Sleeping with Anemone (23 page)

Grace cleared her throat and took hold of the edges of her cardigan.

Here it came, her quote for the day.

“As Logan Pearsall Smith once said,” Grace began, “ ‘Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.’ Now,
what,
I ask you, does the name Honey B. Haven say about
her
behavior?”

Lottie snorted. “Maybe she should’ve called herself Honey
Mis
behavin.’ ”

“Did she recognize you, Abby?” Grace asked.

“I think so,” I said. “She did a double take.”

“You know,” Lottie said, “now that you mention her, I could swear I saw a woman who looked like Honey in the shop last week.”

“That’s weird, because I thought I caught a glimpse of her, too,” I said.

“I can’t imagine Tom Harding’s girlfriend setting foot in Bloomers,” Grace said. “Not after Abby was instrumental in sending her man to prison. Don’t you remember the hateful looks that dreadful creature was giving Abby during the trial?”

That was a memory to treasure.

“Maybe Honey was buying flowers to take to her jack-ass boyfriend,” Lottie said.

“Here?” I asked. “Why not at Harding’s former business, Tom’s Green Thumb? Or even the grocery store?”

“ ’Tis indeed a puzzler,” Grace said.

“Here’s a thought,” I said. “What if Harding was behind the kidnappings, and Honey stole the brooches?”

“But why single out the brooches?” Grace asked.

Marco walked up behind us. “Can I guess what this conversation is about?”

The shoppers brought a silk flower arrangement to the counter, so Grace, Marco, and I stepped away while Lottie rang them up.

“Since we have a bit of a lull,” Grace said, “shall we repair to the parlor for some tea?”

 

“That was Reilly on the phone,” Marco said as we gathered at a table with a fresh pot of tea. “He told me that after Harding was sent downstate to a prison facility, they had so much overcrowding, he was returned to our county jail to wait for an opening. While he was at the jail, he was diagnosed with lymphoma, but because the sheriff’s budget can’t afford long-term treatment for prisoners, he was quietly OR’d and transferred to the hospital.”

“What’s OR’d?” Lottie asked.

“Released on his own recognizance,” Marco explained, “making Harding responsible for the cost of his medical care. In between treatments, he’s allowed to recuperate at home. If and when he recovers from his illness, he’ll go back to prison.”

“All those bandages on his head are from his cancer treatments?” I asked.

Marco shrugged. “I don’t know anything about lymphoma.”

“Well, I don’t care how sick he is,” I said. “It doesn’t seem fair to let him out of jail on his own recognizance. He should have guards.”

“Marco, love,” Grace said, “would you explain how it’s possible for a man serving a twenty-year prison sentence to be released after a mere six months? Even an ill man? As Abby pointed out, that doesn’t seem fair.”

“Here’s how the system works in Indiana,” Marco said. “Every person sentenced to prison goes first to a central reception center to be evaluated for assignment to the appropriate facility. In Tom’s case, the facility where he was assigned was severely overcrowded. Since this was Harding’s first offense, someone decided he’d be a good candidate to return to the county jail to wait there.

“And by the way, most of the prisons in this state are overcrowded and getting worse by the day, but the cost of building new facilities is more than our current economy can handle, so there are a lot of inmates being OR’d.”

“Is Harding being monitored at least?” Grace asked. “An ankle bracelet, perhaps?”

“I’m certain he’s being monitored,” Marco said. “He’s just not in jail.”

“So it’s all about dollars and cents,” Lottie said with a disgusted shake of her head. She started to sip her tea, then cocked an ear toward the doorway. “Was that the bell over the door?”

We stopped talking to listen. Lottie got up, walked to the doorway to glance around the shop, and came back. “Nobody there. I must be hearing things.”

Grace clucked her tongue. “OR’d. I never knew such a thing was possible.”

“I wish I didn’t know,” Lottie added. “It doesn’t give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. . . . Okay, now, did anyone hear
that
jingle?” She got up to look around the shop, returning a moment later. “I don’t know what I keep hearing.”

“Would anyone care for more tea?” Grace asked, rising.

At that moment, the bell jingled with gusto, but Lottie kept sipping her tea.

“I’ll get it,” I said, and stood up, causing Lottie to glance at me in surprise.

“Was that for real?”

“Yes, Lottie, dear, that was real,” Grace said.

Lottie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I thought I was losing it.”

Three of our regular coffee customers peeked into the parlor. “You’re still open, aren’t you?” one asked.

“Yes, we are,” Grace said, going into action. “Do come in and sit down. We have lovely pecan scones today.”

 

Break time over, Lottie stayed up front to man the shop while Marco returned to my computer, and I gathered supplies for the next order.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I glanced at the shiny, credit card-sized object in his hand. It was pale green with the image of a pink hibiscus on the front. “Where did you find it?”

“On your desk.” He turned it over, revealing printing on the bottom.

“Aloha Florals, Limited, Maui,” Marco read. “Keahi Kana, sales associate, with a telephone number.”

“Must be his business card.”

“Kind of thick for a business card.” Marco examined it, then pressed a button on one edge and a beam of light came from the other. “It’s a pocket flashlight.”

He handed it to me, and I switched it off and on again. “Perfect for my purse. It feels good, too, silky smooth. Looks like it’s made from crushed seashells.”

Lottie came through the curtain and saw us playing with it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that salesman I mentioned yesterday—the one offering those great bargain prices on exotics—left that for you. He said to give him a call if you’re interested in placing an order.”

“Determined, isn’t he?” Marco said, returning to the computer screen.

