Snipped in the Bud (9 page)

He held up his palm to stop me. “Don’t go there.”

I went to Bloomers instead.

Making sure to lock the door, I headed for the workroom, where I popped an Enya CD into the portable player on the counter and pulled the first order from the spindle. It was for a birthday basket of fresh flowers in bright, autumn colors. I went to the cooler to pull orange lilies, yellow button mums, red carnations, preserved fall leaves, and a thick handful of wheat. Then I spread them out on the worktable and let the creative side of me take over.

I had just finished the fourth order when the phone rang. I checked the caller ID and saw an unfamiliar number, so I ignored it. It rang again, same number on the screen. Out of curiosity, I dug through my purse, found Connor Mackay’s card, and—bingo. It was a match. “You’re out of luck tonight, Mackay,” I said as the answering machine picked up. He was persistent. I’d give him points for that.

I cleared away nine more orders, then glanced at the clock to see that it was almost midnight. Hurriedly, I packed the arrangements into the cooler, locked up, and took off, hoping I’d beat Nikki home so I could make sure the clothing was out of her bedroom. But it didn’t work out that way. When I got back to the apartment, Nikki was standing over the sink, still in her hospital duds, eating ice cream from the container.

“Hey,” she mumbled. “Why are you out so late?”

“I had orders to finish. Listen, I’m sorry about the home shopping thing. I told Jillian to clear out the clothing ASAP.”

“Home shopping thing? What are you talking about?”

I glanced down the hallway and saw that the racks in the living room were gone. “Wait there,” I told Nikki and hurried to check both bedrooms. No racks there, either. In fact, no Jillian. Her clothes had even been cleaned out of my closet. “She did it, Nikki!” I called. “She finally moved out.” I sank down onto my bed with a huge sigh of relief.

“Not all of her moved out,” Nikki called from the bathroom. “She’s still using my shelf.”

The answering machine was beeping, so I hit the Play button and heard Jillian’s excited voice. “Abby, I found an apartment. You’ll never guess where.”

“New Zealand, I hope,” Nikki said, coming in to sit beside me on my bed.

“You know the vacant unit up the hallway?” Jillian continued. “The superintendent, that nice Mr. Bodenhammer, is letting me rent it by the month. Isn’t that great?”

“Since when is Mr. Bodenhammer nice?” Nikki interjected.

“We’ll be neighbors!” Jillian’s message continued. “I borrowed your sleeping bag and a spare pillow until I get a bed. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

She had moved only three doors away. Talk about a good news/bad news message. But the important thing was that I had my bed back. Now, if I could just find the murderer and get my life back.

T
he next morning, I retrieved the
New Chapel News
from outside the door and unrolled it to see a bold banner headline that read,
PROFESSOR MURDERED; KILLER SOUGHT
. I kicked the door closed and went to sit at the kitchen counter to read the story below, praying my name wouldn’t be mentioned. But beneath a black-and-white photo of Carson Reed was a long article in which both Professor Z. Archibald Puffer and I were named as being first at the scene. There was no mention of Puffer’s wife or of Kenny Lipinski being present. Lucky them.

The reporter had obviously talked to Puffer, because he came off smelling like the proverbial rose, whereas I came off smelling. Period. Not only did Puffer lie about himself and Reed being friends, but he also made it sound as though I had an ax to grind—or a pencil to sharpen, as it were—with both professors. He went on to relate my unexpected flower delivery and retrieval and said that if he were investigating, he’d test the rose for toxicity.

If that wasn’t damning enough, alongside the main story was a grainy photo of me at the protest rally, shaking my fist at Reed, and an accompanying article recounting my vow to take on anyone who advocated torturing helpless animals, including Reed. Also included was my quote calling him a hypocritical snake in the grass, and the details of my subsequent arrest. I came across as the Mad Florist of New Chapel, running around with poisoned roses and sharpened pencils. If it hadn’t seemed as if I had a motive before, it certainly did now—revenge.

I shoved the newspaper aside. Dave Hammond was
so
not going to be happy when he saw that article. If my profile got any higher, I could light a match and set Lady Liberty’s torch on fire. I checked the byline to see who I could thank for adding to my notoriety. The reporter in question was none other than the persistent, wixy Connor Mackay.

Wixy, indeed. Weevil was more like it, as in boll weevil, as in
what a worm
! Did he think making me look guilty in the press would prod me to spill my guts? Was that what he’d meant by “You’re going to want to talk to me”? Boy, did he have me pegged wrong. The only thing I had any desire to spill was boiling oil—on his head.

I checked the time on the kitchen clock and breathed a sigh of relief. Mom never read the paper until she was having breakfast, which meant I was off the hook for at least twenty more minutes, plenty of time for a cup of strong coffee and a slice of toast.

