A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (19 page)

“False labor
again
?”

“Jillian is the modern version of an Aesop’s fable, Marco—the woman who cried baby. Anyway, we did see the house, but it wasn’t a place I could picture us living in. I’m seriously beginning to think that there’s something wrong with me. The only house I’ve liked, out of all the homes we’ve seen, is the new one, and that’s sold.”

“Can you wait five months for one like it to be built?”

“No.”

“So there’s our dilemma.”

My phone rang and I saw Reilly’s name on the screen. “I’m going to take this in your office,” I told Marco, and hurried through the bar as I answered. “Hey, Sarge, thanks for getting back to me.”

“You want me to dig up a missing-child sketch?” Reilly asked.

I closed the door and turned to see Seedy curled up in Marco’s chair. “Would you? It’s really important.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Jones family?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

There was a pause; then he said, “Just give me the name on the file.”

“Brody Dugan, kidnapped from St. Christopher’s in Maraville about ten years ago.”

“I remember that case. Don’t tell me you think the Joneses have something to do with that.”

“Right now all I have is a hunch, but it’s a strong one. I’d be happy to fill you in if you have time.”

“Let me see if I can find the file first. Then we’ll talk.”

“Great. Thanks, Reilly. And this is just between us, okay?”

“You keeping secrets from Marco again?”

“If this turns out to be what I think it is, I want to surprise and amaze him with my investigative prowess.”

“Right.”

I could’ve sworn I heard him rolling his eyes.

“If it turns out to be what
I
think it is,” Reilly said, “you’ll owe me one for wasting my time. If it turns out to be what
you
think it is, I’ll owe you one—but first I want your solemn promise that if that happens, you’ll call me.”

“Right. Like you’d answer.”

He heaved a sigh. “I’ll answer, Abby. Give me a day and I’ll get back to you.”

Before I left Marco’s office, I scrolled through my phone and pulled up the photo I’d taken of the Victorian, then e-mailed it to myself so I could enlarge it on the computer at home. Then I gathered my sleepy dog and went to tell Marco good-bye.

*   *   *

“Sergio was working right there”—I tapped the screen of Marco’s laptop—“painting the gingerbread trim under the peak of the roof. See that?”

I was on the sofa with the small computer on my knees, Seedy lying beside me, and the image of the Victorian in front of me. “So why were you watching him, Seedy, and not the other men?”

She lifted her head and tilted it to the left, trying to understand what I was saying.

“What caught your eye? Was the sun reflecting off the attic window?”

She tilted her head the other way.

I pictured the Victorian again as I’d seen it from the front yard that morning. The sun had been shining, but the house faced west. The morning light wouldn’t have
hit that side at all. “Okay, it wasn’t the sun. Did you see a bird sitting on the roof?”

Unable to decipher my words, she settled down for another nap.

I thought back to Seedy tugging at her leash, eager to meet the Jones children. Could she have seen one of them gazing out the attic window?

Then another thought struck me. If one of the kids had been looking out the attic window while Sergio was painting, he or she might have witnessed the accident.

Bingo! Now I had a legitimate reason to talk to the kids—if I could convince Sandra and Norm to allow it. But first, I’d have to track them down.

*   *   *

Friday

The shop was crazy busy all day and we sorely needed another hand, but no one expected Rosa to come in to work. My mother stopped by after school to see how Dad’s ski bench and her fish sconces were doing and ended up working the cash register so Lottie could help me in the back room.

“Your mom thinks we priced the sconces too low,” Lottie said as we worked.

“I don’t think we could give them away,” I whispered.

“She also wanted to know why the bench doesn’t have a price on it.”

“I’m waiting on Tara to give me a comparison, but I’ll bet she forgot. I’ll have to call her.”

My phone dinged to let me know I had a text message, so I stopped to read it. The message was from Reilly:
Faxing over sketch now.

