Sleeping with Anemone (17 page)

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay, here’s an idea. I’d be highly surprised if Hudge had enough money to hire private counsel, so he’ll ask for a public defender. And who is the county’s public defender for major crimes? Your old boss, Dave Hammond.”

“And of course Dave will need to hire an investigator, and that will be you.”

“Now you’re getting the picture.”

“Then you’ll need an assistant, and that will be me. So let’s get moving on this. I should have some free time this afternoon to . . .”

Marco frowned.

“What now?” I asked in exasperation, as we pulled up in front of Bloomers.

“Let’s not jump the gun. Hudge has to have his initial hearing first. Then if he qualifies for a public defender, we can get moving on it.”

“Are you kidding me? We’re talking a week, at least, and I’m really tired of checking the roof for snipers.”

“Snipers?”

“All I’m saying is that I want to know
now
who I’m dealing with and whether I’m still in danger. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request.”

“I didn’t say it was unreasonable.”

“Think of it this way. If we can prove that I’m no longer in danger, you’ll be off the hook as a bodyguard. You’ll be able to resume your normal duties at Down the Hatch instead of hanging around Bloomers, bored out of your mind.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

The corners of Marco’s mouth curved up in a sexy grin. “You’re sure about that?”

I leaned across the console to gaze into his eyes. “Not on your life would I want to get of you, Salvare.”

“You mean
your
life, don’t you”—he leaned toward me for a kiss—“Fireball?”

Marco had started using that nickname on our romantic getaway, and it still had the power to heat up my blood. “You want to see fire?”

“Do you need to ask?” He met my lips in a passionate kiss that swept me back to that dreamy, steamy weekend we spent in Key West only a month before. Then, nibbling a trail along my jaw, he murmured, “I don’t want you to worry about Hudge and Bebe. You take care of your flower shop, let me take care of protecting you, and let the cops handle the investigation.”

“Mmm,” I replied, my eyes still closed, my thoughts taking a leisurely stroll along the white sands of Smathers Beach.

“If Dave Hammond gets the case,” he whispered in my ear, “then we’ll talk about getting involved. In the meantime, I have to head down to the bar to see if my new bartender showed up today. I’ll give you a call in a bit to see how everything is, okay?”

“Mmm.” The warm sand massaged my bare feet; a tropical breeze lifted my hair . . .

He straightened, all business now. “And remember, if you have to go out for any reason, call me. I’ll take you. Not a problem. And make sure the ladies don’t leave you alone for even a minute. You’ve got your cell phone on, right? You’re carrying it with you at all times?”

Great. We were back to the warnings again. Visions of the tropics faded to the stark white snowy backdrop of New Chapel. “Yes to everything. Don’t worry. I’ll be here working away.”

I could tell Marco was about to add another instruction, so I unbuckled my seat belt and got out. “See you later.”

Inside Bloomers, Grace was working alone because Lottie had been asked to come to the station and view the lineup, too. When Lottie returned a short time later, she reported that she had picked out the phony UPS man who, it turned out, was none other than Dwayne Hudge.

When we had a few minutes between customers, I filled my assistants in on what Tara had revealed about the kidnappers’ argument, and how it had most likely led to Charlotte’s death.

“I knew that phony deliveryman was up to no good,” Lottie told us. “I never suspected he was a killer, though. We can breathe a little easier now that Hudge is in custody.”

“But we shan’t let down our guard until we know who hired him,” Grace added. “As Confucius said, ‘Better be despised for too anxious apprehensions, than ruined by too confident security.’ ”

“Good one,” Lottie said, applauding.

When I finally made it back to my workroom, I discovered that none of the orders I’d finished that morning had been delivered because there’d been no one available to deliver them.

Yowzers! We had to get them out! The only problem was that Lottie had begun helping a young couple select flowers from a wedding catalog, and Grace was waiting on three tables full of women downing scones and cups of espresso. I hated to butt in on a job Lottie had started, and I still couldn’t operate the espresso machine, so no way was I going to take over in the parlor. That left asking Marco to come back, so I quickly called the bar.

