Save the Date (28 page)

“Aww, man…” he groaned.

“We’ve got to get back to work,” Brooke announced. She turned and walked rapidly toward the door.

“Harris! I’m leaving.”

Harris looked at Layne, then at Cara, then at Marie. He shrugged. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

He was halfway to the door when he turned, returned to the table, picked up his cupcake, and hurried back to the side of his one true love.

Somehow, after Brooke had gone, the women managed to work out a menu that suited Patricia as well as Marie. When everybody was gone, Layne went to the door of Fete Accompli and locked the deadbolt. Wordlessly, she went to the big walk-in cooler in her catering kitchen. She took out a half-open bottle of chardonnay, tipped it to her lips, and swigged for at least a minute. Then she handed it to Cara. “Be my guest.”

33

Bert met her at the door of the shop, and the look on his face telegraphed the bad news. “I’ve looked everywhere,” Bert said, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. “Honest to God, Cara. Every single stop I made Friday, I retraced. I showed everybody the picture of the epergne. I even crawled around in the grass and the bushes at the Shutters. Since it was low tide, I even looked around that dock, thinking maybe somebody got drunk and chunked it in the water for a joke. But nothing. It ain’t there.”

“Oh God.” Cara thumped her forehead on her desk. First Lillian Fanning, then Patricia Trapnell. Now this. What was wrong with her karma?

“What now? Will you call her and tell her?”

Cara popped three aspirin in her mouth and dry-swallowed them.

“I can’t deal with Lillian right now. I think I might have heat stroke.” She pulled her sticky shirt away from her chest.

“Did you call Sylvia Bradley again?” Bert asked.

“Yes, I called her. She doesn’t pick up the phone, because she doesn’t want to deal with me. I’ve sent her a registered letter, too.” Cara reached into her desk drawer and got her pocketbook.

“Let’s go,” she told Bert.

“Where to?”

“To wherever they sell air conditioners. I can’t spend one more hour living like this.”

*   *   *

The salesman at Lowe’s carefully explained the merits and options of all the room-size air conditioners the store carried.

“Which one is the next to cheapest?”

The salesman looked startled. “Next to cheapest?”

“My father taught me never to buy the cheapest model of anything. Or the most expensive,” Cara explained. “I sure can’t afford the next to most expensive, so I guess I’m buying the next to cheapest.”

“Most affordable,” the salesman said gently.

“Whatever. As long as you have it in stock and we can walk out of here with it in the next ten minutes.”

She handed over her credit card and held her breath waiting to see if the transaction would go through. She’d maxed out most of her cards, but this one, a Visa that had come through the mail months ago, was one she’d activated but never used. She thought of it as her Plan B card. And she reflected, grimly, that there was no Plan C.

Cara had sent the Colonel a check for $15,000 the minute Gordon Trapnell had paid the deposit for his daughter’s wedding. It meant letting her other past-due bills ripen a little longer, but at least, she thought, it would forestall her father for another few weeks.

But there would be no more stalling on purchasing an air conditioner. She couldn’t have brides entering a shop that felt like a sauna. And she couldn’t deal with all the crap life was throwing at her, working in those conditions after spending another sleepless night upstairs.

She and Bert carried the precious new air-conditioning unit into the shop and unboxed it immediately, fitting it into one of the front windows. Cara held out the thin plastic remote control, took a deep breath, and clicked the On button. The air conditioner’s motor hummed to life, and a stream of chilled air wafted into the room.

“Sweet blessed baby Jesus,” Cara murmured, standing in front of the unit. She ducked her head and let it blow her sweat-soaked hair, then turned around, lifted the back of her skirt, and let the cold air billow up it like a balloon.

“I should have done this ten days ago,” she said finally.

“Yeah, you should have,” Bert said. “Maybe you wouldn’t be in such a pissy mood all the time if it wasn’t so friggin’ hot in here.”

Cara clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, my friend. My expecting you to be a prompt, reliable, responsible employee does not constitute pissininess.”