“That’s a salesman for you,” Lottie said. “Always trying to push something, always with an agenda, always schmoozing with clients, yakkity-yakkity-yak all the time. I can’t imagine living like that.”

The bell over the door jingled, prompting Lottie to grab the basket she had come for and return to the front, still grumbling to herself.

“I can imagine it,” Marco muttered.

I stowed the flashlight in my purse, then studied the next order.
Okay, here we go. An anniversary bouquet for delivery tomorrow morning.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. One hour before closing. Plenty of time for me to do the bouquet.

Or . . .

I could try to find out why Harding was in the hospital.

Hold it, Flower Girl
.
Tom Harding isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. So let’s focus on our career so it doesn’t fall into the toilet, okay?

Sometimes that voice of reason wasn’t reasonable at all. If Harding was dying, would it hurt to find out how long he had? Ghoulish or not, I wouldn’t breathe easy until Harding’s balloon had passed way beyond
my
stratosphere.

I slipped into the kitchen, lifted the receiver from the base on the wall, and punched in Nikki’s cell phone number. She’d be on duty in the X-ray department, so I hoped she’d have time to slip up to the second-floor nurses’ station and take a peek at Harding’s chart.

So as not to be overheard by Hot Pockets, I stretched the cord all the way over to the hallway that led to the basement and sat down on the top stair. I hated corded phones, but at least this cord was long.

My call went straight to Nikki’s voice mail.
Damn.
I forgot the hospital rule that the employees had to keep their phones off during work hours. Now what?

There was a tug on the cord. I glanced around and there stood the light of my life, arms folded, gazing at me speculatively. “What are you doing?”

“I was . . . ordering your birthday present. I didn’t want you to hear what I got you.”

“Ordering my present? Really. Do you know when my birthday is?”

“Well, of course I know!”

He lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

Marco’s birthday was—
damn!
How could I have forgotten it?

Oh, wait. I knew this one. It was three days before Nikki’s. “July fifteenth.” I smiled.

“You’re ordering a present five months in advance?”

“Well,” I said, my mind working at warp speed, “it takes that long to . . . be . . . manufactured.”

“Manufactured?”

“Actually, made by hand. Don’t ask me any more questions about it, because I won’t answer. It’s a surprise.”

A surprise to both of us.

“Well,” I said, rising, “now that
that’s
done, I can get back to work.” Ignoring Marco’s questioning gaze, I replaced the receiver and returned to the workroom, making straight for the walk-in cooler. I stepped inside and began to pull stems for the order.

Okay, back to the Harding puzzle. Nikki wasn’t answering her phone, so either I’d have to wait until tomorrow and hope she had time to do a little detective work during the afternoon, or I could drop by the hospital tonight to ask her in person. So, do it sooner or later?

A no-brainer for sure.

 

With only thirty minutes to go before we turned the sign to CLOSED, I got a call on my cell phone from my cousin, Jillian the pest.

“Hey, Abs? Your mom said she made more brooches, but before I make the trip down to Bloomers again, you
do
have one I can buy, right?”

“I do. In fact, I have twelve brooches, Jillian.”

“I don’t need to buy twelve. Just one.”

“I didn’t say you had to
buy
twelve. What I meant was—never mind. Do you want me to gift wrap one for you?”

“That’d be awesome. Do you have gold paper?”

“No, floral.”

“How about silver?”

“Floral, Jillian. When did you see my mom?”

“I was having lunch with my mom when your mom called about dinner at the club tomorrow night, and she mentioned making more brooches. She also said to remind you to bring Marco.”

“Marco can’t make it tomorrow.”

“Wink, wink,” Jillian said.

“No, seriously, Jill, he has to work on a PI case.”

Jillian huffed. “How are you two ever going to make a marriage work with you spending your days at Bloomers and Marco spending his nights doing two other jobs?”

That was an issue we hadn’t tackled yet, and I wasn’t about to get into it now with Jillian. I carried my cell phone into the shop, heading toward the armoire to pick out one of the brooches. “Are you going to stop by for the brooch before we close?”

“Yes, if you’re sure you
have
a brooch for me.”

“I told you, Jillian, I have twelve—”

Make that none.

T
he mirrored tray was empty. Where did the brooches go? “Hold on, Jillian.” I glanced around at Lottie, who was rearranging the flowers in the glass case. “Did you sell any brooches today?”

“No, why?”

“I can’t find them.”

“You gotta be kidding me.” Lottie took a look for herself, then headed toward the parlor. At the doorway, she asked, “Gracie, did you put the brooches somewhere?”

“On the mirrored tray.”

“They’re not on the tray now,” Lottie said.

Grace came out of the parlor to help us search the shop; then the three of us stood in front of the armoire, staring at the empty tray as if somehow the brooches would magically reappear.

“I’ll be doggone,” Lottie said. “Someone swiped ’em again.”

“Do we have a thief with an anthurium fetish?” Grace asked.

“Abby!” the phone squawked.

“Jillian, I’ll have to call you back.” I hit the END button and set the cell phone on the armoire.

“What the hell is going on with these brooches?” Lottie asked.

Marco came through the curtain. “Something wrong?”

“The damn brooches are gone,” Lottie said. “All twelve of ’em. Now, how could someone get a dozen brooches out of here without us seeing a thing?”

“Remember when you thought you heard the bell jingle?” Grace asked Lottie. “Is it possible someone slipped in and nicked them?”

“But I looked twice and didn’t see anybody,” Lottie said.

“Still,” Grace said, “it’s odd you heard the jingle twice, isn’t it?”

“Did you just discover they were gone?” Marco asked.

“Jillian called about them,” I said. “Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have noticed until tomorrow.”