Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Issue #23 by Dean Wesley Smith

Author:Dean Wesley Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WMG Publishing

“Gravelina is my finest arranger,” says Miss Carionette as she puts the finishing touches on the latest masterpiece at her shop, Fleshlovers. The masterpiece is a bouquet of six humans done up in spring colors. “I refuse to believe she had anything to do with any murders.”

“What do you know about her personal life?” I say, admiring Carionette’s work as I question her. The tall woman in the center of the arrangement, jet-haired and smooth-skinned, is draped with veils of pastel chiffon in pink, mint, and lemon.

The mauve petals of Carionette’s rhododendron-head ruffle with an affected highbrow accent. “Very little, Patrolman Glisten,” she says, giving me the wrong rank on purpose. (I can tell from her scent.) “She had a keen interest in composting and expressionist animal grafting…not necessarily in that order.”

Strolling away from Carionette, I look at the framed photos on the walls of the shop, examples of her past work. In one, three dark-haired human males dressed as farmers hold watering cans over a naked blonde human female huddled on the ground like a furled shoot. Something about the image makes me feel warm inside, and I linger in front of it.

“Did Gravelina ever talk about roses?” I say, moving on to a photo of three human females in brightly-colored leotards, standing back-to-back with arms stretched skyward.

Carionette’s tone changes. Her scent, aloof until now, sweetens with false servility, and a barely perceptible nervousness excites the flutter of her petals. “Only when a rose placed an order,” she says, “and then only in a businesslike manner, I can assure you.”

I come to a photo of a single human male, a young one, covered head to toe in a red silk bodysuit. He holds his arms straight out, red-gloved hands folded together in the foreground of the picture.

Suddenly, I realize that all is not as it seems at Fleshlovers.

“I’d like to see your back room,” I say, giving Chub a meaningful glance.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to show you gentlemen around,” says Carionette, brushing at the veils on her subjects. “You’ll excuse me, but I have to deliver this arrangement within the hour.”

“We won’t take up your time,” I say. “My partner and I will have a look-see ourselves.”

“There’s nothing of interest back there,” says Carionette.

“Not according to this,” I say, pointing at the photo of the red-bodysuited human male. “How about it, Chub?”

Chub shakes his head and wags a frond at Carionette. “You oughtta be ashamed, Miss Carionette.”

“It’s not what you think,” says Carionette.

I lift the photo from its place on the wall and wave it at her. “You can’t openly advertise illegal trade,” I say, turning my scent bitter and stiffening the flutters of my petals. “But this, the Red Boy, is a well-known sign of certain criminal activities.”

Agitated, Carionette stops working on the human bouquet. “That’s not an advertisement of illegal merchandise. It’s a photo of a specialty item that’s very popular with our hipper clientele—the Red Boy bouquet. It’s meant to capitalize on public awareness of the Red Boy image.

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