To Catch a Leaf (5 page)

After spooning canned tuna into Simon's bowl, I finished the flower arrangement, wrapped it, and let my assistants know I was off to make the delivery.

“I hope you have better luck getting the woman to chat than I did,” Lottie said, as she rang up a purchase.

“No problem,” I told her. “I'm a pro when it comes to being inquisitive.”

“Inquisitive,” Lottie said with a chuckle. “I thought you were going to say nosy.”

 

I don't usually drive my Corvette to make deliveries, mostly because of its tiny trunk. But size was no deterrent today, and with the sun shining and the air smelling of spring, I put down the ragtop, turned on my CD player, and took off.

The Donnelly house sat by itself on a long country road, wedged in between a cornfield and a big tract of cleared land that was about to become a new subdivision. The two-story gray-frame house was old and badly in need of repair. The shingles on the steep roof were curled. The paint was peeling, or in some places, worn away completely. The wooden porch listed to one side. The garage, set some distance behind the house at the end of a gravel driveway, had boarded up windows.

The Donnellys had moved out years before, but because no one wanted to buy the old homestead, they had used it as rental property instead. I'd heard the inside was in better shape than the outside, but had yet to verify the claim. Regardless, the ghost aspect would give me something to chat about with the renters.

I pulled into the gravel driveway, turned off the engine, scooped up the bouquet, and walked across the weed-infested lawn to the covered porch across the front of the narrow house. As I climbed the five steps, holding on to the weathered rail in case any of the boards gave out, I noticed heavy drapes on the pair of double-hung windows to the right of the door. It seemed odd to have them closed on such a beautiful sunny day.

I pushed the doorbell and heard a sudden pounding of heavy footsteps that got fainter instead of louder, as though someone was hurrying away. Then the door opened and there stood an attractive older woman with white hair cut in a blunt bob.

She had on a turquoise blouse, white slacks, and shiny silver flats—not the kind of shoe that would make much noise. She wore thick silver hoops in her ears, heavy, cuffed silver bracelets on both arms, and big turquoise rings on her fingers. She was taller than me, but at my height of five feet two inches, most people were. Her makeup had been put on with a light hand, her lips tinted a pretty peach color, and her eyelids a smoky gray. She had the attractive good looks of an aging movie star. Not the kind of person I'd expected to see renting a dilapidated house.

She smiled at me. “Yes?”

I didn't want to hand over the bouquet until I'd engaged her in conversation, hoping to keep her from closing the door in my face. So I said, “Have you heard that Johnny Appleseed stayed in this house when he was passing through town?”

“Really? Any truth to it?”

“According to the farmers around here, it's true.”

“How interesting.” She wasn't listening. Her gaze was on the wrapped flowers.

“Oh, I'm sorry. These are for you. I'm Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop. I wanted to meet the woman who qualifies for getting the most floral deliveries in one month.”

“Another bouquet,” she said excitedly, peeling away the paper to see what it looked like. “Oh, it's so pretty! A calla. My favorite flower. And these greens are?”

“Basil.”

“Calla and basil. How thoughtful my son is. He knows I adore them both. He spoils me terribly, I'm afraid. I used to tell him that one day I'd be so rich that I'd have fresh flowers delivered once a week. Well,” she said with a light laugh, “as you can see, that never happened. But my son never forgot.” She sighed wist-fully. “Being a widow isn't easy. It's small pleasures like these that make life bearable.”

The door had gradually swung open behind her, giving me a glimpse up a hallway to what appeared to be a kitchen. There I saw a tall, bulky man pass by the doorway.

The woman glanced back to see what I was looking at. “That's my youngest son. I have three boys, all single unfortunately. Two of them live here with me so I won't be all alone.” She shielded one side of her mouth and whispered, “My oldest boy is the only successful one, sad to say. I don't know what happened to the gene pool after he was born.”

“Genes can be tricky. I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name.”

“Dorothy,” she said, “but please call me Dot.”

“Hey, Ma,” one of her sons called from the kitchen. “The oven's smoking. Want me to take out the bird?”

“I'd better go,” Dot said with an exasperated sigh. “You'd think it took a mental giant to operate an oven. Thank you so much for taking the time to drive out here. It was a pleasure to meet you, Abby.”

“You're welcome, Dot. Enjoy the flowers.”

I hummed as I headed to the car. Lottie sure had called this situation wrong. There was nothing fishy about Dot or the thoughtful bouquets she was getting. I was satisfied that whoever was sending them, whether son or lover, wasn't a stalker. I couldn't wait to tease Lottie about it.

As I backed the Corvette out of the driveway, I caught sight of a man walking from the house to the old garage.

Interesting. At least one of Dot's sons was black. And had gray hair.

I was a block away from the Donnelly place when I glanced in my rearview mirror and spotted a faded black minivan with darkly tinted windows pulling out of her driveway. It turned in the opposite direction and headed away. A black van with tinted windows. Hmm.

Maybe I wouldn't tease Lottie just yet.

I parked in the public lot, dashed the block and a half back to Bloomers, and stepped inside the shop, the familiar jingle of the bell over the door such a happy sound. It still gave me tingles to know that the lovely little flower shop was mine, and sometimes I had to stand there for a moment taking it all in.

