A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (13 page)

I felt tingles of excitement in my stomach. “Show me more.”

We walked down a hallway and stopped to see a guest room, also painted a warm tan with white trim. It was large enough to fit a double bed, dresser, nightstand, and chair—or a crib, changer table, rocking chair, and dresser, if that time ever came.

I gave her a thumbs-up. “So far so good.”

Our next stop was the guest bathroom across the hall. It had a decent-sized tub, a white toilet, and an oak commode larger than the one in Marco’s apartment.

“Look at this,” Jillian said, running her hands over the shiny counter. “More granite. Oh, wait—Granite! That’d be an awesome name.”

“Please tell me you wouldn’t do that to your baby.”

She sighed loudly. “You’re such a spoilsport.”

We entered the master bedroom, and that was the moment I knew I was in love. Not only was it big enough for our queen-sized bed, Marco’s dresser, and two nightstands, but it also had a perfect spot for my great-grandmother’s cedar chest, still in storage in my mom’s basement. I’d always dreamed of having a place for it.

“Right here beneath these windows,” I told Jill.

“You’re right. The chest would be perfect there. And did you notice the view?”

“A park behind the house! Seedy will love that.”

“This is one of six homes that border the park,” Jillian pointed out. “It’s a premier lot, but because of the economy right now, you might be able to get the house at preconstruction prices.”

I took another look around, my excitement growing. “Show me the basement, quick.”

“Park,” she said as we headed down the hallway. “My son, Park Osborne.”

“Don’t.”

The basement turned out to be an unfinished area with the furnace and hot water heater on the far end, and the laundry tub and washer and dryer hookups on the near end behind the stairs. But it had potential. I could see Marco carving out space for a workshop, and maybe even a man-cave.

“Well?” Jillian asked as we headed upstairs. “I don’t hear any ‘Thank you, Jillian’s.”

“Thank you, Jillian. This
is
my dream
house. You were right.”

She peered out the living room window. “Oh, great. Here comes someone else to look. Call Marco and get him over here. If you want the house, you have to make an offer today.”

“Today?” I asked as I dialed his number. “He won’t want to decide that quickly.”

“Hot properties move fast, Abs. Follow me.”

We stepped onto the back deck just as Marco answered. “You won’t believe it, Marco. Jillian found us our
dream house. It has everything, including a deck, a fenced-in backyard, and a park behind the house. And the best part is that it’s brand-new.”

“But?”

“No
buts
. This house has it all. It’s a little above our price range, but Jillian said we might be able to get a preconstruction price.”

“So there is a
but
.”

“Fine. There’s a
but
. Jillian thinks it’ll move quickly, so we need to make an offer soon. But you do need to see it first.”

“So there are two
buts
.”

“I’m serious, Marco. Can you get away?”

“I’ve never heard you this excited about a house before, Sunshine. Okay, I should be able to leave for half an hour.”

“Leave now. Hurry.”

By the time Marco got there, the other couple was standing in the kitchen discussing whether to make an offer.

“I’m going to take photos,” I told him at the front door. “Jillian will take you through.”

“You realize this is the model home,” he said, “in a new subdivision.”

“So?”

“So this is one of the first houses to be completed. That means they’d be building all around us.”

“And?”

“Noise, Abby. Construction dust. Workers. Trucks—big ones—rumbling in and out of the neighborhood.”

“Temporarily.” I readied the camera app on my phone.
“There’s a couple in the kitchen who might make an offer. We have to move fast.”

“Come on,” Jillian called, and Marco followed.

While they were looking at the house, I ran around snapping photos and planning furniture arrangements. By the time we met back in the living room, Marco had come to a decision. “It
is
a great house, Abby. If you really like it, then we should put in an offer.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him. “Let’s do it, Salvare. Get the paperwork ready, Jillian.”

“Yeah, about that . . . ,” she said, looking just the tiniest bit chagrined. “I’d love to write your offer, but you signed an agreement with Lorelei, so she’ll have to do it.”

“Three
buts
,” Marco said.

“Then what will happen?” I asked my cousin.

“Then she’ll submit it to the developer and give him a day to respond.”

“She’d better be home,” I said as I pulled out my phone. I found our Realtor’s number and crossed my fingers as I counted the rings. “Hello, Lorelei? I found a house.”

*   *   *

“Think about it, Buttercup,” Marco said as we headed to our cars. “We might be home owners by tomorrow.”

“I’m so excited, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.”

That was the beginning of one of the longest twenty-four hours of my life.

*   *   *

After meeting Marco for dinner at the bar, Seedy and I returned to the apartment that now seemed tinier than ever. In truth, it had never felt like home to me, not
because it had been Marco’s bachelor pad but because there wasn’t much I could do to make it feel like mine. It spanned the second floor of an old house, with steps going up the back, a tiny kitchen and even tinier eating area, a bathroom with a handheld shower that Marco had installed over the tub, a small living/dining room, and a cramped bedroom, all sparsely decorated.

