Love Among The Suspects

“Apparently not.”

His voice was low and roughened at the edges, as if he had spent the day giving orders no one wanted to hear.

Rose glanced toward the house. Warm light glowed behind tall windows. Somewhere inside, people were drinking wine and pretending the weather had not cut them off from the world.

“I’m expected at the glasshouse,” she said.

“So am I.”

That should not have sounded intimate. It did.

He stepped into the rain and took the smaller case from her hand without asking. His fingers brushed hers - cold knuckles, warm palm - and withdrew before she could decide whether to object.

“East lawn,” he said. “Stay close to the house.”

“I’m a florist, not a trespasser.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No. You looked it.”

For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not amusement exactly, but an unwilling acknowledgment that she had landed a blow.

“Rose Bell,” he said. “Elias Ward.”

“Detective?”

His eyes sharpened.

She had seen his kind before: men who carried silence like a weapon and believed every room improved when they entered it. “Mr. Vale mentioned a detective would be present,” she added. “For security.”

“Did he mention why?”

“Gideon Vale doesn’t explain himself to people he hires to make his flowers look expensive.”

“Then we have something in common.”

He turned toward the flooded lawn. Rose followed, clutching her coat closed as the wind drove rain against them. The path had vanished beneath brown water. Elias tested the nearest stepping stone with his boot, then looked back.

“Give me your hand.”

“I can walk.”

“I didn’t doubt it.”

“Your tone did.”

He held out his hand anyway. The gesture was practical, steady. Rose placed her fingers in his, telling herself the warmth that traveled up her arm came from the contrast with the rain.

They crossed by the low stone wall, Elias moving first, his grip tightening whenever her boot slipped. He did not pull her against him. He did not release her either.

At the far side, the glasshouse rose from the dark like a lantern. Its panes glowed gold through the storm, and beyond them the orchids stood in ordered ranks, their pale petals floating above glossy leaves.

Rose’s breath caught.

“There,” she said.

Elias looked at her rather than the glasshouse. “You’re worried about the flowers.”

“I’m worried about losing six months of work because someone thought a rare display could wait out a storm.”

“Gideon Vale would be pleased to hear that.”

“Gideon Vale is paying me to care.”

“And if he weren’t?”

She pulled her hand free. “Then I’d still care.”

The glasshouse door stood at the end of a narrow gravel path. Water streamed beneath it. Rose ran ahead, her boots sinking into the mud, and reached for the iron latch.

It would not move.

She tried again, harder. The latch gave a fraction, then jammed with a metallic snap.

“Stand back,” Elias said.

“I know how to open a door.”

“Clearly.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. He braced one hand against the frame and struck the latch with the heel of his other palm. The glass rattled. On the third blow, the mechanism shifted.

The door opened six inches.

A gust of warm, wet air breathed over them, carrying the rich scent of soil, moss, and orchids. Rose slipped through sideways. Elias caught the door before the wind could wrench it from its hinges.

Inside, the storm became a dull roar overhead. Rain raced down the glass walls. Condensation filmed the panes, turning the estate beyond into a wavering blur.

Rose set down her case and hurried toward the central display. A bank of lamps flickered above the orchids. Several trays had tipped, their delicate stems bent beneath splattered water.

“Oh, no.” She knelt beside them, gathering the fallen supports. “These need air. They can’t sit in water.”

Elias remained by the door. “How long?”

“To repair the display?”

“To make it presentable.”

“Twenty minutes if the power holds.”

His gaze traveled over the room. “You’re sure you want to work?”

“I came here to work.”

“You came here during a storm, crossed a flooded lawn, and forced your way into a locked glasshouse. You can forgive me for wondering whether the flowers are the only reason.”

Rose looked up. Rainwater slid from a strand of hair onto her cheek. “You were the one who said you were expected here.”

“I was.”

“Then perhaps you should tell me what for.”

Before he could answer, something struck the glasshouse roof with a violent crack. Rose flinched. A pot toppled from a nearby shelf and shattered.

Elias moved instantly. He crossed the space and caught her by the shoulders, placing himself between her and the falling fragments. His body was close enough that she felt the heat of him through her damp clothes.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

His hands stayed where they were.

Rose became aware of the rainwater at his collar, the faint scent of cedar and smoke, the controlled rise of his chest. His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to hers.

The moment stretched.

Then he released her.

A second crash sounded from the rear of the glasshouse.

Rose turned. “That wasn’t a pot.”

“No.”

They moved together down the central aisle. Orchids brushed Rose’s sleeves, trembling from the disturbance. At the back, a service door stood open to the storm. Beyond it, the narrow walkway disappeared into darkness.

“Gideon?” Rose called.

No answer.

Elias drew a compact torch from his coat. “Stay behind me.”

“I’m not hiding behind you.”

“Then stay beside me.”

It was not an invitation. It sounded dangerously close to one.

They passed through the service door. The air turned colder. Rain swept across the tiled floor, carrying leaves and broken twigs inside. A shape lay beside the potting bench.

Rose saw the hand first.

