Snipped in the Bud (7 page)

“Calm down, Sunshine. People don’t think logically when emotions run high. Remember, they’re all scared right now. There’s a killer on the loose.”

“I say we shut down that woman’s flower shop and see how she likes it!” the caller finished.

“Okay, Bill,” Rick said. “ Thanks for the input. Hello, caller three.”

“I just want to say that Professor Reed was a wonderful man,” a young woman said tearfully. “All his students adored him. That woman had no right to take him away from us just because he flunked her.”

“I didn’t take him away!” I shouted at the radio.

“Hey, Rick,” Rob said. “We’re not being fair to Abby.”

Thank God someone finally realized that.

“So why don’t we give Abby a call and see what she has to say for herself?”

“It’s about time,” I said to Marco, who was rubbing his eyes, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Marco pointed his index finger at me. “You are not to say a word.”

“I have to let them slander me like that?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t do it. It went against my nature. I had to defend myself.

T
he phone rang and I started to go for it, but Marco and Lottie both yelled, “No!”

“It might be a customer.”

“Grace will get it,” Lottie said, and sure enough, a second later we heard her answer up front. Then she stuck her head through the curtain. “Abby, dear, someone named Rob is on the line. He said he’s from a radio station and you know him.”

“She’s not here,” Lottie said.

“Then I shall tell him you’re out making a floral delivery.”

“No!” all three of us yelled, startling Grace.

“We don’t want him to call back,” Marco said. “Just say she has no comment.”

On the radio, Rob said, “Ms. Knight is afraid to talk to us, Rick.”

“You’re a scary guy, Rob,” Rick joked. “Okay, folks, this notice was just handed to me. Looks like there’s another protest rally in the works, this one organized by a group of Carson Reed’s students. You’ll never guess where they’re going to march, Rob.”

“I know this one. In front of Abby Knight’s flower shop.”

“You got it. Okay, folks, you heard it here. There will be a gathering of Professor Carson Reed’s students at Bloomers, on the town square.”

Marco shut off the radio. In the front, we could hear Grace on the phone, deflecting calls. Another line lit up, so Lottie answered it at my desk, forcing herself to say in her usual cheerful manner, “Bloomers.” She listened briefly, then said, “She doesn’t have any comment,” and hung up. “That was a reporter from the
New Chapel News
.”

The ringing started again and two more lines lit up. “I’ll get those up front,” Lottie said and hurried through the curtain.

When I let out a heavy sigh, Marco started rubbing my back. “You’ll survive this, Sunshine.”

“How?” I muttered. “I can’t defend myself. I have to keep a low profile.”

“You don’t need to defend yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. As soon as the police arrest their suspect, you’ll be vindicated.”

“I hope so.”

“Hey, with Dave and Lottie and Grace on your side, not to mention yours truly, how can you go wrong?”

I lifted my head to gaze into those gorgeous brown eyes and smiled in spite of myself. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Now, let’s rehearse your line: ‘No comment.’”

“No comment,” I repeated dutifully, walking my fingers up his arm. It was impossible to think seriously for very long with him that close.

“Good. Remember it.”

“Want to permanently etch it in my brain?”

He gave me that little grin. “Try me.”

I put my hands on his face and guided him in for a two-point landing on my lips. This time we made it with no interruptions, only bliss. Marco’s lips were firm and smooth as they moved against mine, and his mouth had the salty, creamy taste of butter that made me hungry for more—kisses, not butter.

“Did that do the trick?” he asked, giving me that sleepy-eyed gaze that drove me wild.

I traced a fingertip across his iron jaw. “For now. I might need a refresher later, though.”

“Why don’t you come down to the bar after you lock up tonight. We’ll have supper and I’ll fill you in on what I learned from Reilly. And then”—he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively—“more etching.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

As I parted the curtain so Marco could walk out, several customers spotted me and clamored, “There she is! Hey, Abigail, over here!”

One woman waved money, while another shouted, “I want to place an order.”

“I was next,” another woman said and tried to elbow past her.

“I’m right behind her.”

“Hey, Abby, remember me? I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

“Escape while you still can,” I whispered to Marco, then, as he warily circled the frenzied mob to get to the door, I fought my way to the counter and began to take payments and evade questions. After a solid hour of it, the shop finally quieted down, letting me get back to the workroom. Nothing busted stress like surrounding myself with fragrant blossoms.