As I scooped ground beans into the filter, added water, and hit the On button, I heard a key in the lock, and a moment later my cousin appeared, looking slightly out of sorts from her night on the floor.

“Coffee,” she rasped, opening the cabinet in search of her favorite mug—which used to be my favorite mug until she commandeered it.

“I’m making it right now. What are you doing up so early? Noon is a long way off.”

Jillian rubbed her lower back and flexed her shoulders. “Do you know how hard the floor is? My spine is killing me. I was too excited to sleep anyway. I have
so
much to do, starting with ordering bedroom furniture. Aren’t you excited about my new place?”

“I’m so weak with excitement it’s making me hungry,” I said as she pulled a tub of whipped butter, a jar of strawberry jelly, and a loaf of whole wheat bread from the refrigerator. “In fact, would you put bread in the toaster for me, please?”

Jillian dropped in a slice for each of us, pushed down the lever, then sat at the counter to wait. She spotted the newspaper and pulled it toward her, her eyes bugging. “That’s your picture! You made the front page!” But then, after skimming the article, her eyes bugged even further. “Omigod, Abby, this makes you look so—”

“Guilty?”

“I was going to say freckled.” She gave me a sympathetic look and reached out to stroke my hair away from my face. “And guilty. I’m so sorry.”

It was a rare and touching moment until I realized she was restyling my hairdo. I sniffed the air. “I think the toast is burning.”

“I’m on it. You sit right there and rest.”

I was about to protest that I didn’t need a rest, but then I decided to let her play house mom for once. And as long as she was in a generous mood…“Would you do me another favor? The phone is going to ring in approximately”—I checked the clock on the microwave—“twelve minutes. It’ll be my mom. Tell her I know about the article, and that it’s all a misunderstanding. I’ll be talking to Dave Hammond later this morning to get it straightened out. In the meantime she is not to worry. Got it?”

Jillian snickered. “Your mother not worry? Right. Like that’s a possibility. Okay, I’ll tell her, but you’ll have to do the same for me, because my mother will probably call here, too.”

I gazed at my clueless cousin in wonder as she handed me a cup of coffee. “Jillian, I can’t answer the phone for you. It might be
my
mother calling.”

She shrugged. “Then I guess the machine will have to pick up the calls.”

“The ringing will wake Nikki. Look, why not answer in your French voice?”

“
Mais, oui!
I can pretend to be the maid.
C’est magnifique!
”

I was going to say she could pretend to be my friend Michelle from Quebec, but Jillian was so pleased with her idea that I didn’t bother to point out the incongruity of my employing a maid when I could barely pay my bills. But that was my cousin—tons of education, no common sense. “Okay, Jillian, if Dave calls, tell him I will phone him at his office at nine o’clock.”

“Should I use my French accent?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as he can understand you.”

“Parfait.”

With that problem solved, we sat at the counter and ate our burned toast slathered with butter and jelly while she explained her grand designs for her apartment.

“Who’s going to pay for the furniture?” I asked when she’d finished.

“I have a credit card.”

“You don’t think Claymore should pay? I mean, he did desert you, after all.”

“No, I’ll pay.” She was being very cavalier about it, which made me think she had something up her sleeve. But I didn’t have time to pump her further. I wanted to be at Bloomers early to get started on the orders I hadn’t finished. Plus, I hoped to avoid my mother’s call.

The weather was warm and sunny, so I dressed in cropped khaki pants and a bright, striped, short-sleeved shirt. I picked up my purse, saw Lottie’s scarf waiting to be returned, and recalled the problem I’d had leaving the shop the previous day. With that front-page article in the paper, I had no idea what to expect today. But did I want to don that ugly scarf again? No offense to Lottie, but, well, ick. I thought of grabbing my familiar blue Cubs hat, but everyone knew me in it. I wanted to wear something
not
like me.

“Hey, Jillian,” I said, as she read the style section of the paper and sipped the last of the coffee, “do you have a hat that would hide my hair so I can slip into work unnoticed?”

She lowered the paper. “Trying to keep a low profile at this point is rather futile, don’t you think? Besides, it would take a whole lot more than a hat to disguise you. Maybe if you bound your breasts and wore six-inch heels…”

“Jillian. Humor me. A hat. Before I club you with my unbound breasts.”

She heaved a sigh of resignation, then made an elaborate and quite noisy show of folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Fine. But you’ll have to allow me a few minutes to find something that will coordinate with your outfit.”

“I don’t care if it coordinates as long as it hides my face and hair.”

“Don’t
ever
say you don’t care in my presence again.” She shuddered. “I feel so violated.”