It was pale against the dark tile, fingers curled as though still holding something. Then she saw the body, one shoulder twisted beneath a black dinner jacket, silver hair wet against the floor.

Her mind rejected the face until Elias crouched and turned the torch toward it.

Gideon Vale stared at the ceiling with eyes that would never close.

Rose’s knees weakened. Elias caught her elbow.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said.

“I didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

“I know him.”

“Everyone here knows him.”

“No.” Her voice broke. “I know him. That’s Gideon Vale.”

Elias looked at her, guarded again. “You’re certain?”

“I arranged flowers for him last spring. He complained that the peonies were too pink. He sent them back, then called the next morning to apologize.” She swallowed. “He always wore a signet ring on his right hand.”

The ring was gone.

Elias noticed it too. His gaze dropped to her hands, to the mud on her boots, then to the open door.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You were alone with him?”

“I wasn’t with him.”

“You entered this building with me.”

“After he was already dead, apparently.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Rose pulled her arm from his grasp. “You’re asking as if I did this.”

“I’m asking because you’re the only person I found inside.”

“And you’re the only person who has decided that makes me guilty.”

“I haven’t decided anything.”

“Your face has.”

A muscle moved in his jaw. “You have blood on your cuff.”

Rose looked down. A thin red smear marked the white edge of her sleeve.

The room tilted.

She must have brushed against Gideon when Elias caught her. Or before. She could not remember. She could remember only the dead hand, the missing ring, the shock of seeing a man who had been alive when she accepted his commission.

Elias saw the realization settle over her.

“Take off your coat,” he said.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not going to touch you. I need to see whether there’s blood underneath.”

“You can ask.”

“I am asking.”

The storm hammered the roof. Somewhere near the front, the door slammed shut. Rose flinched toward the sound.

Elias noticed. “The latch.”

“It jammed when I arrived.”

“And your fingerprints are on it.”

“Of course they are. I tried to open it.”

“From the outside?”

“Yes.”

“Then why was the door locked from inside?”

Rose stared at him.

For the first time, his composure showed a crack - not fear, but uncertainty. He looked toward the dead man, then the service door, as if the room had rearranged itself while they stood in it.

A burst of static sounded from his radio. He lifted it, spoke in clipped phrases, and listened. The response came thinly through the interference: the main road was flooded, the bridge impassable, and no one could reach the estate until morning.

Rose folded her arms over herself. “So we’re trapped.”

“Yes.”

“With a murderer.”

His eyes met hers. “With several possible suspects.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

She had spent years building a life that depended on being trusted around fragile things. Flowers, weddings, grieving families, wealthy clients who handed her keys and expected her not to look too closely at what lay behind their doors. Trust was the invisible part of her work. Without it, she was only a woman carrying shears into other people’s houses.

“I didn’t kill him,” she said.

Elias’s expression remained unreadable. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m telling you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No.” She looked at Gideon’s bare finger, at the open service door, at the smear of blood on her cuff. “It isn’t.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then give me something that is.”

Rose wanted to hate him for asking. Instead, she noticed the rainwater still caught in his lashes, the way he kept his body angled between her and the corpse without making a show of protecting her.

“I’m afraid of being trapped with people who have already decided what I am,” she said. “That I’m useful until something goes wrong, and then I become the easiest person to blame.”

His face changed - not softened, exactly. The wall shifted, revealing a narrow door behind it.

“Who decided that before?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“To me, it might.”

The answer unsettled her more than suspicion had.

Before she could respond, footsteps sounded beyond the glasshouse. Voices called through the rain.

Elias moved to the door and raised one hand, stopping her with a glance. Then he looked down at the latch.

“Rose.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

She approached reluctantly. He angled his torch toward the iron mechanism. A dark smear marked the metal, half washed away by rain. Beneath it, caught in the hinge, was a torn thread of deep green wool.

Rose recognized the color.

Gideon had worn black.

Elias looked at her. “Did you see anyone near the glasshouse?”

“No.”

“Think.”

“I was trying to save the orchids.”

“And now?”

Rose looked through the rain-streaked panes toward the estate, where warm windows held a gathering of people who could not leave and one of whom had killed Gideon Vale.

“Now I want to know who did this.”

“That makes two of us.”

“No,” she said, meeting his guarded stare. “You want to prove I didn’t.”

His mouth tightened. “At the moment, those are the same thing.”

He took her wrist - not roughly, but firmly enough to stop her from stepping away - and turned her hand beneath the torchlight. His thumb rested over her pulse.

“Your fingerprints are on the latch,” he said. “And you were found beside the body.”

Rose held his gaze, though the warmth of his touch made concentration difficult.

“Then you’d better find out what else they’re on.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth again, just for a second. When he looked back, suspicion had returned, sharpened by something neither of them named.

“The inquiry starts now,” Elias said. “And until I know who opened this door, you don’t leave my sight.”

Outside, the trapped guests called his name.

Inside, Gideon Vale lay among the orchids, and Rose realized she had come to the glasshouse to save a display.

Instead, she had become part of the evidence.

End of chapter one. 40 more chapters in the full book.