Snipped in the Bud (12 page)

One dark eyebrow lifted slyly. “I think we can do better than a promise.” Then he tilted his head down to meet my lips. Oh, yeah. That was better, all right. Warm, strong hands sliding down my back; firm, manly lips nuzzling, nipping, teasing with little darts of his tongue, melodious chimes ringing in my ears…Wow. That old saying was true! His kiss really
was
setting off bells.

Wait. That was my phone.

Almost at once Marco’s desk phone rang, too. It had to be a conspiracy.

“Hold that thought,” he whispered against my lips, then reached across the desk for the handset. While he was on his call, I dug my phone out of the recesses of my purse and looked at the caller ID. Mom. Who else? She had a sixth sense that seemed to vibrate at critical moments,
Abby alert! Dangerous kissing ahead. Call at once!

Marco held his hand over the phone. “It’s my kid sister. The local cable news station has been running footage of you taken at the protest march. She thought I should know.”

“Swell. That’s bound to help things.” I tucked my phone away. My voice mail could handle Mom for now. One problem at a time.

Marco thanked his sister and hung up. “Looks like you’re a local celebrity.”

“I don’t want to be a local celebrity. I want to arrange flowers. I want to come and go without having to dodge reporters. Most of all, I want to know why your sister thought you should know about my TV coverage. Does she think we’re an item?” I gazed at him hopefully.

Marco had a fleeting expression of panic on his face as he stammered out something about my name coming up once or twice in conversation. So he
had
been talking about me—to family yet. Another glimmer of hope. But had she called out of concern for me, or to warn him to stay away from me because I was bad news?

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, followed by Gert’s gravelly voice. “I don’t want to panic anyone, but I thought Abby should know what’s happening outside the bar.”

Whenever anyone said not to panic, that meant there was a good reason
to
panic. So naturally I was on the verge of panicking when Marco intervened by giving my shoulders a reassuring squeeze and saying quietly next to my ear, “Gert likes to exaggerate. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” Then he swung the door wide. “Come in, Gert.”

The scrawny waitress stuck her head in and gave me a sympathetic look. “I hate to be the one to tell you, Abby, but there’s a mob of angry people on the sidewalk outside and they’re calling for your arrest.”

“T
hey’re calling for my arrest?” That was definitely a time to panic.

“It’s probably a stunt to get in front of the cameras,” Marco assured me. “Don’t worry about it.”

Easy for him to say. He wouldn’t be the one wearing an orange jumpsuit. I sank into one of Marco’s chairs with a groan, picturing hundreds of outraged citizens carrying pitchforks and flaming torches, while a posse in ten-gallon hats strung a noose over a limb on one of the maples edging the courthouse lawn. (I wasn’t sure where the posse had found their ten-gallon hats—Indiana wasn’t exactly known for its cowboys—but imaginations don’t always use logic.)

“Exactly how large is this so-called mob?” Marco asked Gert.

“Twenty people, give or take. Some are carrying signs, and there’s a crew from the cable news station and a couple guys toting professional-looking cameras.”

Marco eyed her skeptically. “How did they find out Abby was here?”

She paused to cough up thirty years’ worth of nicotine-induced phlegm. “They’re not here. They’re in front of Bloomers. We’re just getting the spillover. The bar is full, by the way.”

I was so glad to be of help. Damn that Connor Mackay and his article. I dropped my head in my hands. “How am I going to get around town? I can’t spend the rest of my life—whatever is left of it—running down alleys, dodging angry mobs and crazed reporters.”

“You need a good disguise,” Marco said. “Gert, keep her company. I’ll be right back.”

“Say, doll,” Gert said, crouching in front of me, “I was thinking of planting daisies along the front of my house. What do you know about them? Any particular kind I should look for?”

Without even thinking about it, that part of my brain dedicated to flowers rattled off, “Dendranthema rubellum ‘Clara Curtis.’ Salmon pink, very winter hardy, about fifteen inches high.” Then the rest of my brain sighed morosely. Lottie and Grace must be going crazy at the shop. And I couldn’t get down there to help.

“I’m back,” Marco said. “Try this on.” He handed me a man-sized black rain poncho, which I slipped over my head. He adjusted the drape, pulled up the hood—which completely swallowed my head—then leaned back to study me. “That should work. Let’s give it a try.”

The poncho was so big that it puddled on the floor around me. I couldn’t even find my hands. Before I went out again, I’d have to come up with a better costume than this, not that I didn’t appreciate Marco’s efforts. I gathered the voluminous cape as best I could and stumbled behind him to the back door, waiting while he checked outside.

