Sleeping with Anemone (29 page)

Attorney Knowles leaned toward the microphones. “We’ll take this case step by step. Our first order of business is to clear this man’s name.”

A woman reporter stepped forward, a cameraman at her shoulder. “We understand there’s been some controversy surrounding the opening of what has been called Uniworld’s dairy factory, and, more important, Uniworld’s use of bovine hormones in the operation of that factory. How would you address those issues?”

“It would be unthinkable for Uniworld to be involved in anything unethical,” Raand said. “Every Uniworld product is USDA certified. What’s more, we are a family-oriented company and this will be a standard dairy farm that will employ members of your own community. It is unfathomable to me that anyone would be opposed to that.”

“That is such a load of propaganda,” I said.

“Does this hormone controversy have anything to do with why you were arrested?” the woman reporter asked.

Knowles started to answer, but Raand beat him to it. “Yes, it does. I was arrested because of one woman’s personal vendetta against me.”

“I can’t watch this.” I started to get up, but the reporter’s next question stopped me cold.

“Can you name the woman?”

“Her identity is no secret,” Raand said coolly. “Her shop is there”—he pointed—“across the street. Bloomers Flower Shop. I believe you know Ms. Knight has been campaigning against Uniworld and me for some time. But her vendetta will stop now.” He looked directly into the television camera, his icy glare seeming to stare right at me. “I will see to that.”

At Raand’s statement, a dozen hands went up and a reporter called, “Are you going to sue Ms. Knight?”

“No comment,” Knowles said. “Thank you for your time.” He took Raand’s arm and led him toward a waiting car.

I put the bowl aside and sagged against the back of the sofa.

Energy gone.

 

I didn’t talk much as Marco drove me to my parents’ house. I was still brooding about Raand’s threat against me. Didn’t he realize the campaign had already stopped? Hadn’t he noticed the absence of protesters?

Marco’s thoughts, however, were on more immediate concerns. “Did your mom say she’d have the soup ready when we got there?”

“Do you mean like bring-it-to-the-curb ready? Right. Dream on.”

I’d called Mom before we left the apartment to ask if I could have a container of her soup. Naturally, that had led to a round of questions about my health, even though I assured her the soup was for a sick friend. The only way to convince her I was fine was to let her see me.

“We won’t have to stay long,” I assured Marco. “Mom will be getting ready to leave for school.”

“Then we’ll head straight for Morgan’s house,” he said, glancing at me for confirmation.

“I was thinking more like midmorning. There’s usually a lull at the shop then.”

Marco turned into my parents’ driveway and pulled up to their garage door, which they’d left open for us. Keeping a sharp eye on our surroundings, he hustled me inside the garage and through the door that led into Mom’s studio.

As we circled the pottery wheel in the middle of the room, Marco said, “So this is where she makes her—” He paused as though searching for the right word.

“Art,” I supplied.

The studio had once been an enclosed porch off the kitchen, but a remodel job had fixed that. Now it had a clay tile floor, and lots of counter space and cabinets to hold her craft supplies. I did a quick sweep of the room and saw traces of straw in a corner where Taz, her pet llama, had slept before she’d had the shed out back converted to a heated barn. I didn’t see any brooches. Maybe she’d decided not to make more after all.

I opened the door to the kitchen and called, “We’re here, Mom. Dad.”

Marco followed me into the long, rectangular kitchen. Decorated in the 1980s, it had white appliances, oak cabinets, forest green laminated counters, and mauve, blue, and green floral wallpaper. A rectangular oak table with white legs and five ladderback chairs were arranged in front of a window that looked out on the backyard. There was no chair at the head of the table. That was Dad’s place.

My dad wheeled himself into the kitchen to greet us. I gave him a kiss and Marco shook his hand. “Got a minute to sit down?” Dad asked us, indicating the chairs.

“Sorry,” I said, “lots to do, Dad. Does Mom have the soup ready?”

“It’s in the fridge,” Dad said, then lowered his voice. “And just to warn you, we saw Raand’s press conference on TV. Your mom”—he heard her coming and said in a normal voice—“was very upset by his statements.”

“I’m furious about them,” Mom said, sweeping into the kitchen with her coat over her arm. “How dare that sorry excuse for a man accuse you of having a personal vendetta against him and then make noises like he was some kind of mobster out to get you. I hope he’s convicted.”

Having said her piece, she kissed Marco and me on our cheeks, whipped out the container of frozen soup, and put it in a paper sack with handles. I held out my hand to take it, but she plunked the bag on the floor. “Stick out your tongue.”

“Mom, I’m not sick. The soup is for a friend.”

“You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble if you do as your mother says,” Dad told me.

I stuck out my tongue. Mom inspected it, felt the temperature of my forehead, checked the color of my eyeballs, probed the glands beneath my jaws, and pronounced me healthy. She turned toward Marco with every intention of giving him an exam, too, but I grabbed her hand before she could lay it on his forehead. “Marco’s not sick, either.”

“Do you have any news on the kidnapping case?” Dad asked Marco.

“Nothing yet, sir, but I’m working on it.”

“Gave up on the detectives, did you?” Dad asked.

“Unfortunately,” Marco said, “they’ve had their hands tied.”

“The DA is gung ho for Raand, isn’t he?” Dad asked.

“He should be,” Mom said. “Only an evil person would condone injecting bovine hormones into those poor cows and letting them suffer so. It breaks my heart to think about them spending their entire lives in that condition, and locked in tiny stalls, as well, with no room to move. On our farm, our cows were well treated and happy, and they produced plenty of milk. We didn’t even have to pasteurize it, which destroys most of its nutrients, you know. It was as fresh as God intended.” She glanced at my dad. “Should I tell them my news now, Jeff?”

