Dirty Rotten Tendrils (19 page)

Not long. Her masseuse would return at any second. I had to get out of there.

Zeus flapped his wings as if to show his impatience. The bird was waiting for me to leave!

“Natalia,” I heard someone call from beyond the vine curtain, “I think Zeus got into the grove again.”

A moment later, I was standing beside my massage table, my heart pounding hard. Whew. That was close. Then I noticed my right hand balled into a fist. I uncurled my fingers and there was my ring.

Oh, no. What had I done? Now Cinnamon would discover it missing and panic. The police would be called. They’d conduct a search. I’d be found with the ring—my ring—but they wouldn’t know that. I’d be accused of theft. How would I explain myself?

Calm down,
that little voice of reason whispered.
It can’t be a theft if it belongs to you.

I glanced up and saw the cockatoo watching me.
Stupid bird! See what you caused?
What should I do? Keep it? Hope the cops didn’t find me with it? Or if they did, hope I could explain it rationally and pray that word didn’t get back to my parents and Marco’s mom? Fat chance. Not with the news-hungry media hovering outside. I could just imagine the reporters seeing police cars outside the salon and rushing over to find out the cause.

Headline: FECKLESS FLORIST FINGERS RING!

What if Cinnamon sued the salon because they couldn’t find the ring? What if they went out of business because of me?

I heard the vines move and knew one or both masseuses were coming. Quickly, I dove for the bed, then remembered I still had my sweater on. Yanking it off over my head, I tossed it toward the hook and it caught. But I’d dislodged the hair wrap and there was no time to tighten it. I flopped onto my belly, pulled the sheet over me, then placed my face in the hole in the bed, holding my breath as I clutched my diamond in one sweaty palm.

“Here’s your water,” a voice said. “Let me help you sit up. You might be a bit dizzy from having all those toxins released.”

Cinnamon’s masseuse, not mine. I let out my breath. Then I heard the rustle of a sheet and pictured Cinnamon sitting up, blinking, and accepting the cup of water. How long would it be before she looked over at the tray?

At that moment, Natalia called from the other side of the curtain, “Are you ready, Abby? It’s been a long time . . .”

Oh, no! She called me Abby! What if Cinnamon had heard her?

“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot to hit the gong.”
Crap.
Why hadn’t I disguised my voice?

Natalia came into my room. “Your hair wrap is coming loose. Let me fix it for you.”

She rewrapped my hair and then, after applying a soothing oil to her fingers, began to knead the muscles across the tops of my shoulders. Despite my anxiety, I couldn’t help but feel some of the tension flow right out of my body. And, frankly, having my ring back in my possession felt pretty darn good.

“That’s better,” Natalia said, working my shoulders. “You were really knotted up.”

Imagine that.

Then I heard Cinnamon say, “Hey! Where’s my ring? I put it right here on the tray.”

Oh, no.

“How odd,” Natalia said to me. “Your muscles knotted up right under my fingers.”

There was a rattle of jewelry, and then the masseuse said, “It has to be here someplace.” I braced myself for the explosion.

“I’ll be right back,” Natalia told me. A moment later I heard her whisper, “Anna, what’s happening?”

“Cinnamon’s engagement ring is missing,” the other masseuse whispered back.

Excuse me,
my
engagement ring.

“Zeus must have it,” Natalie whispered. “I’ll go look for it.”

Zeus! That was the answer. Blame it on the bird. I was saved!

The other masseuse said, “Cinnamon, I am so sorry this happened. The cockatoo must have taken it. He likes sparkly objects, which is why we don’t like him back here. He usually hides his treasures in the grotto, so I’m sure Natalia will be right back with it.”

I highly doubted that. I brought my hand under the table so I could remove the ring. Was it right to let them search all over for it? Was it fair to make Cinnamon suffer the pangs of guilt for losing such an expensive ring? Should I confess now before she called the cops?

