SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery by C.S. Challinor

 
     
    SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS
     

    *

    Rex Graves stood by in a dark grey suit, watching the proceedings. The mourners would in all likelihood take the bulky, bearded redhead to be an usher or an assistant to the funeral home’s director, which suited his purpose for now.
    First in line went the parents, shrunk in grief, Sir William Howes extending a comforting arm around his wife’s fragile shoulders. The viewing casket, nestled among the floral arrangements and formal wreaths, enveloped the body of Elise Howes, struck down in the bloom of youth as she carried home a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums, subsequently found strewn across New Bond Street. Muted sobs punctuated the chilled silence as the small gathering passed in single file before the coffin lined with cream satin. The women in black veils, the men somberly attired, contrasted with the white lilies, gerberas and roses.
    The deceased’s father, adamant Elise’s death had been no accident and entertaining a suspicion of murder, had given his solicitor carte blanche to retain the services of a private investigator. In view of Rex’s success in solving murder mysteries, Mr. Whitmore had prevailed upon the Scottish barrister to solve this most distressing of cases. The hit-and-run driver had not been found. CCTV cameras had failed to record the incident, and no eye witnesses had come forward, except for a man exiting a nightclub in a neighbouring street. He had heard a car rev up—a sports car, judging by the throaty pitch of the engine—followed by a thud, a whining protest of acceleration and, finally, a squeal of tires as the vehicle careened around the corner, with only the taillights visible as the reveler reached the scene. The young woman had been dragged a few feet beneath the vehicle and abandoned on the road.
    According to the eye witness, the victim’s last gasping words before losing consciousness had been “Chris” and “Jean,” or maybe “Jen.” She had died in the ambulance. A passer-by had noticed a grey van among the cars parked on the street where the accident occurred. And now Sir William Howes, a cabinet minister described in political circles as ruthless and intractable, was most anxious to bring the culprit to justice, whomever it was.
    Rex had agreed to adjust his schedule in Edinburgh and taken the train from Waverley Station to London. He had met briefly with Sir Howes at his Belgravia home before reaching the funeral parlour in time to take his first glimpse of the deceased’s nearest and dearest, previously described to him in detail by the meticulous Mr. Whitmore.
    *
    Passing presently under Rex’s review as she paid her respects was Elise’s business partner, a luscious brunette, most becoming in her mourning suit. Eyes obscured by a gauzy veil covering half her face, full lips trembling with emotion, she placed a rosebud in the casket. Shannon Smythe was not quite the femme fatale Whitmore had suggested, perhaps. Still, who could resist such a woman? An old fogey like himself, for starters, Rex reasoned. But where there was a beautiful woman there was usually drama.
    And drama in its ultimate manifestation—murder—was his hobby, as well as forming a large part of his prosecutorial work at the High Court of Justiciary in Scotland’s capital.
    Upon first hearing the shortlist of suspects, he thought the cabinet minister might be jumping to conclusions, his mind unhinged by sorrow at the untimely death of his daughter. The family solicitor had gone on to explain that the Howes girl was wealthy in her own right. Her business venture, Head Start!, had taken off since Will and Kate’s Royal Wedding, when the creative array of hats and “fascinators,” such as those worn by the daughters of the Duchess of York, had caught the public’s attention. The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee had only served to reinforce the craze, as would, no doubt, the christening of the new prince.
    Elise and her founding partner, Shannon Smythe, a