Snipped in the Bud (13 page)

For two hours my hands flew and my soul sang as I created one masterpiece after another—a fall cornucopia display for a bank lobby, a fiftieth-wedding-anniversary bouquet, several new-baby planters, birthday baskets, and one dining-room-table arrangement of which I was particularly proud.

Using an eighteen-inch-long copper container, I gathered large, off-white spider mums, deep red roses, yellow sunflowers, orange carnations, and yellow, two-toned roses, with green button mums and variegated ivy as filler, cut the stems short, and created a low, plush mound of autumn color that looked good enough to eat. I attached a note addressed to Lottie that said,
An Abby Knight original. How do you like it?
Then I placed it on a wire shelf in the walk-in cooler. I put the stack of orders on the worktable with another note that said, “All finished. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it’s going.”

Then I shut off the lights, put on the black hat and coat, reset the alarm, and quietly eased open the door and slipped outside, pulling it shut behind me. I felt whole again. I felt confident and useful and—

“Police!” a deep voice commanded from behind. “Hold it right there.”

—scared.

“P
ut your hands in the air, turn around slowly, and step out where we can see you,” a policeman commanded. My heart gave a shudder. They must have thought I was a burglar. Either that or they’d decided to arrest me for murder after all.

Wait a minute. Didn’t I know that voice? With my hands raised I said shakily, “Reilly, is that you? It’s me, Abby. See?” Since my hands were already in the vicinity of my head, I used them to lift the hat, freeing my hair.

There was a sharp exhale of breath, then he said, “Damn it, Abby. What the hell are you doing sneaking around in the dark in that getup?”

“Is it all right if I put my hands down?”

“Yes,” he snarled.

I lowered my arms and turned. Reilly was alone, dressed in denim jeans and a collared knit shirt. The only thing that identified him as a cop was the gun in his hand, which he immediately tucked into the back of his pants.

With a sigh of relief, I put the hat back on my head and tucked my hair beneath it. “I had to wear a disguise because I’ve been hounded by reporters all day. Looks like I fooled you, too.”

“You almost got knocked flat on your ass is what you did.” He stepped up closer to study me. “Reporters are hassling you?”

“ATV crew even followed me home tonight. Gather round, folks. Come see the homicidal florist. Watch her wield her knife on the poor, defenseless bleeding hearts.” I sighed dejectedly.

He gazed at me as if he actually felt sorry for me. Then a shutter seemed to fall behind his eyes and he became the cop again. “Look, the next time you decide to slink around here in the dark, let me know so I can make sure no one arrests you for breaking and entering. Okay?”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Reilly. Are you working undercover tonight?”

“No, I just stopped at the bar for a sandwich. I’m on the graveyard shift this week. Do you need me to walk you to your car?”

He meant it kindly, but my independent nature was too strong to accept his offer. “I can handle it, but thanks.” As he turned to go, I said impulsively, “Reilly, do you honestly believe I could have murdered someone?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I just do my job.”

“No, it does matter what you think. That’s the problem with you guys. You need to think more often.”

Reilly turned and walked away as I called, “It’s why Marco left the force, you know. He decided it mattered what he thought, too.”

People were coming out of Marco’s bar, so I turned up the collar of Jillian’s trench coat, went home, and crawled into bed, still thinking about people like Reilly and my dad, who just did their jobs, no questions asked. What made them different from the Marcos of the world, who needed to make their own decisions? Or people like me, who seemed to be constantly battling dragons—big ones, little ones, pencil-hurling ones—

“Abby, help me!” Jillian cried, barging into my bedroom just as I was drifting into a nice, deep sleep. “I lost a dog.”

And annoying ones. I had to get my apartment key back.

“Shush, Jill,” I whispered. “You’ll wake Nikki.”

“Nikki isn’t home yet. You have to help me, Abby. I don’t know where else to turn.”

I knew I’d be sorry I asked, but there was no way out. I sat up, leaned my pillow against the headboard, and waved a hand at her. “Go ahead. I’m listening. How did you lose a dog?”

Jillian plopped down on the side of the bed, bouncing me an inch off the mattress. “You know how Mrs. Sample dotes on her Chihuahua?”

“You lost Peewee?” I shrieked, causing her to put her hands over her ears. “Jillian, if anything happens to that dog, the Samples will never forgive us!”