Gert, a longtime waitress, answered in her gravelly voice, “Down the Hatch.”

“Hi, Gert. It’s Abby. Is Marco busy?”

“He sure is, hon. Just went into a meeting. Want him to call you back when he’s finished? Should be an hour or so . . . unless this is an emergency or something.”

An hour? The shop would close in two hours. I couldn’t afford to wait that long, but I also didn’t want to pull Marco away from something important. “Never mind, Gert. I’ll see him later.”

Damn! It was so frustrating not being able to leave on my own . . . unless I wasn’t the one leaving.

“
W
hat are you doing?” Lottie asked, startling me. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, swaddling my head in a black wool scarf that was already starting to itch. “I’m disguising myself so I can make deliveries.”

“No way, José. My orders are to make sure you don’t leave here alone.”

“But we need to get these out.”

“Well, we’re too busy right now for one of us to go with you, so get on that phone and call your bodyguard.”

Lottie could be a real pain at times. I began to unwind my turban. “I did call Marco. He’s busy, too.”

Lottie held out her hand, and I placed her wool scarf on it. “I’ll make the deliveries,” she said. “You stay with Grace. And by the way, that salesman I told you about left a price list. It’s on your desk. You might want to take a look at it. The prices on orchids are the best I’ve seen this year. The Wilmar Galaxy Star? Under six dollars.”

“Abby?” came Jillian’s shrill voice from the other room.

Lottie gave me a nudge. “There’s another reason you need to stay and I need to leave.”

With a weary sigh, I marched forth to deal with the diva and found her standing in front of the armoire, looking among the gift items, muttering, “Grace said it would be right here.”

“Hey, Jillian, how did you do at the lineup?”

“I picked out the driver of the van,” she said, intent on her search. “Naturally I couldn’t ID the guy in the ski mask.”

“I’m pretty certain the guy in the ski mask was actually a woman named Charlotte Bebe.”

“Hmm.” She felt along the top of a high shelf, clearly not paying attention.

“Didn’t the person who grabbed you talk in a hoarse whisper? And have thin arms?”

“I guess that would explain why the creep took my expensive beret.” Jillian gave up with a huff and put her hands on her hips. “Where is the new brooch your mom said she made? Claymore’s secretary’s birthday is today. She’s old. She likes gaudy jewelry. The brooch sounds perfect for her.”

Ignoring her unintentional slam, I showed her where Grace had put it, except that the brooch wasn’t there. “That’s odd. It was here last Friday.”

“Does that help me
now
?” Jillian asked, her hand on her hip.

“Hang on. It has to be here somewhere.”

While Jillian looked on, tapping the toe of her boot on the tile floor, I hunted all over the shop and finally went into the parlor to ask Grace. She slipped away from her customers long enough to help me hunt, but once again, the brooch had vanished.

“Great,” Jillian said. “This is exactly what happened last time I wanted to buy a brooch.”

“You can always give her a beautiful floral arrangement,” I said.

“I want something unique, Abby. Flowers aren’t unique. I’ll just have to call Claymore again and tell him to come up with something himself.”

The bell over the door jingled and in walked Tara. She wore a puffy orange down jacket, jeans, black gloves and boots, and a backpack on her shoulder. “Hey,” she said, swinging her load onto the decorative bench in the corner. “What’s up?”

“Your collar,” Jillian said, and straightened it. She leaned back to study Tara, then arranged a lock of her hair to cover one eye. “Now all you need is a dab of lip gloss. . . .”

“I’m good, Aunt Jillian,” Tara said, ducking out of reach. She and Jillian were actually first cousins once removed, but Tara preferred to remove her a little further. She opened her backpack and pulled out a manila envelope. “Mom forgot to give these to you, Aunt Abby.”