“Gawwwwd,” he exclaimed. “You act like it’s my fault that damned epergne is missing. You’re totally gonna throw me under the bus on this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not blaming anything on you,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I’m going to call Lillian right now, and let her know we couldn’t find it. I own this business, and I’m taking responsibility for it.”

“Great,” he said.

“Bert?”

“Yeah?”

“In the meantime, you need to change your attitude and your performance. Or you can just find yourself another job.”

He looked her in the eye. “Are we done? I’ve got the afternoon deliveries to get out.”

“We’re done. After you finish the deliveries, bring the van back here for the night, please.”

He laughed unpleasantly. “So, what? You’re grounding me? I’m twenty-nine years old, Cara.”

“And you act like a fifteen-year-old. If I could lock you in time-out too, I’d do it.”

*   *   *

After he’d gone, she closed the rest of the shop windows and sat at her desk for a moment, trying to enjoy the calm before the storm.

What, she wondered, was going on with Bert? He’d been working for her for two years. They’d never had a real argument, or even a disagreement. He had a real talent for floral arranging, and when he’d come to her, directly out of alcohol rehab, he’d been so grateful to have a job, he was like a puppy, desperate for love and attention.

But these past two weeks, he’d changed. He swore he wasn’t drinking, but what else could she think, given his most recent disappearance?

Her halfhearted suggestion that she might fire him hadn’t had the effect she’d hoped for. He’d merely stared her down. The thing was, she genuinely cared about Bert. He’d been a sounding board throughout her breakup with Leo, had even given her shelter on his sofa for the first week after she’d left Leo. He was funny, generous, and mostly even-keeled.

Cara didn’t want to hire a new assistant. She wanted her old one back.

*   *   *

She was gazing out the shop window, trying to get up the nerve to call Lillian Fanning, when she saw a white Mercedes zoom up to the curb outside Bloom and park in the loading zone.

Her right eye twitched and she reached for the aspirin bottle again. Perfect. Speak of the devil.

Lillian was dressed in tennis whites, but not a hair on her immaculately coiffed head was mussed.

She pushed the shop door open and planted herself in front of the worktable where Cara sat. “Well?” She raised one eyebrow, expectantly.

“I’m so sorry, Lillian. Bert and I took the van apart. He retraced every stop he made last week, on his way out to Isle of Hope when he was returning the silver. It didn’t turn up.” Cara felt tears prick her eyes. She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible about this.”

“Unbelievable!” Lillian exploded. “You feel terrible? You lose the single most valuable family heirloom I own, and that’s the best you can do? Feel terrible? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“N-n-n-no,” Cara squeaked.

“What do you intend to do about it?” Lillian demanded.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Have you called the police?”

“The police? Why would I call the police?”

“Because obviously, it’s been stolen.” Lillian looked around the shop. “Did you ask your assistant if he’d seen it?”

“Yes! He spent most of the afternoon looking for it.”

“And you believe him?”

Cara felt her scalp prickle. “Yes. I believe him. Bert has worked for me for two years. Why would he lie about something like this?”

“Why wouldn’t he? That epergne is worth thousands and thousands of dollars. What do you pay the man? Minimum wage?”

“I pay Bert a living wage,” Cara said, struggling to keep her temper. “He’s not a thief, Lillian. Or a liar. And neither am I. In fact, I resent your implying otherwise.”

“What do you really know about him, Cara? Do you run a criminal-record check before you hire these people?”

“I know that Bert Rosen is a decent, honest, hardworking person.”

“And how did you come to hire this decent, honest, hardworking person? Did he come to you with references?”

No,
Cara thought.
He came to me right out of rehab. And I hired him because I believe he deserved a second chance. And he still does.

Lillian took a step closer to Cara, and then another step. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you resent. You and your assistant are responsible for the loss of that epergne. It didn’t just get up and run away. It was stolen! And if you won’t file a police report, I will.”

“And then what?” Cara asked. She refused to take Lillian’s bait. “Is the epergne insured?”

“I’ll have to call our agent,” Lillian said. “And our lawyer.”

Cara felt first her right eye twitch, and then her left. Lawyer?

“Let me know what you find out,” she said finally. “Of course, if the epergne isn’t insured, I fully intend to pay for its replacement.”