“I didn’t lose him on purpose. Here’s what happened. Not long after you left, Mrs. Sample came over to ask if you would check in on Peewee tonight and tomorrow morning because she and Mr. Sample had to go somewhere—I can’t remember where—to the hospital maybe. He might be ill. Anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is that I said you would, but then you didn’t come home, so I took Peewee out for a walk, and somehow he got away.”

“You told her
I
would check up on her dog? What were you thinking? You know that mutt hates me. All right. Okay. Never mind about that. How did he get off his leash?”

Jillian started twirling a lock of her hair, always a sign that something bad was coming. “It’s a harness, not a leash—and before you hit me with the pillow, let me explain. Mrs. Sample said Peewee won’t go outside without his sweater, but he snapped at me when I tried to shove his legs in the sleeves, so no way was I going to tackle the harness. I herded him into the elevator and out the front door onto the grass, figuring it would only take him a few seconds to do his business, then I’d herd him back inside. But he kept sniffing under a bush and didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so I made a phone call. Then I turned around and he was gone. But he can’t have gone far, can he?”

“How long was it between the time you made the call and the time you turned around?”

She shrugged. “Ten minutes.”

I got up and tugged my khakis over my pj bottoms. “Did you look behind the building?”

“I looked everywhere. I even asked these two cute guys if they’d help.”

I pulled a T-shirt over my head. “What cute guys?”

“I didn’t know them. They must live in the building. They were getting into a gray minivan, so I ran over and explained the problem, but they didn’t have time to do more than make a quick inspection of the parking lot.”

I slipped on my flip-flops, grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen junk drawer, and headed for the hallway. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

We searched all around the building, under the cars, and behind shrubs, and when Nikki got home, we enlisted her help, too, but there was no sign of Peewee. Jillian was so distraught that I didn’t dare tell her I had a strong hunch we’d never see the little dog again, for fear of losing the rest of the night’s sleep.

An hour and a half later we clumped back upstairs and gave Jillian a list of whom to call in the morning—the animal shelter, local veterinarians, the police, and the Samples. Then Nikki and I retreated to our apartment to eat Nikki’s newest dessert craze—raspberry fruit bars—while I updated her on my day. We discussed my disguise for the next day and the questions I needed to ask Jocelyn Puffer. Then, bleary-eyed and sugar sated, we stumbled off to our respective rooms for some sorely needed slumber.

But as I lay there drifting off to sleep I kept thinking about the vehicle Jillian had seen. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a gray minivan in our parking lot. Was it a coincidence that the two guys were there when the dog disappeared? More important, why was I staying up to worry about a dog when my own neck was on the line?

At nine o’clock the next morning, I peered at the strange-looking woman in my bathroom mirror—the one in a Bill Blass silk charmeuse kimono in a subdued black floral print, wrapped across the front, tied at the waist, and falling just to her knees, her hair covered by a black and silver braided silk scarf turban, her earlobes sporting three-inch silver hoops, her eyes exotic smudges of dark brown shadow, her lips coppery-pink petals, her face glowing with bronzer, looking like she’d spent a month in the sun—and wondered who the hell would be dumb enough to fall for this disguise. I mean, my face was still my face, tanned, turbaned, or not.

I glanced down at my legs, encased in long, black, high-heeled boots. I did feel very exotic…and tall…and there weren’t any freckles or red hair to give me away—a good thing, too, since another Connor Mackay story had made the front page of the
News
that morning. I tucked in one last strand of hair and made a face at myself. Hmm. Maybe I wouldn’t be recognized after all.

In his article, Connor had interviewed a few of Carson Reed’s associates, including law professor Myra Baumgarten and good old Z. Archibald Puffer. None could understand why anyone—with the possible exception of me—would want to murder Reed. After all, he was an all-around great guy, a stupendous professor, and a supportive colleague. And Puffer was more than happy to mention my dispute with Reed, which Puffer claimed dated from my dismal attempt to become a lawyer, long before the protest at the cosmetics lab.

Naturally, Puffer hadn’t mentioned
his
role in my short stay at the law school, nor did he state that the only reason I’d gone to the school the morning of the murder was because of him, not because of any beef I had with Carson Reed. Why would he?

