Two overhead fluo-rez tubes came on, illuminating the scene in a cold blue light. Masses of flowers and bunches of decorative greenery filled the room. Arrangements in vases of various shapes and sizes lined the shelves behind the glass doors of the cooler. The effect was funereal. The body of Stuart Griggs, sprawled facedown on the floor, provided the finishing touch. There was no sign of blood, she noticed, no indication that the florist had been attacked. Perhaps he’d had a stroke or a heart attack. She reached into the tote for her phone and punched in the emergency number. Instinctively she started to turn away from the body on the floor. But the sight of a strip of white bandage sticking out from under Griggs’s rolled-up sleeve made her hesitate. She forced herself to move closer to the body, ignoring Rose’s warning grumble. Holding her breath and fighting her roiling stomach, she leaned over, caught hold of the sleeve with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and twitched the fabric back a couple of inches.
