To Catch a Leaf (3 page)

After another half hour, I went back inside and took a seat on a yellow plastic chair opposite a huge aquarium filled with brightly colored fish. The people with the schnauzer were sitting across from me, the dog now standing on the woman's lap, barking at the fish. I could tell the woman was trying to catch my eye, so I kept my gaze on the floor.

“This is Stinker,” the woman said loudly, petting the dog.

Seeing that she had directed her comment to me, I gave her a quick smile then checked my watch, willing the vet to hurry. I still had to take the cat home, and I had no idea whether Nikki's cat, Simon, would welcome a strange feline into our cramped quarters—or what I'd do if he didn't.

“Want to know why his name is Stinker?” the woman persisted. The dog had gone from her lap to the man's and back to hers, and was now slobbering on the aquarium glass, apparently trying to lick his way through to the fish.

“Because he's disobedient?” I asked.

The man and woman stared at me, aghast. Clearly it was the wrong answer. Did I want to know the right one? No.

The dog grabbed a magazine on the end table and started shaking it. The woman sniffed indignantly as she took the magazine away.

“Is your dog getting his worm medicine?” the old man asked, seeing as how his wife was now ignoring me.

“I don't have a dog.” I checked my watch again. I could have wrapped my own leg in plaster in the time it was taking.

“Do you have a cat?” he asked.

“Um, I brought one in.”

“She's one of those cat people,” his wife whispered loudly, nudging him. She lifted her nose in the air and glanced away.

“What's the cat's name?” the man asked. His wife was pretending not to listen.

I blinked at him. The cat's name? Was I responsible for naming her now, too? “Exterminator.”

They both gaped at me. “You named your cat Exterminator?” the woman asked.

“It's kind of a nickname,” I said. “It comes from how she deals with noisy, ill-behaved dogs.” I shrugged as though to say it was out of my hands.

The receptionist called their name, and they both hurried to follow her, casting vile glances at me over their shoulders.

Finally, I was taken into an examination room, where the groggy cat was waiting in a cardboard cat carrier. I peered through the opening on top and saw a plaster cast on one of her hind legs. The little feline managed to lift her head to look at me. She opened her mouth in a silent meow as though she recognized me. I put my fingers through the opening to rub her fur, and she closed her eyes again.

Dr. Kelly gave me a starter kit of special food, a bottle of vitamin drops, an antibiotic, and probiotic capsules to counter the medicine's side effects. I was relieved to hear that she'd bathed the cat in baby shampoo to get rid of the fleas, a nontoxic alternative to oily flea sprays. Her holistic approach to pet care was the biggest reason Nikki brought Simon to her.

“Underneath all that grime, she's a nice cat,” Dr. Kelly said. “What are you going to name her?”

Why was everyone so concerned about names? “I'll let whoever adopts her name her.”

I made arrangements to pay the bill in three monthly installments, then carried the cat in her container to my car. As the engine roared to life, I glanced at the ragged little thing, visible through the cardboard bars. Fortunately, the tabby seemed content to sleep off the effects of the sedative.

At the apartment, I set the carrier in the hall outside the door, then let myself in and waited for Simon. As soon as he heard the door, the white fur ball came galloping around the corner, delighted to have a human playmate home so early in the day. But then he caught the scent of a foreign feline and immediately went into ferocious defender mode, arching his back and puffing his tail to twice its size, his ears flattened against his skull. He hissed, then pawed at the doorframe as though to say,
Let me at the intruder
. There was no way I could leave Simon and the injured cat together.

“Why can't you defend us like this when Jillian comes to visit?” I asked him.

Simon hissed at me as I scooped him up and carried him to Nikki's room, quietly opening the door and shoving him inside. Then I returned for the dozing cat and brought her into the living room. But I should have known Simon wouldn't be content for long. He began to meow and scratch at the bedroom door, until I heard the mattress springs creak and knew Nikki was stumbling from her bed to let him out.

