Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

There was a large glass window that opened into the store, so that I could see the customers, and above that, the images from several security cameras that I bought last year.

Ruth-Anne Grant wandered through my orchids, touching the fragile blooms despite the signs that warned her not to, and looking at the other plants that covered every available space in the store. Outside, a young couple holding hands examined one of the apartment-sized palm trees that stood just under the awning.

If this were a normal afternoon, I would have gone out and asked them if they were interested in a plant to liven up their home. But it wasn’t a normal afternoon. Ruth-Anne Grant’s revelation had made certain of that.

Twenty years ago I gave up my law practice to open a flower shop. I had discovered that I wasn’t tough enough for the law, but I loved plants. I thought of flowers as a way of delivering joy or comfort. I spent extra time on bouquets for lovers, and when I designed funeral arrangements, I tried to give them a special touch, so that the bereaved would see the sympathy I had for them.

I never thought my gift would be used to terrorize someone.

My fingers were shaking as I sat behind the desk. My computer slept, the dark screen running the shop’s logo against a backdrop of lilies.

I used the mouse to wake up the machine, then I went into the day’s order files. I searched by recipient. My software was so well designed (thanks to a former lover) that I found Ruth-Anne’s order quickly, even though I’d had a very busy morning.

The information rose in front of me like a rap sheet. The flowers were ordered by a Dwight Rhodes, and he paid with a platinum American Express card. He lived in SoHo. I recognized the address as one of the newer co-ops that had sprung up in recent years.

There was nothing in his information that would have made me suspicious. I didn’t even wonder why he came to my shop, which was nowhere near his home. A lot of people walked past here on their way to work; I would simply have figured if I had even thought about it at all that he was one of them.

As a double measure, I checked Ruth-Anne Grant’s address. She lived in the Village, one of those twisty neighborhoods with funky apartments and a lot of local color. I wondered how Rhodes had first seen her — whether they worked near each other, or had stumbled into each other at some restaurant.

I checked the in-store window. Ruth-Anne was waiting by the counter now, leaning away from the roses as if they might poison her.

I scrawled his name down, then shut down the program before heading out front.

“Here,” I said, handing her the paper, not wanting to speak his name aloud. “This is the man who ordered your flowers.”

She stared at the paper for a long time. She had stopped shaking. In fact, she seemed calmer now than she had when she had entered the shop.

Outside, the couple shook their heads and walked on. A woman wearing black fondled the wisteria I had wrapped around a clay statue. A man leaned against a lamp post, drinking bottled water, and watched her examine the plant.

“Could you tell me anything else?” Ruth-Anne had looked up from the paper. The blotchiness had left her skin. Now it was just pale. I could see exhaustion in her features, exhaustion so deep I wondered how she could function from day to day.

“I just don’t feel right giving you anything else,” I said. “I’m not even sure I should have given you his name.”

“Just tell me this,” she said. “Does he live in Manhattan?”

I nodded.

“Near me?”

I figured I could give her that much. I shook my head no.

“Is he Uptown or—”

“I can’t,” I said. “Really. I’ll talk to the police. I’ll give them everything they need. Just send them in here, and they’ll take care of it.”

Her mouth closed, her lips tight over her teeth, almost as if she were physically holding the words back. She took a deep breath, obviously gathering herself, and then she extended her hand.

“You’ve been a lot of help. I’m sorry I was so upset when I came in.”

I took her hand. She was so thin that I could feel the bones beneath her skin. “Anyone would be under the circumstances.”

She nodded, then slipped her hand out of mine. She headed toward the front of the store.

I scurried around the counter and said, “Wait.”

She turned.

I grabbed a small pot of pansy starts. “Here,” I said. “Take this.”

Ruth-Anne frowned. “What for?”

“I just — don’t want you think of flowers as bad things. These’ll grow in your kitchen window or on your balcony. If you let them, they’ll take care of you all summer.”

She studied them for a moment, just like she had studied the paper. Then she took them from me.

“Thank you,” she said, and she smiled. The smile gave her a bit of life, made me see what she had been like before this entire ordeal started. “I had forgotten how kind people can be.”

And then she left.