Read Online SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery by C.S. Challinor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C.S. Challinor
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friend from the London School of Design, had capitalized on the national historic events and signed lucrative deals with higher-end department stores to supply head gear riffed off top designers. Not a coincidence, Rex’s legal colleague had emphasized, that Elise should be “got rid of” to benefit Shannon, especially since the partner’s alibi had proved to be pure fiction. The girl might well have something to hide, said Mr. Whitmore, speaking on behalf of Sir Howes.
Sir Howes’ reasons for suspecting Ms. Smythe stemmed from her flimsy alibi for Friday night, subsequently disproved by the police; and the fact she drove a silver Fiat 500. The gold-plated buckle on Elise’s shoulder bag, recovered intact at the scene, had been scraped and flecked with silver paint. Yet only a few minor dents and scratches had been found on Ms. Smythe’s front bumper, and there was no evidence of a touch-up. That she had lied to police about the film she’d seen at the West End cinema was more revealing. She had given a synopsis of the plot, only to be informed that the movie was not yet showing in the UK, and she must have based her recollections on the preview. She had responded, with a shrug, that she’d stayed home painting her toe nails, listening to Adele on her iPod, and had from then on refused to budge from her story.
Rex was intrigued by her reaction to being outed, as relayed by the solicitor. After all, a shrug denoted something less urgent to hide than a hit-and-run. He was determined to find out more than the police had unearthed. His sympathetic approach and Lowland Scots burr invariably produced a tongue-loosening effect on people, particularly women, and in his usual garb of tweed jacket and corduroys, he cut a far less imposing figure than in the black gown and stiff wig he wore for court.
Regarding who had given Elise Howes the chrysanthemums, the solicitor was uncertain. Elise, working late at her office that Friday night, was presumed to be meeting her fiancé at Presto’s on Market Street , but had, apparently, been stood up. This accounted for her walking home alone late at night. The fiancé, Gino Giannelli, had denied they’d had a date, even though they frequently met at the bistro for dinner and she often stayed at his flat on weekends. The Italian was Suspect Number Two on Sir Howes’ list. He might have been Number One had his daughter already been married to him, citing Elise’s family fortune as motive.
The Howes’ eldest daughter stood next to her parents receiving the guests. Mr. Whitmore had confided that Jennifer’s life goal while awaiting her great aunts’ demise—presumably the two desiccated old ladies sitting nearby dressed head to toe in black brocade—was to snag a rich husband and, to this end, she frequented high society sporting events, including Ascot, Wimbledon, and Polo in the Park. A horsey girl, her scarlet mouth showed pinched and stark in a face almost as ghostly pale as her dead sister’s. The Howes gene pool had conspired to bestow the worst features of each parent on her person. Unlike her ethereally pretty sibling, Jennifer had inherited her father’s prominent nose and long chin, and her mother’s toneless blond hair, weighed down in both cases by black cloche hats in crushed velvet.
Rex did not fail to notice that in unguarded moments she eyed, with primal hunger, a designer -stubbled man with mussed up black hair held in place with slick gel, who could be none other than Elise’s grieving lover. And Sir Howes’ second prime suspect.
“Look into him as well as the girl,” the minister had instructed Rex in his gleaming wood library that day.
The machismo Gino Giannelli hung back in a palm-potted corner of the funeral parlour, in conversation with one of Sir Howes’ aged aunts, his dark eyes bright with tears as he performed operatic gestures of despair. During his brief visit to Sir Howes’ home, Rex had gathered that the Minister of Transport did not
Sir Howes’ reasons for suspecting Ms. Smythe stemmed from her flimsy alibi for Friday night, subsequently disproved by the police; and the fact she drove a silver Fiat 500. The gold-plated buckle on Elise’s shoulder bag, recovered intact at the scene, had been scraped and flecked with silver paint. Yet only a few minor dents and scratches had been found on Ms. Smythe’s front bumper, and there was no evidence of a touch-up. That she had lied to police about the film she’d seen at the West End cinema was more revealing. She had given a synopsis of the plot, only to be informed that the movie was not yet showing in the UK, and she must have based her recollections on the preview. She had responded, with a shrug, that she’d stayed home painting her toe nails, listening to Adele on her iPod, and had from then on refused to budge from her story.
Rex was intrigued by her reaction to being outed, as relayed by the solicitor. After all, a shrug denoted something less urgent to hide than a hit-and-run. He was determined to find out more than the police had unearthed. His sympathetic approach and Lowland Scots burr invariably produced a tongue-loosening effect on people, particularly women, and in his usual garb of tweed jacket and corduroys, he cut a far less imposing figure than in the black gown and stiff wig he wore for court.
Regarding who had given Elise Howes the chrysanthemums, the solicitor was uncertain. Elise, working late at her office that Friday night, was presumed to be meeting her fiancé at Presto’s on Market Street , but had, apparently, been stood up. This accounted for her walking home alone late at night. The fiancé, Gino Giannelli, had denied they’d had a date, even though they frequently met at the bistro for dinner and she often stayed at his flat on weekends. The Italian was Suspect Number Two on Sir Howes’ list. He might have been Number One had his daughter already been married to him, citing Elise’s family fortune as motive.
The Howes’ eldest daughter stood next to her parents receiving the guests. Mr. Whitmore had confided that Jennifer’s life goal while awaiting her great aunts’ demise—presumably the two desiccated old ladies sitting nearby dressed head to toe in black brocade—was to snag a rich husband and, to this end, she frequented high society sporting events, including Ascot, Wimbledon, and Polo in the Park. A horsey girl, her scarlet mouth showed pinched and stark in a face almost as ghostly pale as her dead sister’s. The Howes gene pool had conspired to bestow the worst features of each parent on her person. Unlike her ethereally pretty sibling, Jennifer had inherited her father’s prominent nose and long chin, and her mother’s toneless blond hair, weighed down in both cases by black cloche hats in crushed velvet.
Rex did not fail to notice that in unguarded moments she eyed, with primal hunger, a designer -stubbled man with mussed up black hair held in place with slick gel, who could be none other than Elise’s grieving lover. And Sir Howes’ second prime suspect.
“Look into him as well as the girl,” the minister had instructed Rex in his gleaming wood library that day.
The machismo Gino Giannelli hung back in a palm-potted corner of the funeral parlour, in conversation with one of Sir Howes’ aged aunts, his dark eyes bright with tears as he performed operatic gestures of despair. During his brief visit to Sir Howes’ home, Rex had gathered that the Minister of Transport did not
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