A few minutes later I heard the vines rustle, and then Natalia said to Anna, “I couldn’t find it.”

The other masseuse sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to say, Cinnamon, except I’m so sorry. I guess you’ll want to file a police report so you can claim it on your insurance.”

Explosion time. I scrunched my eyes shut and clasped my ring so tight it cut into my palm.
Speak up, Abby,
that little voice told me.
Tell them you found it. They’ll think the bird dropped it in your cubicle.

I was about to get up off the table when I heard Cinnamon say, “Don’t worry. It’s not real. I got it at the drugstore.”

My eyes flew open. I uncurled my fingers and turned the ring to examine it. From the side I could see it was missing the etchings, but the shape and size of the diamond were a match.

“Wow, you had me fooled,” her masseuse said.

She wasn’t the only one.

“My dad made me put the real diamond in his safe so I wouldn’t lose it,” Cinnamon said. “Who knew he’d be right?”

M
y engagement ring was in Cinnamon’s dad’s safe? What was I supposed to do now? Even though we were having dinner with her parents, I didn’t have a clue where they lived. Marco hadn’t told me. I didn’t even know who her dad was. I’d never felt so clueless in my life.

I let Natalia finish my neck massage as I tried to determine my next move, but as it stood, I couldn’t think of a way to get the ring back without involving Cinnamon’s father. And once he knew, and had explained the mix-up to Cinnamon, who would undoubtedly tell her mother, it would be only a matter of time until Francesca Salvare heard. And that meant she would be not only hurt that we hadn’t revealed our plans to her but also embarrassed in front of Cinnamon’s parents. I didn’t even want to think about what my parents would say when they learned we hadn’t told them about our engagement.

It was three o’clock when I left the Olive Tree and started back up Lincoln, still pondering my dilemma. Was there a way I could swear Cinnamon’s father to silence? Would he be sympathetic to my plight if I explained how controlling Marco’s mom was? Could I bribe him with flowers?

I turned onto Franklin and glanced up the block to see a police car parked in front of Bloomers. My stomach fluttered anxiously. What now?

Instead of passing by Down the Hatch, I ducked inside, relieved to find it not busy yet. “Where’s Marco?” I called to Gert.

“In his office. Want me to get him?”

“Tell him there’s a squad car at Bloomers. I’m on my way there now.”

I left Marco’s bar and started toward my flower shop. As I approached the shop, Connor McKay stepped out of the passenger side of one of several news vans parked across the street and came toward me. Just wonderful.

“Looks like some excitement at Bloomers,” he said with a big smile. “What’s up?”

“Off the record?” I asked.

He replaced his smile with a serious frown. “Whatever you want.”

“I’m not positive,” I said, casting a glance over my shoulder, “but the cops may have uncovered my plot to sell your liver on eBay.”

Connor stared blankly for a moment, then realized he’d been had and scowled.

I smiled, then opened the door and stepped inside the shop to find Lottie, Grace, and Sergeant Reilly standing at the cashier counter, talking in hushed voices. That was never a good sign.

Sean Reilly was an attractive forty-year-old police sergeant who carried an air of confidence about him without the posturing so many cops adopted. He had intelligent hazel eyes, nice facial structure, brown hair starting to show a bit of white on the sides, and a sturdy body that lacked the typical gut-hanging-over-the-belt physique. He’d been a rookie under my dad and a good friend to Marco and me, but at the moment I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him. I knew his visit wasn’t for pleasure.

Hearing the bell jingle, they turned toward me. “Don’t panic, sweetie,” Lottie said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Sergeant Reilly just came to deliver a message.”

“The detectives would like to talk to you,” Reilly said.

Exactly what I’d wanted to avoid. “Sorry, Reilly. No can do. I’ve been away from my shop too much today. Tell them to e-mail me their questions.”

“If you’re worried about Bloomers,” Lottie offered, “we’re on top of things here.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “I simply don’t feel like being interrogated.”