With its high, tin ceiling, mellow wood floors, exposed brick walls, charming Victorian-inspired tea parlor, big bay windows on either side of the door—one in the parlor and one in the main shop—the entire space abounded with the colors and scents of fresh blossoms, freshly baked scones, and invigorating coffee. It didn't get any better than that.

I heard a meow and glanced up see Simon watching me from the top of the open armoire that we used for displaying silk arrangements and other gift items. “Hey, Simon. How are you?”

He meowed again, then began to wash his ears. He'd found the perfect perch.

I filled my assistants in on Dot and her
sons,
then grabbed a quick sandwich in the kitchen so I could work the shop while Lottie took the noon lunch break. Simon decided to help with the entertainment and became an instant hit with the customers. When he wasn't supervising from his lofty perch, he was racing around after a stray leaf, leaping into the air, rubbing against people's legs, and generally showing off. He ate up the attention.

Speaking of someone who ate up attention, I thought briefly of calling Jillian to find out what she'd wanted. But then I came to my senses, concluding that whatever had prompted my cousin's call had resolved itself. Please?

At just past two o'clock in the afternoon, members of the Monday Afternoon Ladies' Poetry Society arrived and made straight for the parlor, where Grace was supposed to be waiting to serve up scones and tea. The only problem was that Grace hadn't returned from her one o'clock lunch date, so Lottie had to work the parlor while I stayed up front in the shop.

By two thirty, Grace still hadn't returned, and we were getting concerned. It wasn't like her to be gone so long without calling. I tried to reach her on her cell phone, but it rang six times, then went to voice mail. After I tried calling her home phone repeatedly, Lottie urged me to contact the police, but I phoned Marco instead and asked him what to do.

“I'll call Sean,” he said of his buddy Sergeant Sean Reilly of the New Chapel PD. “He'll know if there've been any reports of accidents. But I'll bet Grace just got busy helping her friend and forgot to check the time.”

“Grace is too conscientious to forget about her responsibilities, Marco. I wish I knew where her friend Connie lives.”

“Don't fret, Sunshine. Who is more levelheaded than Grace? If she were in trouble, you'd know about it. I'll call you after I hear from Sean.”

The other line began to blink, so I ended the conversation with Marco and switched over to find Nikki waiting to update me.

“I'm about to head for the hospital,” she said, “but I wanted to let you know that your little tabby has been dozing for most of the day and seems to be doing very well. So, how's my Simey-wimey?”

“Loving the attention from the customers. He's quite a ham.”

“I'm glad he isn't causing trouble.”

I decided to save the fern story for later and instead tell her about my missing employee.

“Oh, wow,” Nikki said. “That's weird for Grace not to at least call. As soon as I get to the hospital, I'll check to make sure she hasn't been brought in.”

“Thanks, Nikki. I'm really starting to worry.”

I went back to work, dividing my time between waiting on customers and slipping into the workroom to fill orders. Nikki phoned later to let me know Grace was not at the hospital; then Marco phoned to say that he'd left a voice mail for Reilly. Lottie tried again to reach Grace on her mobile and at home, but no luck there, either.

Where was Grace?

CHAPTER FOUR

W
hen my mom arrived at three thirty with a big cardboard box in her arms, the poetesses were gone, and the shop was quiet. Normally, the sight of my mother carrying in a box was enough to send all of us running for cover, because most of her projects were unmitigated disasters. For instance, she'd once made beaded jackets using one-inch wooden beads. Not only were the jackets uncomfortable, but they also rolled right off the shoulders onto the floor.

Then there were her humongous feathered hats made with neon-colored feathers, the dyes of which ran down the wearer's face when the weather turned muggy or wet. And there was the hideous footstool, modeled after an actual human foot, down to the hairs on the toes.

Today, however, Mom and her carton of unknown horrors were a welcome distraction.

“I can't wait to show you what I made,” she said, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Let me help you with that box, Mom,” I said, taking it from her arms. “You must be exhausted after teaching all day. Why don't you sit here and rest?” I placed the container on the wicker settee next to the umbrella plant and patted the cushion.

“Are you being solicitous because of the injured tabby you mentioned this morning?” she asked.

“No!” Not my only reason, anyway.

“Because if you are, let me clarify this right now. I don't want any more animals to care for. A llama is more than enough for your dad and me to handle.”

“I know that. I just want you to be comfortable.”

Eyeing me skeptically, Mom took off her tan-colored spring coat and sat down. She was wearing one of her standard teacher outfits—a powder blue pullover sweater with brown slacks and brown flats. She kept her light brown hair chin length, framing her soft features and peaches-and-cream complexion, which, unlike mine, had not one freckle on it. I was my dad's daughter all the way: red hair, freckled skin, and a short temper.

“Technically, however,” I said, “the llama lives outside the house in his heated barn. Pets live inside.”

“He's still a pet, Abigail. And don't forget, we had cats for years while you kids were growing up. I'm done with litter boxes now and into a new phase of my life. Please respect it.”