I rinsed out the coffeepot while I waited for her to return. She was back in a few minutes with a rolled-brim, loosely woven, ecru cotton hat, which she scrunched down over my head so far I could barely see. She tucked my hair behind my ears, adjusted the hat, and took my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on me. Then she leaned back to study the finished product through narrowed eyes, as though she were studying a painting. Smiling proudly, she said, “See there? It coordinates with your outfit
and
it hides your face and hair.”

I didn’t have time to go to the bathroom mirror for a look, so I trusted that she was right. When I checked my image in my car’s rearview mirror on my way to the shop, all I could see of me was a nose and mouth, and about two inches of red hair hanging from the back of the hat, which I could hide by pulling up the collar of my shirt. That was low profile enough.

Lottie and Grace hadn’t arrived yet, and it was too early to call Dave Hammond’s office, so I started in on the normal morning chores. When the ladies arrived at eight o’clock I had things well in hand and had even started an anniversary arrangement.

“Sweetie, how are you doing?” Lottie asked, coming through the curtain with Grace right behind her. “We saw the newspaper article this morning.”

“How utterly dreadful of them to attack you in print,” Grace said, checking me over as though I might be sporting bruises. “What you need is a soothing cup of chamomile tea. I’ll go brew it right now.”

While Grace bustled off to the parlor, Lottie and I sat down to discuss the orders that had come in overnight. Five minutes later, Grace appeared with a tea tray and a worried frown.

“The bobbies are here, Abby.”

The police. Damn. For a little while I’d actually forgotten about the murder. I took a quick sip of tea, then hurried up front, where Reilly and another cop were waiting.

“What’s the good news, Reilly?” I asked, hoping for something other than his scowl.

“We need the order for the flower you delivered to Professor Puffer.” Reilly kept his gaze above me, as if he were embarrassed to be treating me like a suspect, as well he should have been.

“No problem,” I said lightly, then went to the workroom, where Grace was waiting with the small yellow form in hand. I turned it over to the second cop, who was holding out a manila envelop so I could drop the paper inside. Both men gave me a quick nod, then walked out, leaving me feeling like I had cooties.

After a start to the day like that, I had little hope for improvement. But at ten minutes before nine o’clock, Grace came back to the workroom and said in amazement, “There’s a queue of customers outside the front door waiting for us to open.”

A line in front of Bloomers? That was a first. I glanced at Lottie, who said, “Let’s open.”

Grace unlocked the front door and people poured in. Within minutes, all the white wrought-iron tables in the coffee parlor were filled and Grace and Lottie were hustling to keep the java flowing. That left me to handle the shop, but I quickly realized the customers weren’t shopping so much as gawking at me and whispering among themselves. Obviously, they’d read the morning newspaper. I went from feeling like a giant cootie to feeling like a one-woman freak show.

Lottie came across the room to whisper in my ear, “Customers in the parlor are asking for you. Do you want to switch places with me?”

I peered through the doorway and half a dozen hands fluttered in the air, waving at me to catch my attention. “Abby, over here!” several women called.

“I think I’ll stay where I am,” I muttered to Lottie, waving back.

The phone rang, so I hurried to the counter to answer it. “Bloomers. How can I help you?”

“Abby, I need to talk to you,” I heard Marco say.

At that moment, a woman came rushing over, a cell phone pressed to her ear. “I’m standing right beside her. Hold on.” Then she aimed it at me and I saw it was a camera phone. “Can you see her?”

I turned my back on her to whisper to Marco, “I’m a little busy at the moment. We’re jammed with customers. Can I call you back later?”

“Not a chance. This won’t wait. Have Lottie cover for you and get to another phone.”

“Okay. Hold a moment, please.” I forced a sunny note in my voice so customers nearby wouldn’t think anything was amiss, but since Marco had sounded unusually grim, I wasn’t feeling much of the sunshine myself. I hit the Hold button, wove through the throng, sidled up to Lottie, and said quietly, “I have to take a call in the back. It’s urgent.”

She glanced at me with a worried frown. “Okay, sweetie. Go ahead.”

I started across the shop and a bright light went off in my face, bringing me to a sudden stop. I blinked to clear away the green halo and saw a woman lower a camera, then call to someone behind her, “I got her, Lou.”

“Oh, good!” Lou called back. “Now take one for Betty.”

Before I became a trophy for Betty’s photo album, I darted through the curtain and bypassed my desk phone in favor of the kitchen wall phone. I wanted to be as far away from those nosy customers as possible. “Okay, Marco. What’s up?”

“The cops have identified the prints on the pencil.”

My stomach tensed. “Puffer’s and mine?”

“Puffer’s prints weren’t on the pencil, Abby. Yours were the only ones there.”