The Pollen Principle a lily murder

By Crow Johnson Evans and Arthur F. Evans

It's the first day of an International Lily Conference and a participant has been murdered. The local Chief of Police has convinced Kristina-a very attractive former escort service owner-to turn sleuth and help him solve the murder in the four days that remain before the conference ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CrowSpun
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985313345

Book preview

Chapter 1

If this is a joke, I will wring your neck.

Kristina subdued the reflex to flash a world class, come-hither, you’re-the-best smile at the stranger before her. That smile and a predatory business sense had made her what she was today—rich and still able to turn heads—the former owner of Barenhoff Escort Service, Inc. With casual intensity, a man cast flirtatious looks at her—a woman of more than fifty years. The golden blush of lily pollen that topped his nose and cheek were downright charming, but she had to stay focused. For this was the 57th Annual Conference of the I.A.L.E. (International Association of Lily Enthusiasts) and Kristina had serious business on her mind. She was here undercover to investigate a murder.

With Orientals and Trumpet Lilies popping open, radiating perfumes to dazzle the gods, it might have been weeks before Jesus Calamari had been discovered sprawled, face up and breathless with a nasty cut to his right temple and very dead. That’s how Sherry Kaufman found him in the walk-in cooler Thursday morning June 29th at 7:30 am. In three days the 257 conference attendees, from 21 different states and countries around the globe, would climb into cars or airplanes and return to their own gardens. There wasn’t much time.

It was Officer R. J. Reynolds who answered the car radio, Older gentleman, deceased at the Viceroy hotel. Looks like a stroke.

In less than 15 minutes, Reynolds was at the body taking routine details.

Name: Jesus Calamari, Caucasian, 57 years old, resident of Oregon, non-organ donor. Since found in the cooler, difficult to estimate time of death. Must have hit his head on the way down. Not much blood. No evidence of a struggle—beyond that of someone reaching for a few more days or hours of life. Probably a stroke. Reynolds called in for a next-of-kin request.

His driver’s license lists 3737 Mulberry Lane in Mt. Astor, Oregon. Yeah, you can call the coroner to come get the body?

The Viceroy Hotel was built in the late 1950’s, complete with a few glass bricks and flamingo pink curved walls. It was quite the place. With an ocean view from the third floor, a c shaped building with a suspended breezeway between, cooler and exhibit hall on seaside and entryway on other, it was a favorite for small conferences. Half of the people who stayed there would have been in their heyday when the hotel was new. Pink and black still matched for this crowd. Off the main track and less expensive than the newer upscale hotels, the Viceroy found its niche and made up for its physical quirks with the magic s word, service.

As a coastal town, Lanceport, Washington was pretty and nice. The Chamber of Commerce printed facts and figures on the back of the city maps distributed at the small airport and 17 gas stations and quickie marts.

Population 8,033.

One combined junior high and high school

Two elementary schools

Twelve churches

One inter-denominational faith chapel and a Buddhist

something-or-other that didn’t make the list

Main industry: tourism, light manufacturing, and a few

growers for the cut flower industry

Climate: great for growing lilies.

Points of interest: one city park and the bigger-than-life

statue of Lance K. Jones, the city founder.

He had named the town Lands Port, expecting world trade to flock to the harbor. It’s just as well that the name was misspelled in city charter as Lanceport. Mr. Jones’ dreams aside, this stretch of coast was always too shallow and rough to ever be a world port. The other points of interests were the shopping mall, known for being big and new. And Johnny’s Pleasure Pier.

***

After Officer Reynolds left the hotel, in true the-show-must-go-on fashion, Jesus’ body was covered with a maroon table display drape while stems of lilies were hauled out of the cooler and placed in water-filled tubes for the exhibit table. The staging area was moved to the other side of the room. People lowered their voices and stepped lightly. Jesus was a lily fanatic; he would have understood.

Each table in the adjoining exhibit hall was dotted with white 4x6 cards indicating the proper locations of the divisions. The usual person, not having been indoctrinated into Lily obsession, doesn’t have a clue about those cards and what they indicate. If they only knew. Lilies are immensely diverse, and these exhibit tables would prove it. From tiny Turk’s caps hanging like fifty bells on a candelabra to huge fragrant trumpets thirteen inches across at the bell, the less fragrant and equally flamboyant purples, black-reds, yellows, oranges, whites and some with candied edges, ruffles, spreckles, brush marks, and tri colors. Common knowledge is often limited to Easter Lilies, Star Gazer and a few art nouveau drawings by Aubrey Beardsley.

The clear plastic tubes were filled, stems were angled just so with a Styrofoam peanut bracing them in the tubes and a folded green form hiding the name of the person entering the stem. Each was carried carefully to the exhibit table.¹

***

Simon Leventhal rode shotgun in the hearse, slowly down Main Street, past the farmers’ market and Johnny’s Pleasure Pier. The call had come in about an hour earlier, but he was in no hurry. No flashing lights or sirens. Some man named Jesus, a visitor to Lanceport, had keeled over at a garden show at the Viceroy Hotel.

Simon discovered himself rolling a loose thread from his left cuff between the fingers of his right hand, thinking how odd it was that he ended up in this little town going to pick up the body of Jesus. A community fixture, the coroner—the only Jew for a hundred and fifty miles, retired from doctoring and teaching. The dark brown hearse with Peace Mortuary on the side in gold letters rounded Baker Street and took the one-way to the alley. Ms. Judy Lowby at the front desk told him when he phoned in after officer Reynold’s call, that the service entrance on the shore-side had the closest access. Something about a cooler. The guy was in his fifties. A stroke, bad luck.

There were two young men smoking cigarettes at the back entrance. Slouched backs against the tan cinderblock wall. White aprons, long hair, tattoos—the fashion statement of the day here in the northwest. They appeared unaware that anything had happened, or they didn’t care. Simon had the hearse backed to the door. He snapped the thread from his coat sleeve, spun it to a gnat-sized ball, took a deep breath, and opened the car door, paperwork in hand.

Coroner’s office. Can you direct me to the cooler?

The taller of the two—wearing a multicolored crocheted rainbow tam—led him through the double doors into a room temporarily isolated from the rest of the exhibit hall by curtains. Simon felt transported by his first breath. So that’s what lilies smell like. Good God. Every pore opened to welcome the aromas.

The cooler was located in the southwest corner of the building. As soon as the kid wearing the tam left, Simon stepped into the walk-in said a few words under his breath to the body. Out of ritual or just superstition, the habit seemed appropriate. Years of saving lives and now saluting them as they end. Symmetry. Glancing around, Simon decided that the death site was far superior to most funeral homes. Hundreds, literally hundreds of flowers grown to perfection filled the room floor to ceiling. Jesus and Simon had been the same age. He spent a few more minutes looking around, checked the body, and wrote apparent natural causes, and headed out to get the hotel to sign while the body was loaded out.

Anyone see the death of Mr. Calamari?

No.

How was he discovered?

Mrs. Sherry Kaufman went in this morning to do something with the flowers and found him.

Do you have any information about his next of kin?

Not really, Mr. Simon.

"Sign here.