“All clear.” Marco peered into the hood. “Hang in there, Sunshine,” he said softly. “You’ll be okay.” Then he pressed his lips against mine.

For some silly reason, tears filmed my eyes. I wanted to be more than okay. I wanted to be declared innocent. I wanted the people in town to believe in me again. I wanted to get back to my flowers and have only my normal worries—money and, well, money. But I appreciated Marco’s show of support and would have put my arms around his neck if I could have freed them. “Thanks,” I whispered tearfully.

“Call me tomorrow after you talk to Jocelyn.”

I lifted the hem so I wouldn’t stumble and darted out into my new reality—the alley. As I scurried away, hugging the shadows, dodging garbage cans and waste bins, I had a new-found empathy for rats. Meanwhile, somewhere in town, the real rat was happily cleaning his whiskers, safe in the belief that he or she had gotten away with murder.

I made it to my car with no interference, but couldn’t get
into
my car with so much material draped over me. So I removed the poncho, put it in my trunk, then drove home cautiously, top up, not wanting to exceed the speed limit or blow any stop signs. All I needed was to be pulled over for a traffic violation and have someone from the media find out. I could see the headline now:
LOCAL FLORIST CAUGHT FLEEING TOWN
.

As soon as I had pulled into my parking spot, my cell phone rang, so I checked the screen, saw Mom on it, and decided I’d better answer before she filed a missing-persons report. I forced a cheerful note in my voice. “Mom! I was just thinking about calling you as soon as I finished what I was doing.” That was vague enough to be plausible.

“I’ve been worried sick all day, Abigail. Do you have any idea how upsetting it is for us to see our daughter painted by the media as a murderess?”

Did she have any idea how upsetting it was to
be
that painted daughter?

“People are saying the most horrible things about you and it makes us sick. I’m frightened for you, Abigail. I’ve never seen people so up in arms. Please tell me you got everything straightened out at your meeting.”

“Well…not exactly.”

“You didn’t get it straightened out? I knew I should have had your father use his influence. Hold on while I call him.”

“Mom, wait! This isn’t as simple as taking care of a traffic ticket or bonding me out after a protest march. This is serious. The prosecutor is involved now. If Dad tries to pull strings and someone finds out, people will be even angrier than they are now, and they might take out their anger on me. Besides, I don’t want to stress Dad and possibly bring on another stroke.”

There was a long silence, then she said ruefully, “You’re right. We certainly don’t want that to happen. However, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Thanks, Mom, I appreciate it, but Dave said not to worry. He totally believes justice will be served.”

“But
you’re
worried. I can hear it in your voice.”

“That’s why I’ve enlisted Marco to help me investigate.” I got out of the car, locked it, and headed toward the apartment. “But you can’t tell anyone, especially not Dad. Just tell him Dave Hammond is handling everything.”

“Abigail,” she said, her voice starting to get scratchy, “I love you. Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry. You know me. Caution is my middle name.”

I heard her groan. “Now I’m really worried.”

At that moment a white van with the letters WWIN-TV on the side pulled into the parking lot. I ducked behind a pickup truck and said quietly, “Mom, I need to hang up now. I’ve got some reporters to dodge.” I shut the phone, clamped my purse beneath my elbow, and took off for the front door like a quarterback making a run for the goalposts.

When I burst into the apartment and slammed the door behind me, breathless from my dash up the steps, Jillian was using her laptop at the table. She gave me a glance, then went back to the screen. “I can’t decide which headboard to buy. Come take a look.”

“Jillian,” I said, trying not to wheeze, “I just ran up two flights of stairs to outrun a camera crew from WWIN, and that was just one of many bad things that happened today. The last thing I want to do is pick out a headboard. Now if you really want to help—”

She swivelled to stare at me. “Are you serious? A camera crew from WWIN? I’ll bet it’s for their program
Whoosier Who’s in the News
.” Shoving back her chair, she ran to the window that looked out over the parking lot. “Are they still out there? Maybe I can snag an interview to plug my home-shopping business.”

I tackled her as she flew toward the door, hanging on to her arms to drag her to a stop. “If you leave this apartment to talk to those reporters, I’ll tell them you were jilted on your honeymoon.”

Jillian swung to face me, her eyes slits of outrage. “You wouldn’t!”

“Watch me.”

She glared for a long moment, bosom heaving, then snapped, “Fine. I won’t go out there, but I hope your conscience bothers you for depriving me of free advertising.”

“If it will make you feel better, I swear to you, my conscience will never be the same.”