I finished the arrangement I’d started earlier, then pulled an order that called for an arrangement for a formal dinner party. I opened the big cooler and stepped inside, letting my thoughts drift as I absorbed the many varieties of flora, waiting for an idea to hit me. The weather would stay warm through most of September, so I decided to stick with a summer theme. And what came with summer? Lots of sun and big, fluffy white clouds. That brought to mind lazy afternoons at the Dunes, warm sand, seashells, and stones washed smooth—all shades of white. What could be more formal than that?

The off-white lily called Sahara was cool and classy, as were the delicate lilies of the valley. I pulled some, then added stems of artemisia, salvia, echinacea, and dusty miller, and laid them all out on the worktable. I scanned the shelves above the counter for the appropriate container and spotted several possibilities—a warm beige ceramic vase, another vase that looked like it was made of pale coral, and a clean-lined, square, glass vase. I chose the glass and filled a third of it with a mixture of white sand and tiny seashells. In twenty minutes I had my creation done, and as I stood back to admire it, Lottie came through the curtain.

“What do you think?” I asked her.

“It’s gorgeous. And you need to leave now, through the back door.”

“It isn’t five o’clock yet and we’ve got a bunch of orders to fill.”

“Do you want to talk to the reporter waiting outside? I think his name is Mackay.”

“No. Did you tell him I have no comment?”

“It didn’t work. He parked himself on the lawn across the street and is waiting for you to leave. But he won’t be expecting you to leave early, or through the back door, and he probably doesn’t know your car or he’d be watching it.”

“Let me just finish wrapping this first.”

Lottie took the wrapping paper out of my hands. “I’ll do it. You just go.”

I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed for the kitchen. “I’m having dinner with Marco at the bar, so I’ll slip in sometime afterward to finish the orders.”

“Wait!” Lottie pulled a blue and pink cotton print scarf out of her tote bag, wrapped it around my head, tied the ends under my chin, then examined her handiwork. “Put your sunglasses on. Perfect.”

Feeling like a spy, I peered cautiously out the back door. The alley was clear so I hurried to the end, turned the corner, and dashed to my car, parked by the American Legion Hall. I pulled up the ragtop but left the windows down for air. The old farmer who’d originally owned the Corvette hadn’t opted for frivolities such as air-conditioning.

Congratulating myself on outwitting the reporter, I started the engine, fastened my seat belt, and adjusted my mirror, catching sudden sight of my reflection. Dear God. I looked like Nikki’s grandmother. I was about to remove the scarf when I heard someone call my name. I checked the rearview mirror again and saw one of the reporters who’d been at the law school striding across the parking lot, waving his arms and calling, “Wait!” as he headed right for me.

Apparently, I hadn’t outwitted him.

I
nstantly, I shifted into reverse, hoping to get out of the lot before he reached me, but he was moving too fast. He stopped directly behind the Vette, and since I couldn’t very well run him over—well, I
could
, but I was in enough hot water with Reilly as it was—I swivelled around to glare at him through the back window and motion with my hand for him to move away.

“I’d like to talk to you,” he called. “Just give me five minutes.”

“Vy you vant to talk to me?” I called back in a pretty fine imitation of Nikki’s grandmother’s husky Slavic accent. “Go avay from car.”

The next thing I knew, he was peering in the open window. “You’re Abby, right?”

He wasn’t bad looking if your taste ran to guys with silky, dark brown hair long enough to pull back in a ponytail. On the plus side, he did have striking sea-foam green eyes framed by a handsome set of brown eyebrows. But the real clincher was his wide, captivating smile. I couldn’t help wondering whether his teeth were naturally that white or he bleached them.

Since I was hardly in the right frame of mind to be captivated by a guy who chased me down in a parking lot, I said, “Olga does not know thees Abby.” I eased the gas pedal down and the Vette started to roll backward.

“I’d really like to talk to you, Abby—or Olga,” he said, keeping pace with me. “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

My
side of the story? “Go avay. Olga ees busy voman.” I shifted into drive and took off, but not before he tossed his business card into the car. “My cell phone number is on it,” he yelled. “Don’t lose it. You’re going to want to talk to me.”

Don’t hold your breath, buddy
. I paused at the street to make sure it was clear, then sped away with a squeal of tires. I whipped off the scarf, ran my fingers through my hair, and turned on the radio. But instead of playing the usual variety of songs, all the local stations were reporting on the murder—and my connection to it. Annoyed, I shut it off and drove in silence, hoping the killer would be found quickly and my life would get back to normal—such as it was.

As I pulled into my parking space at the apartment building, my phone rang. I shut off the motor, checked the screen for an ID, and saw it was Nikki.

“Omigod, Abby. I went on my break and got your message about the murder. How horrible! Are you all right?”