I’d added as many feminine touches as I could squeeze in, and Marco had made room for me in his closet, but the clothes were so smashed into it that they always came out wrinkled. And forget about space for my cosmetics in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I had to keep a plastic bin full of my supplies on top of the toilet.

“I won’t miss this place, Seedy.”

She was circling in her doggy bed, ready to take a nap, but when she heard her name she paused and wagged her tail.

“Want to go outside?” I asked her.

She didn’t even look at me. She found just the right spot and lay down.

“Okay, fine. I’ll have to find something else to do.”

After the excitement of the afternoon, I was still keyed up and very glad I had a project to work on. I pulled out the list Mrs. Mallory had given me and made a call to the first name on it, a Mark Dillon in Bowling Green, Ohio. He had worked with Norm Jones at Bowling Green Elementary. The phone went straight to voice mail, so I left a message and moved on.

The second name was Steve Conroy, but a recording said I’d dialed a number no longer in service. I did an Internet search for variations of “Steven Conroy,
Bowling Green, Ohio,” but the only thing that popped up was an obituary. I sure hoped that wasn’t our man.

As I continued to search, my phone rang, and I saw an out-of-town number from Bowling Green on the screen. Trying to sound professional, I responded, “Salvare Detective Agency.”

“Hi, this is Mark Dillon. I got a call from someone in your office just a little while ago.”

“Hello, Mr. Dillon. This is Abby Salvare. I was the one who called you. I’m checking references for a business client, and your name was on the list.”

“You’re not trying to sell me something, are you? Because I’m on the Do Not Call list.”

“No, this is a legitimate business call, Mr. Dillon. If you’d like to look our detective agency up on the Internet, I’ll give you the Web site.”

“I’ve never talked to a private detective before. What do you need to know?”

“First of all, do you still work for Bowling Green Elementary School?”

“I did until a few months ago. I’m retired now.”

“Thank you. Do you recall a janitor there by the name of Norman Jones?”

“Sure do. I worked with Norm for many years. Great guy.”

That was consistent with what everyone else had said. “Did you ever meet his family?”

“You bet. We used to have dinner with them once a month. My wife and I even babysat for their kids a number of times.”

Huh. Then maybe my internal radar
was
off.

“So you do remember Bud and Daisy?”

“Who?”

“Bud and Daisy, Norm’s children.”

“Norm’s kids are Dan and Elizabeth. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Norman Jones?”

“Norm the janitor who worked at the same school where you worked? His wife’s name is Sandra?”

“Sandra? Not the Norm Jones that I worked with. His wife’s name was Martha.”

My radar starting beeping. “How about if I describe Norm to you. He’s a big man, on the overweight side, with brown hair balding on top, and he drives a beat-up Chevy van, or at least he does now, maybe not when you knew him.”

“Young lady, I don’t know who you’re talking about. Norm Jones passed away over a year ago.”

“N
orman Jones is dead?” Goose bumps sprang up on my arms.

“He’d better be. I went to his funeral.”

Then who was the man pretending to be Norman Jones? And where did Sandra fit into the picture? “Do you have Norman’s wife’s address or phone number so I can talk to her?”

“Martha followed Norm about five months later, I’m sad to say. It broke her heart when he died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Looks like your information is a little out-of-date.”

“It appears that way. So let me ask you this. Do you happen to know a Steve Conroy?”

“Yes, ma’am. I worked with Steve for many years. He passed away about a year before Norm. The cancer got him.”

“Then he was also a janitor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My mind was racing trying to figure out what was going on. Why would the man I knew as Norman Jones, a janitor in Maraville previously from Bowling Green,
take the name of a deceased janitor? And then use another deceased janitor as his reference?

“This might be a long shot, Mr. Dillon, but is there anyone you worked with maybe a year ago who fits the description of the man I thought was Norman Jones? Large, balding, brown hair, beat-up Chevy van?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “you could be talking about Ed Birchman. He was a tall, heavy guy with brown hair, bald on top. I don’t remember the van, though.”

“Did Ed have a wife named Sandra?”

“That might’ve been her name. He was a real private guy. Didn’t like to socialize with the rest of us.”

“Did he ever talk about his children?”

There was silence for a moment; then he said, “I seem to recall something about a boy.”

“How long did you work with Ed?”

“Maybe a year at the most. He moved around a lot from what I understood.”

“Did he ever say where he came from?”

“Somewhere in Indiana. Mary something.”

“Could it have been Maraville?”

“I suppose that sounds right. It’s been a while, young lady.”

“Did Ed ever mention why he moved to Bowling Green?”

“I think he said he had family here, a brother or something.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Dillon. If you remember anything else about Ed, would you call me? I’ll give you my number.”

