Slay it with Flowers (7 page)

I rolled my eyes, but only Simon was there to witness it, and he was busy cleaning his ear with one paw. I took the phone to the living room and sat on the sofa. “What was Flip driving?

“A rental car—a Ford Taurus or something.”

“Is it in the hotel parking lot?”

“No, it’s gone, too.”

“Has anyone called the police?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think. You’ve got to help me, Abby. You always know what to do.”

“I’m on my way to the track. Can’t Claymore handle it?”

“Claymore? You’re joking, right? You know how high-strung he is. His parents gave him a sedative and put him to bed.”

“How about Pryce? He doesn’t have nerves.”

“He’s taking depositions all week.”

“Flip’s parents?”

“Cruising down the Nile. Please, Abby! I need you desperately.”

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Nikki emerged from her bedroom in her crumpled pink pj’s, her short dishwater-blond hair sticking up all over. Nikki was tall and lanky and completely believed that there was a prince out there waiting for her to kiss him. Her latest frog was a male nurse named Scott, a very decent sort and, more important, unmarried. I knew this because I’d checked him out. Nikki had been hurt too many times by guys who’d hid their wedding rings from her.

She dropped onto the sofa, yawning. “Who called so early?”

“Jillian. One of her groomsmen is missing—a guy called Flip.”

“No kidding! Where is he?”

“Nik, if we knew that, he wouldn’t be missing.”

“It’s too early for logic.” She clumped into the kitchen in furry purple slippers in search of orange juice. “What happened last night? Did you talk to Pryce?”

I followed her into the kitchen and gave her the complete rundown on the soiree and ended with Jillian’s latest plea for help.

“You can’t very well turn her down,” Nikki pointed out. “She might ban you from the wedding, and then what would you do with that hideous bridesmaid dress?” She aimed her gaze at the photo clipped to the refrigerator. Jillian had cut it out of a bridal magazine for me. On the other bridesmaids the dresses would look elegant, like a water-color of tall white tulips swaying gracefully against an aquamarine sky. Give me a red rubber nose and oversized shoes and I could get a job with the circus.

“Omigod!” I grabbed the calendar off the fridge. “I have to go for my fitting tonight.”

Nikki downed the juice and put the glass in the sink. “I’m going back to bed. Good luck finding Flick.”

It wasn’t until I had dialed the police station that I realized what she’d said. “It’s Flip,” I called, but she was already in her room and might even have been asleep.

The police dispatcher switched me to a grumpy cop who insisted no one had been in a serious or fatal car accident in the previous twelve hours, and who the hell had connected me to his line anyway? He suggested I call lockup, so I did, and gave them Flip’s real name and description. No luck there, either. I called the hospital next. Again, no luck, which was actually very good news.

Then where was Flip?

“H
e’s not in the hospital, the morgue, or the jail,” I reported to Jillian via cell phone as I walked the track. “So maybe he met someone and spent the night at her house.”

“Flip isn’t like that. He’s very shy with women.”

“You’re just going to have to wait until he shows up, then.”

She moaned loud and long. “I knew something would go wrong with this wedding. Why did I ever propose to Claymore?”

“You’re such a pessimist. Give Flip a few more hours and he’ll show up.”

I was wrong. At noon there was still no word on Flip’s whereabouts, and even I was starting to be concerned, so I took a stroll down the block to pick Marco’s brain.

The Down the Hatch Bar and Grill was teeming with judges and attorneys from the courthouse across the street, in for a hearty lunch together before returning to battle the injustices of the world as well as each other. According to Lottie, the bar hadn’t changed in fifty years, and shouldn’t, since it was a piece of local history.

My opinion was slightly different. If a town’s history could be represented by a fake carp, a bright blue plastic anchor, a big brass bell, and a fisherman’s net hanging from the ceiling, then the town had a major image problem.

Now that Marco had taken the helm there was hope for change. And if the rehab he’d done on his office was any indication, the residents of New Chapel were in for a surprise. The office was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, and black steel and leather furniture. His desk was black and chrome, and that’s where I found him, hunched over ledgers, working industriously while the black TV mounted in a corner opposite him was tuned to CNN Headline News—muted, of course. It was a spare, masculine room and it fit Marco to a T.

“What’s the problem?” he asked without looking up.

“How do you know there’s a problem?” I plunked down in one of the leather director’s chairs opposite his desk.

“Because you never come here unless you need my help.”

How awful. Was that true? “That’s not true!”

He raised his head and fixed me with that penetrating, brown-eyed gaze that could melt a girl’s mules. I played it safe and slipped mine off. I couldn’t afford a new pair.

“Isn’t it?” he asked.

“If you will remember, the first time I ever came here I was delivering flowers.”

He got up and came around the desk, all five-foot-ten hunky man of him. He leaned against an edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And you were delivering flowers because . . . ?”

“I don’t remember.” We both knew I remembered.

“Because
you,
” he said, grabbing the end of my nose, which he once told me was pert, “asked me to find a hit-and-run driver, so we traded favors—twelve of your finest roses for my expert help.”

I batted his hand away. “The next time I come here, it will
not
be for your help, expert or otherwise. I promise.” I meant it, too.

“Want to put your money where your mouth is?” He smiled a Marco smile, which was a slight upward hitch of one corner of his mouth. He didn’t do big emotions; I was sure this was due to his special operations training with the Army Rangers. But his little emotions said a lot.

I gave him a sultry lift of one brow and lowered my voice to husky. “What did you have in mind?” I knew what I had in mind.

“If I win, you have to provide a fresh rose for every one of my tables every night for a week.”

Not
what I had in mind. “Could you pick something a little less costly?”

There was that adorable little twitch of his mouth again. “What’s the point of making a bet if it doesn’t cost you?”

