Slay it with Flowers (16 page)

“You can’t use the instant maple-flavored kind, Ab,” Nikki said, trying not to laugh. “It has to be plain.”

“Maybe that’s why Simon kept trying to lick my ankles. He’s locked in your bedroom, by the way. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Over her peals of laughter I asked, “Want to hear what I did today?”

“Is it as good as smearing maple-flavored oatmeal on your legs?”

“Depends on whether you consider a juicy item
good.
”

Nikki hit the Off button on the remote and gave me her full attention. I filled her in on my visit to the hair salon and the pictures I’d taken, then, after she’d shown the appropriate amount of disgust, I told her about my phone call to the health club to ask about Punch.

“His little
passion flower
?” was Nikki’s first reaction.

“From what you’ve told me about him, he doesn’t sound like the type to give his girlfriend such a romantic nickname.”

“Maybe there was a side to Punch no one knew.”

“Didn’t you say Flip had known him since grade school? He’d be the likeliest one to ask.” Nikki licked more ice cream off her spoon. “Did Marco give you any tips?”

“He gave me more than that,” I said, wiggling my eyebrow.

Nikki set the ice cream aside and tucked her legs beneath her, turning to face me. This was her
I’m all ears
pose. “You saved the best for last. Tell me everything.”

“First of all, I came up with a plan to get on his good side, a private picnic—”

“You and Marco had a
picnic
?”

I nodded. “—with sandwiches and wine from the deli, and a tablecloth and candle from the restaurant. I spread everything out on the floor in his office—”

“In his
office
?” she squealed.

“Nikki, are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“Where was I? Oh yes. We finished eating”—I paused, waiting for her to repeat, but she was behaving, so I went on—“then he kissed me.”

Nikki bounced on the cushion like she was sixteen again. “He
kissed
you?”

“Well, actually, it was the other way around. But he did kiss back.”

She let out a shriek of delight that started Simon howling for his freedom. “Tell me everything,” she commanded.

“Okay. Close your eyes. Now imagine the sexiest movie star you’ve ever seen, give him nice, firm lips, a hard body, muscular hands running up and down your back . . .” I let out a wistful sigh.

Nikki’s eyes flew open. “And?”

“Jillian arrived.”

Seeing that Nikki was about to repeat me, I held up a hand. “Yes, Jillian, and yes, that was the end of the picnic and the kiss. But the story doesn’t end unhappily. I did get advice from Marco on where to start investigating, without losing my bet. In fact, he’s going to make dinner for me here Saturday night, so you have to find something to do.”

Nikki stared at me in surprise. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Please, Nikki? I’ll buy you a new carton of Chunky Monkey.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own apartment and for that I get one lousy container of ice cream?”

“A month’s supply then.”

She picked up the carton and her spoon and dug in once again. “Okay,” she said with a mouthful. “I have a date with Scott on Saturday night anyway.”

She dodged the pillow I threw at her, so I grabbed her spoon and ate the mound of calories on it.

“I deserved that,” she said. “So what did the fabulous kisser say to do first?”

“Find Punch’s mystery girlfriend.”

 

I fell asleep that night out of sheer exhaustion and made it through with only one interruption, when Simon decided to sleep next to my legs, which only made them itch more from the tickle of his fur. I decided against locking him out—he’d only sit outside and meow, and that would be harder to ignore than a tickle.

Although the heat and humidity that had moved in overnight were murder on my raw skin, I kept to my routine of an early-morning walk at the track. Not only did it energize me, but it also gave me a chance to form a rough game plan for the murder investigation.

First, I needed to talk to the night clerk at the New Chapel Inn to see what information he might have about the mystery girlfriend. I also wanted to get over to the health club to see if anyone working out had seen Punch with his hothouse flower, or heard him mention her real name. Then on Saturday, hopefully, I could get over to the jail to talk to Flip. And Monday I would call Greg Morgan and set up a lunch date to get even more information.

After a cool shower and a slathering of anti-itch lotion, I put on another lightweight short skirt with a top and my flip-flops and scooted off to work.