“Hold on while I get a pen.”

For a long time after I hung up, I sat there staring at
my notes, pen tapping on the pad, trying to make this new information fit in with Marco’s theory. Would someone in the witness protection program be given the name of a person who’d passed away?

And it bothered me that Norm Jones, or Ed Birchman, had used a retired janitor and a deceased janitor as references. That didn’t sound like a decision that a federal agency would make if they were trying to keep someone’s identity hidden.

I wanted to run it by Marco, but he’d know immediately why I was asking. I couldn’t ask my dad, either—he would worry that I was getting myself into something dangerous. And Reilly would blab to Marco . . . unless I was able to play it as innocently as possible.

I scrolled through my phone contacts until I found his number.

“Hey, Reilly, do you have a minute? I have a question for you.”

“Make it quick,” Reilly said. “I’m on duty.”

“Sure. How much do you know about the witness protection program?”

“A little bit. What do you want to know?”

“When the feds come up with names for their protected witnesses, do they ever use people who are deceased?”

“What kind of question is that? Marco’s not getting involved in a federal case, is he? ’Cause he’d better stay clear. Is he there? Let me talk to him.”

“Pause for a breath, Reilly. It’s just a general question. I fell asleep during a movie and don’t know how it ended.”

“Jeez, Louise. You scared me for a minute. Maybe the
names are computer generated—I don’t know. And you know what? It’s better you don’t know.”

“Okay, but they probably wouldn’t use a dead person’s name, would they?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Why aren’t you asking Marco this?”

“He’s working, so I thought maybe you’d know. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll just Google it.”

“Right, and have guys in black trench coats at your door.”

“Reilly, are you getting paranoid in your old age?”

“Who’s old? I’m forty-two, and you’re damned right I’m paranoid. So I’m telling you to be careful.”

“Fine. I won’t do an Internet search on the WPP. And hey, this is just between you and me, okay?”

“Why? What are you keeping from Marco?”

“That I bothered you while you were on duty.” Channeling Jillian, I added, “Duh.”

I hung up, then immediately started a search on Ed Birchman. The search engine came up with someone by that name in Chicago, but not in Maraville. I tried other combinations, but it wasn’t until I accidentally typed “Ted” instead of “Ed” that I hit pay dirt—a Ted Birchman living in Maraville, Indiana. I called the number on the screen and an elderly man answered.

“Hi. This is the Salvare Detective Agency, Abby Salvare speaking. I’m checking references for a business client. May I speak with Ted Birchman?”

“Junior or Senior?” he asked in a friendly voice.

“The Ted Birchman associated with Bowling Green, Ohio.”

“That would be my son, Ted Junior,” the man said. “He lives in Bowling Green.”

“Is he by any chance a janitor?”

Mr. Birchman’s voice became icy. “No, he is not. He’s a respectable businessman.”

“Then do you happen to know an Ed Birchman who
is
a janitor?”

In a voice vibrating with hostility, he said, “I have no son named Ed.”

Click.

Well, that was telling. I hadn’t asked if Ed was his son.

I did a search for Ted Birchman in Bowling Green and learned he was the head of an insurance agency. I was about to call him when I heard the back door open. As Seedy hobbled off to greet Marco, I stuffed my notes inside a floral magazine, knowing Marco would never pick it up, and slipped it beneath a pile of unread magazines on the coffee table. Then I snatched the book I’d said I wanted to read, flopped onto the sofa, and pretended to be absorbed.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, moving my feet so he could sit down. “Enjoying your leisure time?”

I rolled to a sitting position so I could cuddle up next to him. “I sure am.”

“Sean Reilly called as I was leaving the bar.”

Uh-oh.
My pulse jumped up about twenty beats. Had Reilly ratted me out? “What did he want?”

“From the partial plate number you gave him, he got several hits, but none of our four suspects were on that list.”

My breath came out in a rush of relief. Reilly hadn’t
told him about my call. “That’s great . . . ly disappointing.”

“But he also got a hit on a stolen plate with those numbers. Someone may have used it on the truck so as not to be traced.”

“Well, we know Clive was a car thief, and I said before that he could have been driving that truck. So maybe he and Sam are accomplices.” I moved so I could see my husband. “It’ll be exciting to see whether you can make Sam squirm.”

“Exciting?” Marco shook his head in exasperation. “Abby, you’re going to give me an ulcer.”

*   *   *

Sunday

“Have some more roast beef, honey,” Mom said, passing the platter around the dining room table.

“You’ve hardly touched your food, Abracadabra,” Dad said. “What’s up?”

Marco and I were at my parents’ house for dinner, sitting at the big cherry dining room table with my brother Jordan, sister-in-law Kathy, and niece Tara, while Seedy and her puppy Seedling romped in the living room. My other brother Jonathan and his wife, Portia, were on a cruise somewhere in the Mediterranean.