“Let’s just say I feel very close to your grandmother right now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I got out of the car, plucked the reporter’s card out of the back—convertibles should always be litter free—and glanced at the printing. It read:
CONNOR MACKAY, REPORTER
.

THE NEW CHAPEL NEWS
. Beneath that was a phone number and an e-mail address.
Mackay. Hmm.
Not a local name. Probably from out of town.

Without giving Connor Mackay another thought, I tucked the card in my purse and said to Nikki, “If you have five minutes I’ll tell you what happened.”

“I have six, so go ahead.”

As I headed for our apartment, stopping to check the mailbox and dump the junk mail into the trash container, I caught her up to speed on my meetings with Reilly and Dave Hammond, Rob and Rick’s radio show, and my sudden notoriety. “Tell me, Nikki, how am I supposed to keep a low profile now?”

“You can start by instructing Jillian not to blab anything to anyone. Otherwise, if a reporter shows up at the door, she’ll probably invite him in for a drink. Then you can remind her about my shelf in the medicine cabinet. And don’t forget you promised to talk to her about moving out. Oops. I’m being paged. Gotta go.”

At that moment my neighbor, Mrs. Sample, came around the corner with her Chihuahua, Peewee, on his leash. The Samples were a friendly, middle-aged, childless couple who adored their pet, a tiny, fragile animal who wore little sweaters and booties Mrs. Sample herself had knitted—as she had told me many times, along with other, equally fascinating tidbits.

“Peewee, look who’s here,” Mrs. Sample cooed, scooping up the yapping minibeast before he could nip off a hunk of my flesh. For a reason known only to the dog, he resented me—or at least my ankles. “We saw your picture in the paper today, Abby, and we just can’t imagine why anyone would think you had anything to do with the murder. Can we, Peewee?” She waved the dog’s paw at me to show his concern, as if I couldn’t see his flattened ears and exposed fangs.

I thanked her for the support, then proceeded upstairs to the second floor, last apartment on the left, and stood outside fumbling in my purse for the key. Before Jillian had moved in, Nikki’s white cat Simon had always waited for me on the other side of the door, meowing eagerly for his food. Now, because he had a disdain for strangers—and no one was stranger than Jillian—he mostly kept to Nikki’s room, where he spent his day lounging in the window, plotting his revenge on the fat brown squirrel that perched on a branch outside to snicker at him.

I missed the sight of that cute little kitty face, with its big golden eyes gazing up at me so trustingly. I missed the feel of that soft, furry body weaving between my ankles as I stumbled to the refrigerator for cat food. Now the only body that got in my way was my cousin’s, and it wasn’t soft or furry. A gym membership and weekly waxing appointments saw to that.

Jillian had studied fashion design in college and now ran her own wardrobe-consulting business. She called it Chez Jillian, meaning “at Jillian’s home,” which was pretty laughable considering she didn’t have one. Yet she was good at what she did and had a loyal clientele who happily let her empty their closets and fill them up again. I thought of her as the New Chapel version of Stacy London, the cohost of
What Not to Wear,
only not as diplomatic. But at least the shopping trips got her out of the apartment, the length of time depending on traffic conditions between here and Chicago. Jillian would shop only in Chicago.

I unlocked the door but couldn’t get it open more than a foot. “Hello?” I called, sticking my head through the opening. “Jill?”

“Just a minute, Abby.”

I was facing a rack of clothing. I parted a group of blouses to peer up the short hallway to the living room beyond. Off the living room was another hallway that led to our two bedrooms and a bathroom. To my immediate right was our galley kitchen, containing a small refrigerator, stove, microwave, double sink, cabinets, a work counter, and an eating counter with two stools.

I wedged the upper half of my body inside the door, then inserted one leg as my tall, gorgeous, twenty-five-year-old cousin clicked up the tiled hallway on her high-heeled sandals. “Hold on,” she said, shifting the portable rack so the door would open.

I practically fell inside, but caught myself on a metal pole. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the blouses.

She sighed dramatically as she began pushing the rack toward the living room. “Tell me you actually need an answer to that question.”

“I know they’re clothes,” I said, following her up the hallway. “Why are they here?”

She parked the rack and went into the living room. “I’m trying out a new venture.”

“What kind of venture?”

“Home shopping.”

I edged past the blouses and gazed around in surprise. A rack of jackets and coats now hid most of the bookcase that stood against a side wall, and another rack of dresses and slacks filled the space in front of the picture window, where a long console table was supposed to be, along with our phone and answering machine. “Did you just say
home shopping
? As in people shopping in
my
home?”

“
Our
home.” She moved a few hangers, then checked off something on a list fastened to a clipboard.