“Fine. A rose for every table for a week.” Which meant I had to win because I couldn’t afford to lose. “And if
I
win?”

He sauntered to his chair, leaned back in it, and folded his arms behind his head. “You won’t.”

“Arrogant bastard.”

“I hope so.”

I had to laugh at him. Marco was the only guy I knew who could be arrogant and cool at the same time. “Okay, if I win I want you to make dinner for me. A real dinner, too, not carryout from the bar and grill.”

“Deal. So what are you meddling in today?”

“I’d like to remind you once again that I do not meddle. I solve problems. You know this wedding of my cousin’s I mentioned? Well, one of the groomsmen is missing in action and Jillian asked me to find him. He was last seen yesterday afternoon at the hotel where the wedding party is staying. I called the police, the jail, and the hospital with no luck. Since you’re the professional PI, I thought you might advise me as to what to do next.”

“Why isn’t the groom looking?”

“His nerves can’t take it. And the missing man’s parents are in Egypt. I already asked.” I smiled at him expectantly.

Marco scrutinized me for a long moment, probably trying to decide if it was worth the effort to argue me out of it. Finally he said, “Okay, here’s what I’d do. I’d start by notifying the police he’s MIA, then I’d interview his friends to find out his interests and where he likes to hang out. That should give you a clue where to look. It’s probably nothing more than the guy got drunk and is sleeping it off somewhere, but you don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up before then. If not, I’ll be seeing the other bridesmaids tonight. I’ll start my questioning with them.”

 

At three o’clock that afternoon I drove into a ritzy neighborhood near my aunt’s, parked in front of Trudee DeWitt’s sprawling pink brick home, gathered my purse and notebook, and got out of the car. Trudee was standing in the doorway arguing with a teenaged girl with pink spiked hair and dangle earrings made of beer caps.

“You’d better be home at six o’clock on the dot, young lady, or—hi, Abby, I’ll be with you in a minute—you’ll be grounded for a month! Heather? Do you hear me?”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t give me
whatever.
I hate that word.”

“Could you yell it any louder, Mother? My eardrums are already bleeding.”

“You think
that’s
loud? I’ll show you loud. Go on inside, Abby. I’ll be right there.”

As the argument raged on, I let myself into the house through huge, double doors, where I gaped at the immense space around me. The home had only one floor, but the ceiling rose a full two stories high, a vast, oak-beamed structure with big skylights and hanging fans. I couldn’t begin to imagine what their heating bill was like.

Trudee’s husband, Don, was a self-made multimillionaire who had started his career selling bottled water. Trudee had been a savvy hair stylist who knew how to spot potential. She’d convinced Don to shave off his full beard, ditch the farmer’s overalls, and hire her as his accountant.

Now they jointly owned the water bottling plant, a fleet of trucks, and a vacation home in the Bahamas, where she’d developed a penchant for the tropics. She had decorated her New Chapel house accordingly, with lots of wicker and rattan, sisal rugs over Mexican quarry tile floors, an indoor waterfall, and ceiling fans with fake palm leaves for blades.

“Teens!” Trudee exclaimed, shutting the doors behind her. “What was I thinking?”

Trudee was built like a centerfold from the forties—hourglass shape, gorgeous gams, and an affinity for high heels, short shorts, and sleeveless shirts tied under her bust. Her hair color was different every time I saw her. Today it was a shiny auburn, long and full of big curls. It had to kill her to see her daughter sporting hair by Kool-Aid.

“Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ve got beer cooling in the fridge.”

I passed on the beer and took a glass of lemonade instead, settling on a bamboo stool at the granite-topped island. “So when is the party?” I asked, trying not to pucker. Clearly, someone had skimped on the sugar. I did a quick scan of the kitchen, looking for signs of a sugar bowl.

“On the Fourth of July.”

That was a problem. How was I going to decorate this huge house in addition to all I had to do for Jillian’s wedding? I pushed the lemonade aside and walked through the house, doing mental calculations. If I could pull it off, Trudee’s party would pay for the ugly bridesmaid dress
and
a gift for the bride and groom. “What time is your party?”

“Six o’clock for a barbeque. I’ve got my caterer lined up already. All I need is for you to come in and decorate.”

If I decorated Trudee’s house in the morning and the reception hall in the afternoon, I should still have time to shower, dress, and be back for the wedding. “Okay. It’s doable. Let’s talk theme.”

Trudee strutted around the room, making large arm gestures as she described her
vision,
as she called it. I probably would have said
hallucination,
but I wasn’t a psychologist. I took notes and drew sketches, then told her I’d run up an estimate and get back with her in a few days.

When I got home, Simon was waiting for me at the door, a straw at his feet and an expectant look on his face. I tossed the straw, and when he went to fetch it, I played the message waiting on the machine.

“Abby, it’s Jillian. Flip still isn’t back and I’m worried sick.” Then, in a breezy tone, “I’ll see you at the bridal boutique at seven thirty. Don’t forget to bring heels.”

Heels? To make that dress work I’d need stilts.

 

Betty’s Bridal Shop was in an old, Victorian-style house three blocks north of the courthouse, a typical style for shops that weren’t on the square. According to a study done at New Chapel University, people were more likely to open their wallets in old, comfortable surroundings, such as a Victorian house. My hunch was that the study was funded by a local contractor.

When I arrived, the other bridesmaids were waiting in the front parlor. Onora was seated on a red tufted settee, picking off her nail polish, a sulky look on her face; Sabina was rummaging through the dresses hanging on a wall rack; and Ursula, seated beside Onora, was flipping through a bridal magazine. Sabina saw me and bounced over to say hi. Ursula held up a hand and smiled. Onora lifted her index finger and dropped it again, obviously sapped of energy.