The second page of the newspaper had been filled with letters to the editor raging against the injustice of a law professor, especially one as noble as Carson Reed, being struck down in his prime by one disgruntled animal rights activist who fronted as a florist. Where were all the people who had marched alongside me at Dermacol? Why weren’t they writing letters on my behalf ? Had the entire town turned against me? I was so furious that I dug out Connor’s number and almost called him to set the record straight. Then I imagined what Dave would say and reluctantly put away the card to get on with the business at hand—proving myself innocent.

Nikki was still sound asleep—something a person who worked afternoon shifts could do—so I tiptoed down the hallway, retrieved my purse from the kitchen counter, and let myself out of the apartment. I had already checked the parking lot from the window and hadn’t seen any reporters or TV vans, so I felt pretty confident that I was in the clear. But just to play it safe, I used Nikki’s little white Toyota to drive into town, parked on a side street, and casually strolled up the block toward Lincoln, where Books of Olde, the rare and used books store, was located.

From that vantage point I could look diagonally across the square and see that the marchers had returned to Bloomers, and it looked like their numbers had grown. I wondered briefly whether my side had picked up any supporters at all.

Suddenly I heard, “Hello, young lady. Visitor in town, are you?”

I spun around and there stood Uncle Sam, dressed in his navy blue tailcoat, red-and-white striped trousers, white shirt with red bow tie, and white stovepipe hat decorated with a blue band of stars, just like the Uncle Sam of history. He even had a long white beard, his very own chin whiskers.

His real name was Joe Starke, a lifelong resident of New Chapel and zealous patriot who had decided to spend his retirement years patrolling the town square passing out miniature U.S. flags, or driving up and down the streets in his monstrous white 1986 Pontiac Parisian, a full-sized flag flying from his window and John Philip Sousa marches blaring from his radio. On national holidays he wore his Korean War medals pinned to his lapels, gave spontaneous speeches on street corners, and marched in the parades, invited or not. He loved New Chapel and was the happiest man I’d ever met. Because Joe was such an amiable guy, everyone in town humored him, but no one ever took him seriously.

This morning he was standing in front of Books of Olde, a small plastic bag filled with tiny flags in his hand and a confused look on his face, as though he should know me but wasn’t able to place my face. I raised my hand to say hello, then remembered I was incognito and simply let it go at that. Unfortunately, Joe took it to mean that I didn’t speak the language.

“Stranger in town, are you?” he asked, and when I nodded, he began enunciating his words slowly and loudly. “Where. Are. You. From?” He looked around the square with his hand shading his eyes, as though he was searching for land.

Deciding that it might be quicker to pretend I didn’t understand, I thumped my chest, walked my two fingers across my palm, then gestured toward the store behind him.

“You don’t want to go in there, miss. You want a tourist shop. See these books?” He tapped on the glass display window. “They’re all in English.
English
. Although, if you’re looking for book lights, they do have a nice selection.”

I shook my head again and stabbed my finger at the doorway, but at that moment a woman passing by decided we needed her input, too. “Maybe she wants that atlas, Joe. She probably needs a map for directions. Do you need directions, honey?”

Never had I realized how hard it was to keep my mouth shut. Now other passersby were stopping to stare, too, so I gave up trying to be nice and simply charged into the store flanked by my interpreters, who took it upon themselves to call ahead to the store personnel, “We have a lost foreigner here! Someone get us a map!”

And I’d feared no one would be fooled by my disguise. Unfortunately, I’d also thought I would be able to slip into the store without attracting attention. But no, that was not to be. As the two owners scrambled to produce a map, and customers stepped from the aisles to gape, I felt as if I had just vaulted off a spaceship on all seven thumbs.

It was time to take matters into my own hands—or thumbs, as it were. “No map!” I exclaimed, channeling Nikki’s grandmother once again. “Olga ees looking for book to read.”

Everyone froze, and for a second I felt like I was caught in a time warp. Then Joe tipped his hat and said, “Enjoy your stay in town.” The woman with him hurriedly backed out of the shop; the customers resumed their browsing; and the owners informed me—through a mixture of careful pronunciation and slow hand gestures—that the foreign-language books were all the way at the back near the unisex washroom, which I supposed would be helpful for non-natives with weak bladders and sexual identity problems.