“Good morning, dear,” Grace called from the parlor. She walked out, took a look at my legs, and said, “Did you try the oatmeal bath?”

No way was I going to admit my mistake. It just wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted a person who said “bawth” to know.

“Yes, thanks, I did try the oatmeal, and the itching isn’t as bad.” That was the absolute truth.

“Marvelous. Here are your messages and your coffee. We had an early delivery of freesias, and you’ll be pleased to know they’re in tip-top shape. The deliveryman got rather surly with me when I told him to wait while I checked the flowers for brown spots. Nevertheless, he waited. The flowers have been cut and put in hydrating solution.”

“You’re a marvel, Grace. I’m amazed you were able to get the guy to wait. I usually have to threaten to call his boss.”

“There’s nothing like a good, hard rap on the head with an umbrella handle.”

I blinked at her several times. “You hit him?”

“Shall I give Dave Hammond a call to see if your insurance premium has been paid?”

“Great idea.” I took the slips of paper in one hand, the cup and saucer in the other, and headed for my desk in the workroom. “Where’s Lottie?”

“Herman wasn’t feeling well this morning so Lottie took him to the doctor. She was quite worried. Shall we think good thoughts for Herman?”

“We shall.” I sipped the coffee and discarded the first three messages, all from my mother reminding me about the dinner that night. Like we hadn’t been doing it for the past four years. The fourth message was from Greg Morgan. I placed that one next to the phone. The fifth was from Trudee DeWitt, who had a new idea for her party.

I checked to see if any orders had come in over the wire and found six, two of them needing to go out by early afternoon. I put them on the worktable, checked our flower supplies, then picked up the phone and called the prosecutor’s office.

“Greg Morgan, please,” I said briskly to the nasal-toned secretary. “Abby Knight calling.”

“Are you an attorney?”

She knew darn well I wasn’t. She and I had tangled before. “I’m the florist.”

“Hold, please.”

I sat there for at least three minutes, the phone against my ear, listening to an FM radio station play a harpsichord piece, imagining the secretary sitting in front of her phone, filing her nails and smiling while I cooled my heels. I got so bored that I pulled out the spa photos and glanced through them. Five men, five different walks of life, all after one thing. Disgusting.

After that, I arranged the paper clips in my tray from small to large, then did the same with the rubber bands. I wouldn’t have endured another second of the
plinkety plink
sound of the harpsichord if it weren’t for Morgan’s having access to information that could help send Jillian cruising down that aisle. Luckily, Morgan got on the line before the musician had harpsed his last chord.

“Abby! I’m surprised you called back so quickly.”

I grabbed Grace’s message and checked the time. The call had come in a mere ten minutes ago, which made me look pathetically eager to talk to him, or maybe just pathetic. Either way, it wasn’t the image I wanted.

I’d had a total of three dates with Morgan since he’d rediscovered me, and if I’d had to rank them on a scale of one to ten, they wouldn’t have made the long climb up to two. Somehow I had to make it clear that I was neither eager nor pathetic, yet still arrange a meeting as soon as possible.

My father always said the best defense was a good offense, so I replied pleasantly, “Did you call?”

“Well, yes. Isn’t that why you called?”

“Isn’t that odd?” I said with a light laugh. “I was responding to the suggestion you made—when was that . . . way back on Monday?—that we set up a lunch date.”

He laughed, too. “Great minds think alike.”

Not in a million years, buster.
“So how does your calendar look for next Monday?”

I heard him flipping a page. “I’ve got a full day. How does Tuesday work for you?”

It would work, but I didn’t want to waste a single day. “Not as good as Monday.”

There was a pause and then he said, “Tell you what. For you, Abby Knight, I will switch appointments around, as long as we can make it for one o’clock at Rosie’s.”

Rosie’s was a diner around the corner from the courthouse. It wasn’t known for great food, but it was quiet and slow, both of which worked for my purposes. “That’s good. See you then.” I crumpled his message and tossed it in the trash can. One chore out of the way.