Lillian gave her a pitying look. “How sweet. And how do you plan to come up with that kind of money?”

Cara chewed the inside of her mouth. She felt bile rising in her throat. She searched for some clever, searing retort to Lillian’s patronizing sneer. But she had nothing. Except that throbbing pain in her temple.

“Let me worry about that,” she said finally.

34

Cara was creating her sixth new-baby arrangement of the morning. It wasn’t a terribly creative endeavor—pink carnations, multicolored gerbera daisies, and white for mothers of baby girls, blue hydrangeas, daisies, and white carnations for those who’d delivered boys. Sometimes, she did dish gardens, with themed flowers tucked in. But she loved putting them together, loved the thought of new moms, smiling down at their own new creations, and then up at the candy stripers delivering their flowers.

She also loved the fact that few of the recipients of those arrangements had the time or energy to call up and bitch at her about misplaced epergnes or tacky-looking cupcakes.

True to her word, Lillian had reported the epergne as stolen to the police. On Tuesday, an apologetic Savannah police detective called to make an appointment to discuss the incident.

The missing epergne—combined with the hot sticky climate in her upstairs apartment—had kept her awake for two nights in a row. Finally, Wednesday night, Cara dragged a sofa cushion, pillow, and quilt downstairs and slept in the blissful cool of the workroom.

And Thursday morning, in the middle of all those happy baby flower arrangements, the detective arrived. She was a middle-aged black woman, who introduced herself as Zarah Peebles. “Zarah, like Sarah with a ‘Z,’” she said, handing Cara her business card.

She showed Cara a photo of Lillian Fanning’s missing family heirloom.

“Yes,” Cara sighed. “That’s the epergne. As I told Lillian, the last time I remember specifically seeing it was Sunday morning, when we went back to Isle of Hope to finish taking down everything used in the reception. It was placed in a bin in the back of my delivery van.”

“If the wedding was held at the Fannings’ home, why didn’t you just take it back into the house?” Detective Peebles asked.

“It was the morning after their daughter’s wedding, they’d had a late night, and I didn’t want to disturb their rest. Anyway, I wanted to take everything back to the shop, and make sure it was cleaned up before I returned everything. The candlesticks still had wax on them, and some of the bowls had been used for flower arrangements.”

“And did you bring everything back here and clean it up, as you’d planned?”

“No,” Cara admitted. “We had an incredibly busy week, another huge wedding, and time … just got away from me. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten we even still had the silver, until Lillian called on Friday to ask about it.”

“So … where was this bin of silver during that next week?”

“In the van.”

“And who had access to the van?”

“Just me. And Bert, my assistant.”

Detective Peebles frowned. “Where is the van usually parked?”

“Sometimes, if there’s a parking space out front, we park it on Jones. But usually we park in my dedicated slot in the lane.”

“Lot of break-ins in this neighborhood,” Detective Peebles observed. “Probably not the best idea to have a boxful of valuable silver in a van parked in a lane where any wandering crackhead could check it out.”

Cara sighed. “No, it wasn’t. I can’t tell you how much I regret that. But the bin was at the very back of the van, and there are no windows there, so a thief wouldn’t have known it was there. And the van was locked.”

“All the time? You’re sure about that?”

“Reasonably sure.”

Detective Peebles was scribbling notes.

“Can I take a look at the van?”

“Right now, my assistant is out making deliveries. I can call him and ask him to head back here as soon as he’s done. But I can tell you right now, the van hadn’t been broken into. And all the rest of the Fannings’ silver was there. Why would somebody take just that one piece, and not the rest of it?”

“Because it was the most valuable piece?”

“Was it?”

The detective flipped some pages in her notebook. “Mrs. Fanning says she had it appraised at the Telfair Museum a couple years ago, and it’s valued at a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“What?” Cara felt her jaw drop. “Lillian never told me it was that valuable. I never would have used it at the reception. And I certainly wouldn’t have just piled it in a bin with those other pieces. Or left it in the back of the van for a week.”

“Hindsight,” Detective Peebles said. “I looked at the picture she gave me of that epergne. Am I saying it right?”