I ran up the hallway in time to grab her doorknob from the outside and hang on. “Nik, wait! You can't let Simon out. I have another cat out here.”

She stopped tugging. “You adopted a cat?”

“No. Well, sort of. It's a long story. Wouldn't you rather go back to bed and hear about it later?” I knew how testy Nikki got when she didn't get her full eight hours.

“No.”

Muttering something to Simon, Nikki slipped out and shut the door. She had on her purple-and-pink-print pajamas, with her spiky blond hair in disarray, looking like a tall, thin, sleepy child. She padded to the living room and plopped down on the sofa, her elbows on her knees, hands propping up her head. “I'm awake. Tell me.”

I sat on the sofa beside her and explained everything, concluding with, “So rather than drop her off at the animal shelter, I felt obligated to take care of her until she recovers.”

“And then what?”

“If I'm not able to track down her owner, I'll find her a new home.”

Nikki said nothing for a moment, absorbing the information. “What are we going to do with Simon? You know he hates other animals in his territory.”

“How about if Simon stays in your room?”

“Are you crazy? Keep him in your room if you think it's such a good idea.”

“I didn't say it was a good idea. Fine. I'll take Simon to Bloomers with me.”

“Why can't you take the stray to Bloomers?”

“She's injured, Nikki. She's been traumatized. I can't expose her to all the germy people coming and going, and I wouldn't leave her there alone at night, either.”

“But you'd leave Simon alone there?”

I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't thought of anything beyond why on earth I hadn't spotted the cat in the road in the first place. My mind was replaying that moment on a continuous, guilt-ridden loop.

Nikki leaned over to look at the stray through the top of the carrier. “She's scrawny, poor little thing. I'll bet she could use a good meal.” She opened the top of the carrier, lifted the cat gently and held her like a baby, stroking her yellow head. The cat stirred, opened her blurry eyes, focused on Nikki, and gave a faint mew. I felt my heart breaking again.

Nikki let out a long, resigned sigh. “You'd better take Simon with you. He'll probably love being at Bloomers. He'll be fine at night as long as you leave food and water for him.”

“Thanks, Nikki. You're the best. You know what this reminds me of? When we were in fifth grade and found that stray dog that had mange. Remember that? I used to slip bologna out of the house to feed him.”

“And I hid him in our garage at night.” Nikki stroked the cat until it fell asleep again. “Didn't we talk the neighbor down the street into adopting that dog? The neighbor with the crazy wife? I think that ugly dog kept the man from going insane along with her.”

“Yeah, those were good times.” I stood up. “I'll call the newspaper right now to place a found ad, and when I get back to Bloomers I'll put a posting on Craig's List. I'll put the tabby's food and medicine in the kitchen. The doctor said she doesn't need anything until suppertime.”

“Don't worry about the ads,” she said, as I unpacked the supplies. “I'm awake. I can take care of them. And I'll watch the cat until I have to leave for work. Don't forget to set up a disposable litter box for her in your room. Oh, and take Simon's food and a portable litter box with you.”

Eww
. I hadn't thought about that. What would Grace and Lottie say?

 

Keeping my eye out for potential stalkers, I hunted for a spot for my car that was close to Bloomers without taking up valuable customer parking. The flower shop is on Franklin, one of the four streets that surround the courthouse square. It occupies the first floor of a three-story redbrick building, and has two bay windows on either side of a yellow-frame door. The left side of the building is the shop, while the right side is our Victorian-inspired coffee and tea parlor, where customers like to sit at white wrought-iron tables and sip from china tea cups while watching the happenings outside.

Two doors north is Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, Marco's place, and around the square are quaint gift shops, boutiques, a deli, a jewelry store, two banks, three restaurants, several law offices, including that of Dave Hammond, my former boss, and much more, all housed in two- and three-story brick buildings from around 1900.