“Why not?” he said.

She smiled. “You are looking at the new head of the local chapter of PAR.”

I gaped at her, picturing her carrying a sign and calling orders from a bullhorn as she led protesters around Uniworld’s warehouse, while inside, Raand plotted her demise.

“Don’t look so shocked, Abigail. I told you I wanted to help. When I contacted the president of the state organization and volunteered my services, a nice woman there said you had just notified her that you were unable to do any organizing, so she was thrilled that I called.”

“Mom, I’m sure she appreciated your offer, but you heard Raand threaten me. If you organize any protests, he’ll turn on you. Right, Marco?”

“Abby has a point, Mrs. Knight.”

“I’m not going to lead a protest march,” Mom said. “I have a better way of making sure those cows aren’t mistreated.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Now, I’ve got to get going.”

“Aren’t you going to tell us?” I asked.

Her eyes sparkled impishly. “Not yet. When the time is right.”

I glanced at my dad. “She doesn’t know how to build bombs, does she?”

“No,” Dad said, “but her red pepper hearts can certainly ignite a few fires.” He wheeled his chair toward the doorway to the living room, calling, “Marco, you’ve got to see this.”

Mom sighed as she slipped on her coat. “He gets such a kick out of those candy hearts. Did I tell you he put them on the coffee table in a glass jar so he can tease me about them?”

“You could just toss them out.”

“I’ll let your father have his fun. Just wait, though, until my brooches become a must-have accessory. We’ll see who has the last laugh then.”

“So you’re definitely making more?”

“Of course. If they’re valuable enough to swipe, they must be a hot item. You don’t mind if I hang on to your brooch a bit longer, do you?”

At that moment, Marco came to the doorway with his cell phone pressed to his ear. “It’ll be fine, Rafe. Let me call you back after I get Abby over to Bloomers.”

He shut his phone and slid it in his back pocket. At my quizzical glance, he said quietly, “I’ll tell you later.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Is everything all right?” Mom asked.

Marco gazed at me as he answered. “Everything is fine.”

He was lying.

A
s soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I said, “What’s up with Rafe?” “Mama is coming in tomorrow and he’s worried.”

I sympathized with Rafe. The first time I met Mrs. Salvare, she invited me to dinner, grilled me on my plans for the future, and got me drunk on wine—on purpose. A test of character, according to Marco. He said I passed, but I still had my doubts, and I still got nervous whenever she came to town.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“She says she wants to see how her little boy is faring. Rafe is worried that she’s coming to take him back with her.”

“Rafe is a grown man. Can’t he just tell her he’s staying here?”

“Rafe needs to grow a spine before he can do that.”

“You can’t just say he has to grow a spine, Marco. The poor guy has to gain confidence before he can stand up to your mother. Getting this new job on his own is a good first step.”

“He dropped out of college and is working at Hooters learning how to tend bar. That may boost Rafe’s self-confidence, but it’s not going to inspire a whole lot of assurance in Francesca Salvare, trust me.”

I saw Marco’s point. Poor Rafe. No wonder he was worried. But then another thought crossed my mind. “What if your mom has an ulterior motive for coming to town?”

Marco glanced at me. “What would that be?”

“Us.”

He pondered that for a moment. “You’re right. We haven’t made our announcement yet.”

“Exactly.”

“We haven’t had that discussion yet, either.”

With all the turmoil, I’d pushed it out of my mind. “We probably should.”

“When? Now?”

Now? I’d just mentioned it. I had to prepare. “Not now. We’re almost at Bloomers.”

“How about at lunch?”

“Lottie and Grace will be there. Can we make it at dinner?”

“Done.”

“Next problem—my mom. I have to talk her out of working for PAR.”

“Abby, you know there’s no way to stop her.”

“I have to try. Once Raand finds out about her involvement, he’ll come after both of us. I can’t expose her to that. I’ll confer with Dad. Maybe he can talk sense into her.”

As was now our procedure, Marco phoned ahead to alert Lottie and Grace of our impending arrival, so that when we pulled up, the women were standing guard at the door, scanning up and down the sidewalk for any signs of danger. I was beginning to understand how a movie star felt as I was whisked into the store with my security entourage around me.

With the door locked firmly behind me, and Marco on his way to park the car, my first order of business was to grab a cup of Grace’s coffee, then sit down with both women to fill them in on my visit to the hospital and subsequent trip to New Buffalo. They had lots of questions about Honey Bebe and Harding and whether they were linked to the kidnappings, but, unfortunately, I didn’t have lots of answers.

As we were discussing Honey’s disappearing act, the phone rang and Lottie got up to answer it in the shop.

“Abby,” she called from the doorway, “I’ve got that salesman on hold. You remember the one who left you that little flashlight? Do you want to speak to him?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look at his price list, but if it will stop his annoying calls, I’ll take it.” I had started toward the phone at the cashier’s counter when Marco rapped on the door.

I let him in, and he strode past me, saying, “I think I know where I can find more information on Charlotte.”

“Where?”

“Come see.”

I started to follow him, but then Lottie cleared her throat and pointed to the phone, where the light was blinking. “Would you take a message, please?” I asked her. “Tell the salesman I’ll try to find time later today to call him.”

I followed Marco into the workroom and leaned over his shoulder as he logged on to the computer and began to type. But after a few minutes of watching him search through pages of results, I grew bored and decided to work on an order. I plucked a slip off the spindle and studied the instructions Grace had written:
Ninety-fifth birthday bouquet. Recipient—Jennie Helen Bolek. Bright colors. Fun.
I loved doing bright and fun, and for a ninety-fifth birthday, it had to be extra special.