With both hands, Josie swiped at the sweat that dripped from her temples. “What makes you say that?”
Conlen’s eyes darted around them to the people watching. He lowered his voice. “There are a bunch of flowers scattered everywhere.”
“How many flowers are we talking about?’” asked Turner.
“On the floor? Not sure,” Conlen shrugged. “At least a dozen. The two females are in their beds, sheets pulled over them. Between the two beds, the flowers are just laying all over the place. But that’s not the weirdest part.”
“What’s the weirdest part?” Turner said.
Conlen gave a small shudder despite the fact that perspiration beaded along his hairline and upper lip. “A single flower was placed on each of their chests.”
Somewhere in the back of Josie’s heat-addled mind, a red flag went up. “Were they holding the flowers?”
In other words, had someone arranged their bodies, or just put the flowers on top of them?
“Nah. They were just there,” Conlen said. “Kind of like the way people put flowers on top of caskets at funerals. They were crazy-looking.”
“In what way?” Josie asked.
“They’re such a dark red they almost look black, but the edges are white. If they weren’t so damn creepy, they’d be pretty cool.”
Before she could interrogate him further about the flowers, Turner said, “Do we know anything about the victims?”
Conlen dragged a hand down his damp face. “According to the reservation and a couple of witnesses who had contact with them here, they are Maxine Barnes, thirty-seven years old, and Haven Barnes, seventeen years old. Mother and daughter.”
FOUR
Something tightened painfully in Josie’s gut as they stopped in front of Dougherty. A teenage daughter. Cases involving teenage girls had new meaning to her now that Wren had come into their lives. She felt the stab of sorrow and the wave of horror more acutely now than ever. She glanced at Turner to see if it hit him hard, too, but he was swiveling his head, studying their surroundings like they’d stepped onto a different planet. The only evidence that he was even listening was a deep groove between his brows. Then again, part of their job was to divorce their emotions and their personal lives from the things they witnessed on the job. If they didn’t, they’d never survive. Reveal nothing. Stay professional. As always, she found the box in her mental vault she’d created for workplace horrors that exacerbated her personal anxieties and shoved her current feelings deep inside.
Conlen took up position next to Dougherty and continued, “They booked the tent for the entire festival. Arrived early yesterday. I used the MDT to pull up their driver’s licenses.”
Mobile data terminals were computers in police vehicles that allowed them to use databases to access certain informationabout citizens such as driver’s licenses, outstanding warrants, criminal histories, and vehicle registrations.
“Wait,” Josie said. “I want to know more about the flowers.”
From the very little she’d heard about the scene thus far, something was definitely very, very wrong.
“I told you what I know,” Conlen said.
“They’re roses,” Dougherty added helpfully.
Conlen rolled his eyes. “They’re not roses. The blooms have too much volume and open too wide to be roses. I told you, they’re peonies.”
“What is up with you, man?” Dougherty’s face was red either from the heat or his irritation or both. “You got a side hustle as a florist, or what?”
“No, dumbass, I have a wife.”
Dougherty stared at him blankly.
In a dry tone, Turner said, “Presumably he buys his wife flowers on occasion.”
“Her birthday, our anniversary, and Mother’s Day,” Conlen said proudly.
“And most importantly,” Turner said, “every time he screws up, which I’m guessing is a lot since he knows what goddamn peonies are.”
Conlen grinned. “Roses are always good for an apology. They’re classy. Elegant, am I right?”
Josie watched the exchange, dumbfounded. When the three of them turned to her for confirmation, she said, “How the hell should I know?”