I glanced at Marco and he nodded his okay. “Well,” I said, “we didn’t want to say anything until we got the official word from our Realtor, but Jillian found us our dream house.”

The comments began to fly too fast to respond:

“She did?”

“In New Chapel, I hope.”

“That’s wonderful, honey!”

“What does it look like? How many square feet?”

“Congratulations, Abracadabra.”

“Did you say Aunt Jillian found it?” The last came from my niece, Tara. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I said. “Jillian has been taking me to see houses and the last one was perfect for us. It’s the model home in a brand-new subdivision. We’re waiting to find out whether the developer has accepted our offer.”

“That news calls for apple pie à la mode,” Mom said, bringing in a steaming pie from the kitchen. “Tara, would you get the ice cream and a scoop?”

As we ate dessert, Mom said, “By the way, Abigail, Rosa is a wonder. All of my eye pots sold. People love them.”

“So does that mean you’re making more?” I asked.

“No, I’m bored with that project. But I have something new that I’ll bring down tomorrow.”

“Bring it out now, Grandma,” Tara urged. “We want to see it.” She poked me in the leg. My mom’s art always made her howl with laughter.

“It’s not ready,” Mom said. “I want it to be perfect.”

My cell phone rang, so I jumped up to take it in the living room, where Seedy and Seedling had curled up together on the sofa. I saw our Realtor’s name on the screen and my heart began to race in anticipation. “Lorelei, what’s the good word?”

In a somber voice, she said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Marco came in and held my hand, his expression hopeful until I said, “What’s the bad news?”

“Someone else offered more money and the developer accepted it.”

“Oh.” I mouthed to Marco,
We didn’t get it.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” Lorelei said softly.

“Me, too.”

“We’ll just keep looking, that’s all,” she said.

I hung up, tears blurring my vision. “Someone offered more.”

Marco put his arms around me and held me, rubbing my back. “We’ll find another house, Sunshine.”

“But look how long it took to find that one, Marco.
Months
.”

“I know. But we can’t give up. There’s another one out there somewhere.”

I wiped away a tear and straightened my shoulders. “You’re right. Giving up is not an option.”

I turned and the whole family was standing just inside the doorway, watching us with sad expressions.

“We’re sorry, honey,” Mom said, and came to give me a hug.

“It wasn’t meant to be, that’s all,” I said.

But, oh, how I’d hoped it was.

*   *   *

Monday

“I have a house for you to see,” Lorelei sang over the phone as Seedy and I walked the two blocks from the parking lot to Bloomers. “Will you have any time today?”

“Lunchtime,” I said. “What’s it like?”

“Ideal for two young people just starting out, and it’s at the low end of your price range. Shall I pick you up or do you want to meet me there?”

“We’ll meet you.”

I stopped to type the address into my phone, then opened the yellow door and let Seedy hobble in ahead of me. She sniffed the air, then headed straight for the purple curtain. Mondays were Lottie’s breakfast days, and Seedy could smell it cooking.

In the kitchen, Lottie was just pushing down the toaster. “I heard the bell jingle,” she said. “Eggs will be up shortly.” She looked down at Seedy, who had put her paw on Lottie’s leg and was gazing up expectantly. Seedy had perfected the
poor me
expression.

“Your eggs are coming up, too,” Lottie said, making Seedy wiggle with happiness.

Grace came in carrying a tray with coffees, cream and sugar, and three scones.

“What’s the flavor today?” I asked, plucking one from the plate.

“Date,” she said as I took a bite of the scone. “Did you get your house?”

The bite seemed to stick in my throat. I poured cream into one of the coffee cups and took a sip, then shook my head.

Lottie glanced at me over her shoulder. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“She didn’t get it,” Grace said gravely, taking a seat on one of the stools at the narrow counter. “I’m so sorry, love.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, I guess,” I said.

“Gracie,” Lottie said, piling eggs onto our plates, “this would be a great time for a quote.”

Grace was in mid-sip of her coffee, so she held up a finger to signal that it was coming. Then she slid off her stool, assumed her lecture pose, and said, “As the oft-
quoted poet James Montgomery wrote, ‘Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive.’” Resuming her seat, she said, “Words to live by, dear.”

“That goes along with what I was telling you the other day, sweetie,” Lottie said. “Send out those positive thoughts and something positive will happen.”

I pressed my fingers into my temples and closed my eyes. “Okay, I’m sending out positive thoughts right now that I want to find my dream house.”

“What’s that noise?” Lottie asked.

“It sounds like someone’s banging on the front door,” Grace said.

“Maybe it’s opportunity knocking,” I said, hopping off the stool. “I’ll go see who it is.”

Think positive, think positive, think positive, I told myself as I pulled back the purple curtain and walked into the shop. And there at the door, framed in yellow, was my very pregnant cousin looking extremely distraught.