“No, Jill. This is Nikki’s home and my home.
You
are a houseguest.”

“So were you at one time.”

“But I had a good reason for staying.”

She sighed tiredly. “I have the same reason, Abby.”

I couldn’t argue that. We’d both been dumped by Osbornes. She had married Pryce’s younger brother Claymore. I glanced around the room. “Where did you put the phone?”

She pointed toward the bookshelf. I knew it was the bookshelf only because I could see the very top of a row of books. “And the answering machine?”

“Same place.”

I fought my way through the coats to check the machine. Two calls. I hit Play but couldn’t hear the message because of the muffling effect of the clothes. “Jillian,” I began.

“One call from Grace, one call from Nikki.”

“You listened to them?”

She stopped making check marks. “Do you want me to run out of the room with my fingers in my ears every time someone leaves a message?”

What I wanted was for her to run out the door—and stay out—but I had to find a way to tell her that wouldn’t cause an emotional breakdown, like the one she’d had when she first showed up at our door, weeping hysterically. She’d had her luggage with her but not her husband, which was a bad sign considering she was supposed to be in Hawaii on her honeymoon. Apparently, Claymore had realized too late that he’d made a mistake.

The outcome was that my cousin, the serial jilter, had become the jiltee, and she hadn’t taken it well. To make matters worse, my aunt Corrine, instead of being sympathetic to her daughter’s plight, had put the blame squarely on Jillian’s shoulders, causing a big rift between them. I wasn’t about to interfere, especially since my aunt had finally paid—handsomely, I might add—for Jillian’s wedding flowers. I was a firm believer in Grace’s saying: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

Nevertheless, Jillian had turned to me for help, so I gave her my bed, thinking it would be for a night, not a nightmare. Even Nikki, whose heart was usually overflowing with sympathy, had stopped feeling sorry after two weeks’ worth of living with Princess Jillian. “Adult women shouldn’t need babysitters,” she had grumbled on several occasions.

What Nikki didn’t understand was that Jillian only appeared to be an adult. Inside she was still the self-conscious, withdrawn, twelve-year-old girl she had once been, with scoliosis so severe that her spine had looked like the letter S. When she was fourteen, a seven-hour surgery and three months in a body cast had corrected her physical problems and let her grow into a beautiful woman, but emotionally Jillian seemed stuck as an eternal teenager, flighty and selfish, with an endless capacity to fall in love but not to stay in love. That she’d actually made it down the aisle with fiancé number five had shocked us all.

That she’d turned up a week later, alone, hadn’t.

With growing annoyance, I climbed out of the clothes rack and faced my cousin, who, as usual, was dressed in designer duds. Today it was a lime green silk top with off-white slacks. Her long, smooth, copper-colored hair was caught up in a twist and fastened with an enameled barrette shaped like a butterfly. That was one of many differences between us. Jillian was always well dressed, even on weekends, whereas when I was at home, it was a comfy old T-shirt, cutoff blue jeans, and bare feet for me. “Okay, just so I understand, you’re going to have your customers come
here
to shop? In this tiny living room?”

“No, silly. The racks won’t all fit in here. Two are in your bedroom and one is in Nikki’s room.”

I could only imagine the fireworks when Nikki came home from a long shift, tired and ready to crash onto her bed—and couldn’t even find it. I took the clipboard out of Jillian’s hands and guided her to the sofa, which was amazingly devoid of clothing. “Jill, sit down and listen to me. I have something important to tell you.” I waited until she had carefully arranged her slacks so they wouldn’t wrinkle, then I crouched in front of her so she had to look directly at me. “Okay, here it is. You can’t run your business from here.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of my statement. “But I
am
running my business from here. The clothes will be delivered here, my clients will come here to try them on, and I’ll never have to leave the apartment.”

Dear God.

I massaged my temples, trying to think of a way to explain my feelings in simple-to-understand language that would get my point across without my having to choke her. “Okay, let me put it another way. Get these racks out of the apartment.”

She leaned forward, concentrating intensely. “Go on.”

“That’s it, Jill. Just get the racks out of here.”

“And put them…?” she prompted.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. How about your mother’s basement? It’s nicer than most people’s living rooms.”

She made a scoffing sound. “You know my mother and I aren’t speaking.”

“Then get a room at the New Chapel Inn until you can find your own place. I don’t really care where you put them, as long as it’s somewhere other than in this apartment.”

Her big doe eyes tilted downward, her lower lip trembled, and she was suddenly that insecure little girl with the crooked back. “So you don’t want me here? You’re kicking me out?”

“I’m not kicking you out. Well, yes, I am, but I’m trying to do it in a nice way.”