“Funny you should ask. That’s exactly what I remember, that question in my mind. The voice, the movements, they didn’t seem quite like a man’s or a woman’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“More like … a little … pixie. That’s it—a pixie. That’s the closest I can come to it.”

The echo of Bolo’s use of the word petite struck Gurney. “You directed this person to a particular condo, correct?”

“Yes, to Marjorie Stottlemeyer’s.”

“Do you know if the flowers were actually delivered to her?”

“Yes. Because she called me later about it. There was some problem about them, but I can’t remember now what it was.”

“Does she still live here?”

“Oh, yes. People come here to stay. The only turnover is when a resident passes away.”

Gurney wondered how many of those who passed away ended up in Willow Rest. But he had more urgent questions to resolve. “How well do you know this Stottlemeyer woman?”

“What do you want to know about her?”

“How good is her memory? And would she be willing to answer a few questions?”

Carol Blissy appeared intrigued. “Marjorie is ninety-three years old, clear as a bell, and very gossipy.”

“Perfect,” said Gurney, turning toward her. Her perfume was subtle, with the slightest hint of roses. “It would be a big help if you could call her, tell her that a detective has been asking questions about the person who delivered those flowers to her last November, and he’d appreciate a few minutes of her time.”

“I can do that.” She stood, her hand just grazing his back as she passed him on her way out to the front office.

Three minutes later she returned with the phone. “Marjorie says she’s just about to take a bath, and then she’s going to take her nap, and after that she’ll be getting ready for dinner, but she can speak to you on the phone right now.”

Gurney gave Carol a thumbs-up and took the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Stottlemeyer?”

“Call me Marjorie.” Her voice was high and sharp. “Carol tells me you’re after that peculiar little creature who brought me the mystery bouquet. What for?”

“It could be nothing, or it could be something quite serious. When you say he brought you a ‘mystery bouquet,’ what did—”

“Murder? Is that it?”

“Marjorie, I hope you understand, at this point I have to be careful about what I say.”

“Then it is murder. Oh, my Lord! I knew there was something wrong from the beginning.”

“From the beginning?”

“Those mums. I didn’t order anything. There was no gift card. And anyone who ever knew me well enough to send me flowers is already senile or dead.”

“Was there just one bouquet?”

“What do you mean, just one?”

“Just one bunch of flowers, not two?”