Dirty Rotten Tendrils (6 page)

 

Mrs. Byrd lived down the street from the YMCA in an old-fashioned bungalow with a huge front porch equipped with a wide swing and a stack of empty flowerpots that were just waiting for spring planting season. I knocked on the door, then, when she opened it, smelled a deliciously spicy aroma that made my stomach growl—not surprising since it was past noon.

“Mrs. Byrd?” I asked the gray-haired woman in sneakers and a plum-colored jogging suit.

She smiled in delight as she opened the door. “Is that for me?”

This was the best part of my job. I couldn’t begin to describe how delightful it was to experience the joy my flowers brought to people, to watch their eyes light up, see their bright smiles, and hear their exclamations of delight. It never failed to thrill me.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Byrd!” I sang out, handing her the basket.

Her smile turned to a scowl as she read the gift tag. “My anniversary is next month. The imbecile forgot the date again.” Snatching the basket, she stepped back and slammed the door.

Okay, then.

As I headed toward the square, I remembered my Vette was parked on the cross street, so I detoured over to check on it. Yep, still there—with a huge glob of bird poop right in the middle of the windshield. Lovely. I got inside, started the engine, and hit the wipers. The washer liquid squirted over the top of the car, missing the glass completely, while the wipers smeared the wet poop across the entire windshield, creating a dirty white haze.

I searched the glove compartment for something with which to clean it, but save for a ragged-looking map of Indiana and some cherry lip balm that had lost its color, there was nothing. I’d have to remember to bring wet paper towels with me when I closed up shop.

I got out of the car, locked the door, and started up Franklin toward the courthouse square, my stomach growling even louder than before. As soon as I picked up my engagement ring, I’d head for the Deli and get a sandwich.

Bindstrom’s Jewelry Store, on the corner of Lincoln and Franklin, was full of customers, something I hadn’t taken into account when I set out. I stepped inside, saw several women my mom knew, then ducked my head and scooted out the door. I’d have to figure out a better time to get my ring. Clearly, the lunch hour wasn’t going to work.

Next stop, the Deli, which was among the shops on the square getting a face-lift. On one long side of the single-story building, workers sandblasted off layers of dingy white paint to reveal handsome multicolored brick underneath. In front, the big white signboard with magnetic letters had been replaced by a quaint wooden version that read YE OLDE DELI
.

Ye Olde Gift Shoppe. Ye Olde Deli.
I hoped this wasn’t ye newe trend.

On the sidewalk in front of the Deli sat the four bistro table-and-chair sets usually put out in the summer. The black metal tables were placed in an area enclosed by portable white picket fences with flower boxes attached. The owners had planted pansies in them, but the poor blossoms had frozen overnight.

Surprisingly, in spite of the cool temperatures, two of the tables were occupied by middle-aged women dressed as though they were going to a summer tea party—wide-brimmed straw hats, sleeveless floral print dresses, and fleshy arms that had turned purple from the cold. Their chairs were facing the courthouse and their cameras were within arm’s reach. If Cody appeared, they were ready. If they managed to get on TV, too—purple, but ready.

Inside, the place was jammed, the line stretching from the counter on the opposite end of the shop to the door. The line usually moved quickly, so I decided to wait, especially after inhaling the heady aromas of all the delicious meats and cheeses. But today, for some reason the line inched forward.

“What’s the holdup?” I asked the man in front of me, who kept leaning out of line to see.

“Some idiot up there is talking on her cell phone instead of paying her bill.”

“I hate it when that happens,” I said, commiserating as I reached into my pocket to put my phone on vibrate.

Soon others in line began to grumble, too, and as the minutes ticked by on the big school clock on the wall, I finally stepped out to see who this rude person was.

Jillian Knight-Osborne. My cousin.

Before I could duck back in line, she waved to me and mouthed, “Hi, Abs.” Then she said into her phone, “No, that’s okay. Nobody important.”