“It’s routine Q and A,” Reilly said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“What’s routine about being stuck in a cement-block room with detectives firing questions at me so they can pin a murder on Dave?” I folded my arms in front of me. “No, thanks.”

“I came over to escort you personally,” Reilly said, sounding offended.

“I appreciate the gesture, Reilly,” I said, “but even if I were inclined to cooperate, there’s a reporter standing outside who is dying to know why you’re here and would love nothing more than to get a photo of you putting me in your squad car.”

As he swung to see what reporter I was referring to, the door opened and Marco came into the shop. He glanced at the four of us. “What’s going on?”

Reilly hooked his thumbs in his belt and nodded in my direction. “Detectives want to talk to Abby. She’s being difficult.”

“
I’m
being difficult?” I said. “I’m not the one trying to railroad Dave. Why should I cooperate?”

“Give me a minute,” Marco said to Reilly, and led me toward the curtain, pausing when he caught sight of my mom’s tee tea cart. “What is that?”

“Mom’s new art piece. Know any golfers who drink tea?”

He shook his head in disbelief as we continued into the workroom. He put his hands on my shoulders and gazed into my eyes. “Think about this, Abby. If you refuse to talk to the detectives, they’ll assume you’re hiding information to protect Dave.”

“What if I say something that hurts him? I’ve already done that once.”

“If you tick them off, they could declare you a material witness and jail you. Imagine them coming to get you here and cuffing you in front of your customers.”

Definitely didn’t want that. I sighed and stepped up close to him, laying my head against his chest as he put his arms around me. “I just have a bad feeling about it.”

“Come on, Fireball,” he urged. “Detectives don’t scare you. What’s behind this sudden case of nerves?”

“Dave said a few things after the hearing that could hurt him.”

“Like what?”

“Like that Lipinski was going to be sorry for what he did. If you take that out of context, it could be interpreted as a death threat.”

“Then don’t take it out of context.” Marco lifted my chin to gaze into my eyes. “You’re smart, Abby. You’ll figure out how to work the interview to your advantage. You’re not going to let them bully you.”

I knew it was a pep talk, but strangely, it worked. I stepped back and straightened my shoulders. “You’re right. They’re not going to bully me.”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“I’m my father’s daughter. I’m not afraid to stand up for what’s just. If anyone’s going to do the interrogating, it’s me.”

“There’s that tough Irish lass I fell in love with.”

Yeah, well, I was a tough Irish lass when I blabbed to McKay, too. And suddenly the qualms came back. “Would you come with me? Just to the station? For moral support?”

He put his arms around me. “Of course.”

I gave him a hug. “Thank you. It’ll only take me a few minutes to freshen up. Okay if we go out the back way? McKay is hanging around out front.”

Marco cracked his knuckles, his gaze turning steely and determined. “I’ll get rid of him.”

Right. I could see those headlines now: BLOOMERS’ BEAU KNUCKLES NEWSHOUND. “Thanks, that’s so sweet, but let’s do this quietly. Would you let Reilly know our plan?”

I headed toward the tiny bathroom in back, calling over my shoulder, “By the way, you don’t happen to know the name of a good safecracker, do you?”

“Do I want to know why?”

“It’s more a question of need-to-know. I’ll tell you on the way.”

 

 

We eluded McKay and the crowds all around the courthouse square by snaking up alleys, and arrived at the police station ten minutes later. On the way, I gave Marco an abbreviated version of the events at the Olive Tree, after which he insisted there was no way we were going to break into Cinnamon’s father’s safe. He did think we might try appealing to him, though.

A policewoman came to escort me into one of their two torture chambers, otherwise known as conference room A, so I squeezed Marco’s hand for reassurance, then took a deep breath and followed her. My anxiety level surprised me. I couldn’t remember feeling this nervous when my own life was on the line. Perhaps I’d been too naive then to appreciate my peril.