, the hair that was left on the sides of his head combed back. He mouthed, “Thank you,” his eyes glistening with tears.
Oh. I understood now.
Mrs. Elizabeth smelled one of the lilies and smiled. “Charlie always gave me lilies on our anniversary. I think that’s today? Oh, my. Time’s always a bit wonky when you get older,” she added with a laugh. “Thank you, dear. You know, I get these every year but I still don’t know who from!”
“A friend,” I replied.
“Well, this friend of mine has very good taste,” she decided, and gave me one of her lemon biscuit cookies before I left.