The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read Free Page A

I’m getting hung up on details. I must get to the point soon. How old is she? he asks himself, studying the girl. Could she be eighteen? She’s older than Julie, who’s sixteen. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know her and we won’t ever see each other again. They’ve got so many customers here, and she’ll hardly remember any of them because she’s young and lives like all young girls, in a dream for much of the day, a dream of all the wonderful things in store for her.
     
    She pulls up her sleeves and comes out to stand among the flowers.
    Her sweater is tight-fitting and deep red; she’s like a flower, a slender tulip, fresh, taut, and vivid. Oh yes, it’s a special occasion all right. Good God, if only she knew! But he doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to reveal more of himself than necessary. Buying flowers is a normal daily activity and can hardly be linked to the other thing he’ll be doing later on. What is it he’s about to do? Where will it end? He doesn’t know. He’s heading for the edge of the precipice to find a solution. A transition to something else. He looks around the place. The business has a good reputation. A large number of customers come in every day; he imagines a steady stream of people in and out. An infinite number of faces, an infinite number of orders, bouquets of many colors. He’ll hardly stand out in his green parka. He’s careful to lower his eyes, drawing the girl’s attention away from himself. What blooms there are in the large buckets! He can barely believe they emerge from the damp, black earth. To earth shall you return, he thinks, and out of the earth come the flowers. Dandelions or nettles. It’s precisely the way it should be: death isn’t as bad as its reputation, on that point he’s quite decided. The girl waits patiently. She’s a floral designer and has professional pride. She’s an artist with flowers. She can’t just throw something together, any old mixture. It’s all about creating a composition, about shape and color and scent. She never makes two bouquets the same. She’s got her own signature, but she needs something to get her started. A little inspiration, an idea. It’s not forthcoming. Charlo is taciturn and uncooperative.
    “For a lady?” she probes. She notes his unwillingness and can’t comprehend it. It makes her feel uncomfortable. He seems disinterested, as if he’s running an errand for someone. He seems awkward and nervy. He appears to be pouring sweat. His body sways gently and his jaw is clenched. Perhaps he’s going to visit someone who’s ill, she thinks. You never can tell.
    Charlo nods without meeting her eyes. But then he begins to realize that if he’s helpful and pliant, he’ll be able to leave the shop sooner. He must clear his head now, he mustn’t become preoccupied; he’s got to see the plan through. My nerves, he thinks, are as taut as wires. He knew it would be this way. Once more he focuses on his objective.
    “Yes,” he says, “for a lady.” Again his voice has too much of a bark about it, and on a sudden whim, which he feels is wise, he adds: “It’s her birthday.”
    Relieved, the florist’s assistant begins working. Everything falls into place and the slight frame gathers itself. The shoulders relax, the delicate fingers pick up a pair of tongs, and she bends over the buckets and picks out the flowers, one by one. Her fingers hold the stalks so gently. She seems to have a plan; there’s no more hesitating, no uncertainty. Her eyes survey the buckets. It’s a professional gaze, self-assured now. White lilies, blue anemones, sweet peas, and roses. Slowly a plump, pastel spray takes shape in her hands. She begins in the center of the bunch with a lily, around which the other flowers cluster, nodding and dipping. But they are still held firm, each flower protecting and supporting the other. It’s an art. He watches this, becoming deeply fascinated and falling in love with what’s being created.