SEVENTEEN
Max scampered down L dock a few feet in front of O’Brien. He carried the file folder in one hand. He paused to watch a forty-three-foot Viking inch into its slip, diesels gurgling in the marina water, two laughing gulls flying above the boat. A man in wrap-around mirrored sunglasses stood at the wheel adjusting the bow thrusters. Another man in swim shorts and a Miami Dolphins tank top stepped to the rear of the transom, tossing a line to a waiting boat owner standing on the dock. Max barked once, welcoming the fishermen’s return, and then trotting toward the end of the pier, head held high.
Kim was already there, sitting at a round table on the cockpit with Dave and Nick. O’Brien could see the rose in the center of the table, paper plates, cheese and a bottle of wine. Dave looked up and said, “Sean and Miss Max, welcome aboard. Kim brought the floral arrangement. Nick delivered a half-bushel of stone crab claws on ice. And I’m breaking out a couple of bottles of chardonnay I’ve been chilling.”
Nick grinned. “I brought a gallon of Kalama olives, a pound of feta cheese, and some pita bread. C’mon, hot dog, join Uncle Nicky in the galley.”
Max scurried up and down the steps leading to the cockpit, following Nick into the salon and down to the galley. O’Brien took a seat at the table, set the folder down, looked at the rose and said, “I’ve seen a rose like that.”
Dave nodded. “They’re in southern states, mostly.”
Kim said, “I’m wondering if I’ve seen them on graves.”
Dave leaned forward, moving his glass of wine. “Kim, you have every reason to be bitter about this unscheduled and somewhat dark delivery. However, after I did some research, I discovered a curious history connected to this species of rose. And, of course, it has a direct bearing on why the sender chose it.”
Kim folded her arms, a breeze across the water tossing her hair. She attempted a meager smile. “History? I’d like to see into the future — a future without this guy bringing me flowers and weird notes.”
Nick returned with a large platter filled with cracked stone crab claws on a bed of chipped ice. He set the food on the table. “Eat! Me and my gal pal, Max, already started.” Max sat down near Nick’s bare feet.
Dave reached for an olive and said, “First, it’s not really a rose, although it’s been labeled as such for years. This is a southern flower that’s more of a hibiscus than a rose. Nonetheless, it’s steeped in Old South tradition. It’s called a Confederate rose and carries quite a legend with it. When it first blooms, the petals are as white as cotton. But as it goes through the blooming cycle, the petals begin to turn pink and then finally red before the bloom withers and dies.”
O’Brien slid the vase and rose a little closer to him. He studied it for a few seconds. “What’s the history or the legend?”
“The flower is said to embody the dying spirit of a young Confederate soldier. As the story goes, the soldier, wounded from battle, was said to have fallen upon the flower trying to return home. He bled over the course of two days, some of his blood covering the petals. And then he died. These roses, if you will, sort of follow the birth and death process with the color changes. And after that, the term Confederate rose was used extensively from the end of the Civil War through today. Many of the Civil War veterans returning to the state of Alabama were greeted with these roses.”
Nick dipped the meat of a stone crab claw into a spicy mustard sauce. He said, “Sean, slide that vase back to the center of the table. I don’t want to stop and smell the rose, at least not that one.”
O’Brien held the vase, examining the rose, then set in back in the center of the table. He said, “Where’s the card or note the guy left?”
Kim reached for her purse, opened it, and removed the single white note card. “I read this to Dave and Nicky earlier.” She handed it to O’Brien.
He read it aloud, “‘Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose is different. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman.’” O’Brien glanced at the rose.
Dave said, “The opening is an obvious reference to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. In that line, Juliet was suggesting that the names and titles of things don’t matter. It’s what those things really are or are not that matters. So whoever wrote the message to Kim was, perhaps, trying to reinforce Juliet’s words for possibly two reasons: the first is that the Confederate rose doesn’t have a palpable scent, so it really is different from other roses, by any other name. Conceivably, in his mind, as Kim is different from other women. Maybe the sender was simply using an analogy of the changes in the rose to symbolize the birth and death of the Confederacy. In the beginning, the petals are pure and white, slowly changing with time and the elements, the rose gets darker in color, finally dying on the bush.”
Nick grunted and used a napkin to wipe a speck of feta cheese from his moustache. He said, “Dave, you can try to profile stupid all day long, but crazy is crazy. This guy is nuts, and he has a sick thing for Kim. Maybe I use him in my crab traps.” Nick took a bite of crab.
O’Brien said, “Kim, on the phone, you’d mentioned that you didn’t know who did this, but you had an idea. Who do you suspect?”
Kim folded her arms, glancing at a commercial fishing boat leaving the marina before shifting her eyes to O’Brien. “Remember when the old man brought you the picture of the woman, and I’d mentioned to you that I spent a day on the set of the movie, Black River?”
O’Brien nodded. “You were auditioning for a small part.”
“The casting directing and her staff were trying to cast hundreds of extras. I was hoping for a small speaking role. While I was on set, one of the extras, a re-enactor, kept staring at me. I was uncomfortable and I moved around the set, trying to avoid him. After I read for the role, I left the room to go to the craft services table for a bottle of water. This guy, dressed in a Civil War uniform, approached me and asked if I’d ever seen the movie, Shenandoah. I said I hadn’t. Then he said I reminded him of Katharine Ross, the lead actress in the film. And then he tipped his hat to me and walked away. Although he gave the suggestion of the southern gentlemen, he also gave me the creeps.”
Dave said, “But he never told you his name.”
“No, and I didn’t ask.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “Did the dude get the part in the movie?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t called back to the set. So I just added the experience to my bucket list, auditioning for a part in a movie, and I left it at that…until the old man came into the Tiki Bar with the picture of the woman, and Sean started looking for a Civil War era painting.”
O’Brien opened the file folder and looked at the photograph. He said, “I mentioned I’d seen a rose or flower like that one.”
“Oh shit,” Nick said, sipping his wine. “Here it comes.”
O’Brien handed the photo to Dave and said, “It’s there in the photo. In the woman’s left hand. She’s holding a single rose, a rose that looks just like the one on the table.”
Dave passed the picture to Kim. She looked at it and held one hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
EIGHTEEN
Franklin Sheldon glanced out the window of his personal Gulfstream G650 jet as the pilot descended over Jacksonville, Florida. The interior of the world’s fastest private jet — jets that can fly nearly Mach speed — the speed of sound, was done in cream and light browns, cherry wood, burled walnut, soft leather chairs and couches, retractable lighting. A shapely, twenty-something blonde flight attendant refilled coffee cups and prepared plates of fresh fruits and exotic cheeses. Sheldon, traveling with his top international lawyer and his Senior VP of Design, was returning to the states after a two-day business trip to Beijing, China.