But then again, maybe not.
Quickly I opened my purse and rummaged through to find a handkerchief. Carefully, between thumb and forefinger, I plucked each petal from the pavilion floor and placed them between the folds of the linen. They stood out in detailed relief against the fabric, and I clearly saw now these were not rose petals. They were too small and altogether the wrong shape. Where rose petals were broad and tapered to points toward the tips, these were much rounder and smaller, more delicate. Pondering, I folded my handkerchief back up and hurried from the pavilion.
“Mr. Delgado! Mr. Delgado!” I picked up my skirts and, in a manner sure to receive censure from Aunt Alva were she to see me, ran along the garden path away from the house and toward the whitewashed toolsheds, designed to resemble quaint if ornate country cottages.
The man I’d hailed stopped with his hand on the latch of one of these sheds. He broke into a smile when he saw me. Eduardo Delgado, head gardener at Marble House, was a sturdy man, broad-chested, with a full head of silver hair, a leathery complexion, and long-fingered hands that reminded me of a musician’s, except for the calluses. “Senhorita Cross, what a pleasure. Aren’t you looking as lovely as a fresh summer day?” Even without the light Portuguese cadence, he spoke like a southern European, full of enthusiasm and a chivalrous flattery that always stopped short of being flirtatious. “Is there something I can do for you?”
I acknowledged his compliment with a modest smile of my own. Then I pulled the handkerchief from my purse. “Mr. Delgado, can you tell me what this flower is, and what part of the estate it grows on? I thought it might be a tea rose at first, but now I’m not so certain.”
I unfolded the fabric and held it up for him. He squinted and pursed his lips. “No, not one of our tea roses. Even faded I can see the color is off. There is something roselike about it . . . but this is nothing I’ve cultivated for Mrs. Vanderbilt. It looks more like a wildflower to me.”
“A wildflower? Are you sure?”
He shrugged. “There is nothing on the estate with these petals.”
I almost questioned him about his certainty, but held my tongue. Aunt Alva wouldn’t employ a head gardener who didn’t know his cultivated flora like the back of his hand.
“Where did you come upon this?” he asked.
I met his gaze. “In the pavilion.”
The word, once synonymous with carefree afternoon entertainments, had taken on sinister connotations for all of us, and I saw it in the creasing of his brow. Before he could reply, however, a whistled tune drifted from the gardens behind me. Jamie Reilly approached us gripping a sack overflowing with cuttings and twigs. “The east beds are all tidy now, sir,” he said to Mr. Delgado. Then, “Good day to you, Miss Cross.” He dropped his sack to the ground at his feet, removed his cap, wiped a sleeve across his perspiring brow, and set his cap back on his head. “Bit of a hot one, this.”
“It’s good you came along, Jamie.” The note of affection in Mr. Delgado’s voice was unmistakable, and I inwardly smiled at this evidence the two were getting on well. I’d helped Jamie secure the position as a favor to my maid, Katie, and looked forward to telling her of our success. “Senhorita Cross has discovered some curious flower petals. Perhaps you know what they are.”
I held my handkerchief out to Jamie. “Do you have any idea where something like this would grow, and at this time of year?”
With a slight frown he peered at my find. “Looks like a sort of wildflower . . .”
“As I thought,” Mr. Delgado said.
Jamie stroked a finger over one of the petals, imprinting a trail of familiarity across my palm even through the handkerchief. I didn’t mind, in fact, quite the opposite. He’d never have dared touch something lying in Aunt Alva’s or Consuelo’s hand, and I was happily reminded that despite my grandiose connections, I was not someone to fear; I was simply Emma Cross, free to associate with whom I chose.
This passed through my mind in an instant, during which Jamie made his assessment. “For all these seem delicate wee mites, there’s a hardiness to ’em and no mistake. I think it’d be a clinging sort of plant, probably along the cliffs.”
“Along the cliffs . . . of course.” I gazed out across the rear lawns to where they ended at the hedge bordering the Cliff Walk. I thought about the variety of ocean-hardy wildflowers that adorned the cliffs in a mosaic of color, even this late in the summer. “But how on earth could a flower clinging to the cliffs have crossed the border hedge and then traveled so far across the lawn?” Suddenly the petals’ potential as a clue faded to nothing, for who would have been climbing cliffs before stealing into the pavilion to murder Madame Devereaux? I blew out a breath and spoke my final thought out loud. “It makes no sense at all.”