“How’s your stomach feeling?” I asked her, opening the envelope.

“Why?” Jillian asked, eyeing Tara warily. “Do you have the flu? Are you contagious?”

Tara shrugged. “Maybe. Lots of bugs going around school.”

Jillian immediately distanced herself. “Okay, then. I hope you’re better soon. Gotta run.” She blew kisses and dashed out the door.

“She’s such an easy target.” Tara cupped her hands around her eyes to gaze into the glass-fronted display case. “I almost feel bad about doing that.”

Tara was so much like me, it scared me. I removed the contents of the envelope—a half dozen samples of wedding invitations, and a newspaper advertisement of a sale at a bridal salon—and immediately put them back with an exasperated sigh.

“They’re from Aunt Portia, too,” Tara said, referring to my brother Jonathan’s model-thin wife, “but she didn’t have the strength to stuff the envelope. Mom says if she’d eat more than a teaspoon of applesauce a day, she might have more energy.” Tara took a yellow daisy out of the case, tucked it behind one ear, and checked her reflection in the glass. “How’s this for a junior bridesmaid look?”

“The next customer who needs a junior bridesmaid, I’ll give them your number.”

Suddenly, Tara gasped, then swung around, staring saucer-eyed out the bay window. “It’s Spook Face,” she whispered, and quickly looked away.

“Nils Raand? The guy from the Home and Garden Show?”

Tara barely nodded. “I saw his reflection in the glass. He’s watching us. Don’t look!”

“I have to look.” I moved toward the bay window and peered cautiously outside. “Where is he?”

“On that bench across the street. He’s staring right at us! Call Unc. Hurry.”

I spotted Raand. He was sitting alone on the bench, dressed in a light gray topcoat, one arm draped across the back of the bench, one leg crossed over his knee. Despite his casual posture, he was clearly and intently watching the shop, like a cat watching a mousehole. Was he waiting for me to come outside? Did he want me to see him? Was he trying to unnerve me? Because it was working.

I stepped back behind the counter to pick up the phone, but dialed Reilly’s number instead of Marco’s. As I waited for him to answer, I said to Tara, “Did you call Marco Unc?”

“You won’t let me call him Uncle Marco,” she said, trying not to move her mouth.

“Raand can’t hear you, Tara.”

“He might read lips.”

“Reilly, hi, it’s Abby. Nils Raand is sitting on a bench on the courthouse lawn watching my shop.”

“That’s not against the law, Abby,” Reilly said.

“But I think he’s trying to intimidate me.”

“Still, unless you can prove it . . . Look, tell you what, I’ll drive by and make sure he sees me eyeball him. If that doesn’t do it, I’ll walk over and have a talk with him.”

“Thanks, Reilly. You’re the best.” I hung up and said to Tara, “Cops are on their way.”

Tara turned her head just enough to see out the window; then she relaxed. “Never mind. He left.”

I ran to the window to look out. Not only had Raand left the bench, but I couldn’t see him anywhere on the courthouse property. I searched people getting into cars parked around the square but caught no glimpse of him. Thank goodness both of us had seen him. If it had been only me, I might have thought I’d imagined him.

 

By the time Marco came down to Bloomers to get me at five thirty that evening, I’d had a full day and was ready for a quiet evening. Reilly had stopped by to tell me he hadn’t located Raand and to ask if I was sure I’d actually seen him. After assuring him that Tara could back me up, I asked him to make out a report for the theft of my mom’s brooch. Since it was the second such theft, I thought it important to do so. No one had notified Mom yet. None of us wanted to be the one to break the news.

“Losing one brooch I can almost understand,” I told Marco on the ride home, “because it wouldn’t be difficult to lift a small piece like that. But then to have the second one stolen makes me think it’s more than a coincidence. And then to spot Nils Raand watching us through the window on the same day . . .” I shuddered. “Why would he do that? Is he playing games with me?”