When I got to Bloomers, my assistants were busy serving java, tea, and scones to a room jammed with customers, so I brought Simon and his necessities inside from the alley entrance, through our narrow galley kitchen, and into my workroom. Simon had howled in protest during the ten-minute ride from home and now darted out of his plastic prison and underneath the worktable, where he shook off his travel jitters, then began washing his face.

I uncovered his litter box and slid it under the table. Simon stopped his ablutions to sniff it, then resumed his facial. When he saw me head into the kitchen, he scampered after me and watched as I filled his bowl with water. It went under the worktable, too. Fortunately, the big table in the middle of the room was spacious.

The workroom was my happy place, my little piece of paradise, overflowing with the colors, shapes, textures, and scents of my profession. Lottie had designed it well. Two huge walk-in coolers sat side by side along one wall, dried and silk flowers filled tall containers on shelves on the back wall, vases and pots of all sizes and materials lined the top shelf, and slate counters ran along the opposite wall, ending at my desk. On the desktop sat my keyboard, computer monitor, a cordless telephone, an assortment of accessories, and a photograph of Marco and me taken in Key West last winter.

As Simon explored, I checked the orders on the spindle, overjoyed to see a thick stack of them. I inhaled and blew out, feeling much more positive. The day was finally getting better.

Lottie came through the purple curtain holding a stack of orders. As usual she was wearing lots of pink, from her pink plaid shirt to her bright pink sneakers, not to mention the pink barrettes in her brassy red curls. For a plus-sized woman, she wasn't afraid to wear strong colors. Then again, as the mother of seventeen-year-old quadruplet sons, there wasn't much that frightened her.

“Did you get the kitty home?” she asked.

“Yep. She's all settled in. How much of our flower order was damaged?”

“Not that much, luckily. I called the supplier and more are on their way. Now, let me see that ring.” She took my hand to examine my engagement ring up close. It was a half-carat marquise-cut diamond set in a gold band etched with tiny chevrons on either side.

“It's bee-
you-
tiful, sweetie. How exciting. I couldn't be happier for you.” She gave me a big hug, beamed at me, then showed me an order written in Grace's neat handwriting. “We need to discuss this.”

No segue there.

I read it silently: One calla, any color, surrounded by sweet basil leaves, to be delivered this afternoon to the address below. I handed it back to her. “What's wrong with it?”

“It's from the stalker.”

I shuddered. “Why am I the last one to know I have a stalker?”

“He's not y
our
stalker, sweetie. At least I didn't think he was, but I figured I'd better check with you anyway, just to make sure.”

Wow
. The day just got a whole lot brighter. “Then whose stalker is he?”

“A nice-looking lady renting the Donnelly home on County Line Road. What you're looking at is his latest order. Here are the earlier ones.” She pulled the paper clip off the stack in her hand and read them aloud: “A single tiger lily in baby's breath. One red hibiscus with thyme leaves. I had to substitute a red amaryllis for the hibiscus. One iris in statice. An amaryllis with palm leaves. And one primrose—but not an evening primrose—with oleander.” She slipped the paper clip back on. “That's it.”

I was missing something. “And that says
stalker
how?”

“Here's how it works. About twice a week, when we open up in the morning, we find an envelope filled with cash stuffed through the mail slot in the door. Within ten minutes a man calls in an order but won't leave a name. If we tell him we have to have a name, he threatens to take his business elsewhere. He's very specific about what he wants, the money always covers the cost, and he sends the flowers to the same house each time. Doesn't that sound like stalking behavior to you?”

“How long have these orders been coming in?”

“Several weeks.”

“Why am I just now learning about them?”

“Come on, sweetie. Think back to what you've been through for the past month. You just got off crutches for your sprained ankle; Marco got called back to active duty with the Army Rangers; we had that vampire scare; your cousin was ill and hiding in our basement. . . . Seems like you had enough to deal with.”

I saw her point. “Is the recipient of all these bouquets alarmed about the gifts?”

Lottie contemplated the question. “Now that you mention it, she doesn't appear to be. She just takes them, thanks me, and shuts the door.”