It’s amazing. Every Thursday around three o’clock flowers are delivered to my house. Today is Friday, and yesterday the florist delivered a gorgeous bunch of red carnations. They were bright, bright red. I don’t know much about the meaning of flowers but secretly I was hoping that red carnations might stand for love.
It is so exciting to think that I have a secret admirer; in fact, more than that; someone who is infatuated by me. It could well be that. This business of flowers being delivered around three every Thursday has been going on for several months. It would cost a pretty penny.
I’ve wracked my brain as to the identity of this secret admirer. I even put a search online for “the meaning of flowers” as perhaps there is a clue in the variety of flowers that arrive. But most weeks I don’t even know the names of the flowers that are delivered. I know carnations and roses but that’s about itl. I can’t even spell some of the flower names you hear.
I was thrilled yesterday when the bunch of red carnations was delivered. I’ve never had red carnations before so I’m thinking that my secret lover might be getting more serious.
Excuse me. I’ve got to dash. Today is Friday – as I said. The florist is not open on weekends. I have to order next week’s flowers before the florist shuts. Perhaps next week I’ll get sunflowers! They are such a happy flower, and I don’t much like spending Christmas alone.
The thing was Trevor was sick of doing murders. He’d been paid to do murders for almost ten years. The fun had gone out of it.
Being a respectable owner of a florist shop had been a great cover-up. He was forever arranging flowers for special occasions. There had been many a time when he was paid to provide flowers for the funeral service of someone he’d murdered. That was always amusing! Every wreath for a victim had a red flower in it, no matter how tiny the red flower. Sometimes red would clash with the colours of the bouquet, so it had to be insignificant. Sometimes the whole wreath was a bold red. He had photographed every bunch and kept them orderly in a scrap book. Of course no one knew they were in fact a list of who was who; a list of his murder victims.
But now he was sick of it. He wanted to retire from the florist shop, and that meant murdering as a livelihood should come to an end as well.
So that’s what he did. It’s been five years. He spends his days in his little cottage by the sea, although he did take a trip overseas once but it wasn’t much to his liking. He’s taken up knitting as a hobby, mainly fluffy little woollen toys for toddlers. They’re quite cute.
Occasionally, just for the sake of old times, he poisons an ear of one of the little knitted critters.