Next on my list was a call to my father, asking him to use his connections to get me inside the jail. He promised to phone as soon as he had the okay. Within the hour I had the third chore marked off as well—a plan and estimate for Trudee DeWitt’s party. I phoned her and got her pink-haired daughter.

“Hi, this is Abby Knight. Is your mother at home?”

“Who’s calling.” No tone to her voice, not even a question mark.

“Abby Knight, as I just said.”

“Would you spell that?”

“Sure, but let’s take one question at a time, the first one being, is your mother
home
?”

“I guess so.”

She was purposely trying my patience, but having had a few psychology classes in college, I knew just how to handle her—with sympathy and a firm hand. “Look, I understand that it’s difficult being a teenager because I was there a few years ago, and I also know that you know whether your mother is home or not. You can’t guess about those things. So, may I please speak with her? Now?”

There was a pause and then she said, “I’ll call her.” Half a second later my eardrum shattered when she yelled “Moo-o-om! Are you ho-o-o-me?”

She put down the phone and walked away.

“Hello?” I called, after several minutes passed. Then louder, “HELLO?”

I heard footsteps, then the atonal voice came on the line. “I
guess
she’s not here.”

Checkmate.

“Would you tell her to call me, please?”

“Who’s calling.”

Forget the child psychology, this girl needed a good smack upside the head. I was just about to tell her so when I heard the sharp click of high heels, then a loudly whispered argument, then the sound of a struggle, after which Trudee said, “Hello?”

“Trudee, it’s Abby Knight.”

“Abby, I’m so sorry. Hold on.” She put the phone away from her mouth and yelled, “You’re grounded for a week, young lady. No, make that a month!”

In the background I heard a door slam.

“Two months!” she shouted. Then to me, “Is the army recruiting office open?”

“Probably, but you can’t sign her up.”

“Her? Hell, I’m talking about me. The problem is that if I enlist, my husband will, too, in self-defense, and then my kids will destroy the house. So it looks like I’m stuck. How are you with flags?”

“Excuse me?”

“I had this great idea for my party,” she said. “A big U.S. flag done in flowers.”

“How big are we talking?”

“Thirty-six by seventy-two.”

“About the size of a kitchen table?”

“About the size of my backyard. I’m talking feet, not inches.”

I tore up the estimate and dropped the pieces in the trash can. “I need to look at the lawn. How is Monday morning at ten o’clock?”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

My second line rang and I answered it to find my father on the other end. “You’ve got a visit set up for Sunday morning at eleven o’clock.”

“Sunday?”

“One day is the same as another in jail. Ask for Patty. She’ll process you through.” Patty was a jail matron my dad had known for years. I thanked him profusely and hung up.

I heard the bell jingle in the front so I went out to lend Grace a hand. She was busy at the counter with a customer, so I greeted the two arrivals from the courthouse who had come in for their afternoon break, and showed them to a table in the parlor.

“Mocha latte,” one of the girls said.

“Same for me,” the other one said. “Heavy on the mocha.”

I took one look at the latte machine and knew I was in trouble. “Your drinks will be right up,” I promised, and slipped out of the room to find Grace.

“You’ve got to teach me how to run that machine,” I told her as soon as her customer had gone.

“I have taught you, dear. You’ve simply forgotten.” She gave me an encouraging pat on the back. “You’ve got a lot on your mind with your cousin’s dilemma. It’s perfectly understandable.”

Under the force of her compassion I felt like a real heel. There was only one recourse: I had to come clean about the Emperor’s Spa investigation.

At that moment, Lottie breezed in, all smiles. “Herman’s okay; he’s just got a touch of asthma. It’s not his heart after all.”

We hugged her, and everyone was happy, so I decided to live with my secret a little while longer.

 

The parlor got very busy over the noon hour, so I ended up serving coffee, tea, and scones well into the afternoon. I stepped out once to take a call from Jillian, who wanted to know if I had solved the murder yet. Time was running out, she reminded me. Then I reminded her that I did have a struggling business to run, and that I was doing the best I could.