“The only thing that will make me feel better,” she said, straightening her blouse, “is if you tell me which headboard you like.” She took a seat at the table and waited for me to join her.

I thought about locking myself in the bathroom and having a nice, hot soak in the tub, but she’d only pick the lock with a straightened paper clip, take a seat on the edge of the tub with the computer on her knees, and drive me crazy in there. I didn’t know how mothers with little children managed.

There was only one thing to do and that was to select the stupid headboard and be done with it. So, after studying the photos on the screen, I pointed to a really cool rattan one in caramel with dark brown trim.

“I knew you’d choose that one.” She put the cursor on a little box that said
BUY NOW
and clicked on it.

“Jillian, you checked the white wrought-iron headboard, not the rattan one.”

“I know.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because we have opposite tastes.”

In Jillian’s world, that made perfect sense. She bookmarked the page and sighed contentedly. “That’s one item off my list. What do you say we have dinner and you can tell me all about your bad day and I’ll tell you all about my good day?”

“Fair enough. Are you cooking?”

Jillian thought a moment, then nodded. My cousin’s idea of cooking dinner was to warm up a container of veal ragout that she had ordered from a restaurant. Apparently she was serious about not leaving the building, which was odd when I stopped to think about it. Jillian had always loved to be out and about. But since there was enough in my life that needed investigating at the moment, I put that thought aside and instead told Jillian about my interview with the police and my instant celebrity status of the worst kind.

“That really sucks, Abby,” she said as we cleared the kitchen table. “Maybe you should call that wixy Connor and give him your side of the story so people will leave you alone.”

“Are you talking about the guy who, according to you, threatened me?”

“I said he
sounded
threatening, not that he actually did threaten you.”

“I’m supposed to keep a low profile, remember? Dave wouldn’t be happy if I started blabbing to the press. Besides, Connor might twist my words and make me look even guiltier.”

“He didn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”

“You didn’t even see him, Jill. You only heard his voice—which you just said sounded threatening.”

She flipped back her long hair. “He was merely trying to get you to call him. Actually, he’s a very decent guy.”

“And you know that how?”

“His voice. I can tell a lot by a person’s voice.”

“Right. That’s why you agreed to go out on a date with a man who turned out to be a convicted felon doing time for auto theft. Lucky for you, the warden intervened.”

“How was I to know the guy taking my telephone order was a prison inmate? Never mind about that. Do you want me to pull together a few disguises for you?”

“They have to be better than your knit cap.”

“That hat was your idea. Just put yourself in my hands for an hour and I’ll design personas that will change you so completely your own mother won’t recognize you.”

A tall order for a short person like me, no irony intended, but there was no harm in letting her try. “That would be great, Jill. Thanks.”

“And in return,” she said happily, starting for the door, “you can help me choose the rest of my furniture. I’ll be right back.”

It was a small price to pay for freedom.

While she was gone, I washed and dried the dishes and fed Simon, who had scampered into the kitchen as soon as his little cat radar had informed him that the maniac was out of the house. He gobbled the food, shooting anxious looks at the door, and finished just as Jillian returned with an armful of clothing. The last I saw of him was the tip of his white tail as he shot around the corner heading for the safety of Nikki’s bedroom window.

For the next hour I played store mannikin while Jillian concocted my disguises, pulling outfits from her racks of haute couture, which included some pretty bizarre getups. We followed that up with another hour of Web shopping, after which I decided to try out one of my new personas so I could go to the shop. I really wanted to go to my shop. I needed to dig my fingers into rich, dark loam, inhale the fragrance of sweet roses, and abandon myself in a fit of creativity that would soothe my stifled soul. I’d inherited that from my mother, too.

With Jillian looking on, I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror and pronounced it very cool. Wearing a black Fedora hat, belted trench coat, slacks, and boots with three-inch stack heels, my red hair tucked safely out of sight, I looked like a private eye straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie.

I tilted the brim down over one eye and said in my best Bogie accent, “Stand back,
schweetheart
. The feisty florist is coming through.”

Jillian merely shook her head as if she thought I was pathetic.

The cable news crew had decamped sometime during the evening, leaving the coast clear all the way into town. I played it safe by taking Jillian’s gold Volvo instead of the bright yellow Corvette, and parking a block away from the shop. But I still had to use the front entrance to get inside Bloomers because of the security alarm. Luckily, there were only a few people on the sidewalk and they appeared to be heading into Marco’s bar. Still, I kept my head down as I slipped into the first recessed doorway, then darted into the next one, which, happily, was mine. I worked the lock, shut the door behind me, and punched in the code to shut off the alarm.