The people in line turned to glare at me, as if I was somehow responsible. “Sorry,” I said. “She can’t help it. She has a personality disorder.”

It was called being self-absorbed.

Except for the signature Knight red hair, Jillian and I were nothing alike. At twenty-six, she was a year younger—unless you went by maturity, in which case she was twelve—had fewer freckles, was a head taller and a whole lot prettier—and had the svelte shape of a model. Somehow she’d graduated from Harvard, married well-to-do Claymore Osborne, the younger brother of the jerk who’d jilted me, and set up a business as a wardrobe consultant.

Although the disparities in our lifestyles were enormous, my one comfort was that even though I’d flunked out of law school, Jillian proved on a regular basis that I was still smarter than she was. I bypassed the line and marched up to the counter, where she was waving her pen around while talking on her phone, as the harried clerk waited for her to sign her credit card slip. I yanked Jillian’s phone from between her ear and shoulder, said, “She’ll call you back” to the person on the other end, then shut it off and dropped it into the purse dangling from her wrist.

“That was a client!” she protested.

“Sign that slip!” I snapped back.

Jillian scribbled her name. I picked up the large brown bag on the counter, hooked my hand through her arm, and dragged her out of the store.

Outside, she jerked her arm out of my grasp. “Why did you do that? It was a business call.”

“The mood was turning ugly in there, Jillian. People don’t like it when you talk on the phone while you’re ordering food.”

“Why? It didn’t stop me from paying.”

“Yes, it did. People have time constraints, you know. Plus, you were rude to the cashier.”

“Not true! I thanked him.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did, too! I blinked
thank you
at him. Twice.”

I sat down at one of the black tables and opened the bag. Inside was a stack of containers filled with pastas and salads and meats, no doubt her dinner menu. On top was a paper-wrapped sandwich that smelled wonderful. Then again, I was so hungry, seaweed would have smelled wonderful. I unwrapped it, pulled it into two pieces, took one half, and handed her the other.

“Hey! That’s my lunch!”

“That’s what you get for making me lose my place in line to rescue you.” I bit hungrily into the sandwich and chewed for a moment, then took apart the bread to see inside. “Is this seaweed?”

“Yes. With spinach, carrots, zucchini, and feta cheese.” Jillian began to eat her half.

“You ordered a vegetarian sandwich?”

“Well, duh. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Since when?” I took another bite. Any port in a storm.

“Since I heard that Lila Redmond is vegetarian. Isn’t it too exciting to have her in our town? I mean, who does fashion better than Li’l Red? Want to know the best part? She’s bound to want to shop while she’s here, but she’ll have no idea where to go! That’s where I come in.”

“
You’re
going to take Lila Redmond shopping?”

“Once Li’l Red finds out that I’m a personal shopper for some big names in Chicago, of course she’ll want me to take her shopping.”

“Stop calling her Li’l Red. No one calls her that.”

“Sor-
ry
! You’re just jealous because that should be your nickname.”

“Jillian, if you
ever
call me Li’l Red, I swear I’ll—”

My cell phone vibrated against my hip, startling me. Giving my cousin a scowl, I wiped my fingers on a paper napkin, pulled out the phone, and glanced at the screen. It was Marco, no doubt wondering if I’d picked up the engagement ring, which I could not talk about in front of my blabbermouth cousin.

“Hi, Marco. I’m having lunch with Jillian right now, so how about if I call you back in a few minutes?”

I heard Jillian talking and glanced over at her. She was back on her phone.

“Never mind, Marco. I can talk.”

“Where are you?”

“Freezing at a table outside the Deli. Excuse me—Ye Olde Deli.”

“Then eat inside.”

“Can’t. There’s an angry mob inside. More on that later.”

“Did you pick up your ring?”

I swiveled so Jillian couldn’t hear, then whispered into the phone, “I couldn’t. Too many familiar faces in the store.”

“Want me to get it?”

Like that wouldn’t tip anyone off. “How about if Rafe picks it up? If someone should ask, he could say it was for Cinnamon.”

“But then Rafe would know about our engagement.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’ve got an idea. Leave everything to me. We can meet here for dinner to celebrate.”

“Awesome.” I made a kissing sound into the phone and hit END, then turned to find Jillian watching me.

“I hope that was Marco you were air-kissing.”

“Yep.” I stuffed the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and stood up. “Thanks for lunch.”

“What are you being so secretive about?”

“Was I being secretive?”

“You turned your back on me to talk.”

“I can’t concentrate when you’re talking, too.”

She pursed her lips, pondering my answer. “I heard you mention Rafe. Were you discussing what to do about his alarming choice in brides? I mean, seriously. Cinnamon? Is her mother a fan of the Spice Girls? Is her last name Sugar? What is her last name anyway? Or is she pulling a Madonna?”

“I don’t have any answers, Jillian.” Before she could quiz me further, I slipped the strap of my purse over my shoulder and said, “Gotta run. Lots to do today.”

“Would you like me to bring La Lila by Bloomers?”

Now it was La Lila. I sighed. “Yes, Jillian. You do that.”

Jillian was delusional. Lila Redmond wouldn’t give her the time of day.

W
hen I got back to the shop, Grace and Lottie were waiting to hear the news about Dave. I filled them in on what Lipinski had pulled and told them about the meeting set for later that afternoon. “And Martha was right about Dave being stressed,” I added. “I’ve never seen him look so dispirited. I tried to get him to talk about it, but he brushed me off.”

“I hope his health is all right,” Grace said.

“And I hope that jackass Lipinski doesn’t make mincemeat of Dave,” Lottie said. “You know how vicious the Lip can be. I heard him at a restaurant once cussing out the entire waitstaff because he got snap peas instead of snow peas. He had two waitresses in tears. And he owns the restaurant!”

“Lipinski owns a restaurant here in town?” I asked.

“Sweetie, a quarter of the property in town is his. Let’s just hope he doesn’t provoke Dave into taking a swing at him. I can see the lawsuit now.”

“Even more reason for me to show up at Lipinski’s office in time for the meeting,” I told them. “Maybe Dave will let me take notes for him. That way the Lip won’t be able to claim Dave said or did anything he didn’t. I’m sure Lipinski will have one of his many law clerks with him, or even his associate.”

“I didn’t know he had associates,” Lottie said.

“One,” I told her.

“Is it wise for you to simply show up?” Grace asked. “Perhaps you should run your plan by Dave first.”

Like that would work. “It won’t be a problem,” I assured them. “I’ll be tactful.”

“Here,” Lottie said, handing me a sticky note. “Be tactful about this.”

The note read,
Your mom will be by after school.
“Did she say why?” I asked.

“It’s Monday,” Lottie replied. “She didn’t need to say why.”

“I suppose she didn’t say what, either?” I asked.

Lottie shook her head. Or maybe she shuddered.

My mom, Maureen “Mad Mo” Knight, was a mild-mannered kindergarten teacher by day and an amateur artist by night, although what kind of artist was debatable because she changed mediums as often as most people changed shoes. She had started with clay, then moved into plaster, vinyl, feathers, beads, mirrored tiles, and—I’d forgotten the rest. On purpose.

The piece that had garnered her the most attention was her infamous Dancing Naked Monkey Table, a quartet of neon-hued baby chimps prancing in a circle while holding up a glass top, a description that didn’t do it justice. Solitary confinement might have.

Mom made it her practice to complete a new piece each weekend, then bring it to my shop on Mondays after school so we could put it out with our other gift items. She truly believed she was helping us draw in customers, and in a way she was. The members of the Monday Afternoon Ladies’ Poetry Society never missed a meeting in our parlor because they couldn’t wait to see what Mom would dream up next.