The fax machine began to print, so I texted back:
Thanks. IOU.
Then I pulled the sheet out of the printer. Unmistakably, there was a younger version of Bud Jones staring back at me. I was so excited, I wanted to throw my arms around Lottie and cry,
I was right! I’m going to solve this case!
Only to hear Marco’s words:
Verify, verify, verify.

I had to find those kids.

I sat down at the computer, eager to get back to my investigation, when I heard Lottie say, “Oh, lordy. Less than an hour before we close and look at the orders waiting.”

What was I thinking? I couldn’t afford to take time away from work now. My Internet search would have to wait.

“Abigail, there’s a customer up front who wants to see you,” Mom said, poking her head through the curtain. “Her name is Edna St. Pierre and she doesn’t look happy.”

“It’s the bride-to-be’s mother,” Lottie said. “Want me to talk to her, sweetie?”

“No, but thanks anyway,” I said. “I’m sure Mrs. St. Pierre won’t be satisfied until she tackles the person who caused the problem.”

“I
have a bone to pick with you, young lady,” Edna St. Pierre scolded. She was standing by the cash register, where the other customers in the shop could hear her.

With short blond hair and big diamond earrings, Edna was dressed in a tailored linen coat, patent leather pumps in cream with gold heels, and a cream-and-brown purse with a big
D&G
, for Dolce & Gabbana, on the front. She was a woman who knew how to attract attention, and at that moment that kind of attention was the last thing I wanted.

“Let’s discuss this over a cup of tea in the parlor,” I said, and headed straight through the doorway before she could argue. “Grace, two cups of chamomile, please?”

Grace had obviously already deduced why Edna had come, because she had a small china teapot of hot water and two rose-patterned cups and saucers on the table moments after we’d sat down.

“How lovely you look today, Mrs. St. Pierre,” Grace said, sounding both complimentary and royally
condescending, as only Grace could. She had just come back to our table with a plate of scones and a small jar of clotted cream. “Won’t you try my pecan scones? They are on the house, naturally.”

Scones were never naturally on the house. But Grace knew exactly what she was doing because Edna’s fierce scowl relaxed as she reached for one and set it on her plate.

“Thank you,” Edna said with a gracious nod. “I haven’t had a scone since my stay in London last fall.”

She waited until Grace had poured our tea and left to say to me in a low voice, “I am furious with my daughter, and it’s all your fault. You had no business advising her on her wedding plans. That is
my
duty.”

“Isn’t it also your duty to help your daughter have the wedding of her dreams?”

“Her
dreams
?” Scoffing, Edna said, “Darla’s dreams range from eloping on a white charger to renting a castle in Milan. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“She knows she wants aqua- and melon-colored flowers.”

“Drab, dreary, dull. The girl has no sense of style.”

“Darla wouldn’t be designing the flowers. I would. And I do have a sense of style. I think you’ve been pleased with what I’ve done for you in the past.”

Edna picked up her cup and glowered at me as she took a drink. “You did the arrangements? I thought Lottie did.”

“Lottie trained me. I do most of them myself now.”

“But aqua and melon? Please. They are the colors of last year, Miss Knight.”

“It’s Mrs. Salvare now, but please call me Abby. You want your daughter to be happy, don’t you?”

“That’s a silly question. Of course I do, but she keeps making the wrong choices.”

“Just because they’re not your choices doesn’t make them wrong.”

“I beg to differ. You should see the”—she rolled her eyes—“
man
she’s marrying. Then you’d understand about wrong choices. I’m sorry, Abby, I simply cannot allow Darla to ruin her wedding.”

“But that’s just it. This is
her
wedding.”

“That I’m paying for. And I will not pay for anything I dislike.”

“In other words, forget about what Darla likes. This wedding is about you.”

“I resent your tone.”

“I hate to say this, Mrs. St. Pierre, but Darla is starting to resent you.”

“How dare you talk that way to me!”

“Excuse me,” my mom said, appearing suddenly at our side and pulling out a chair. “May I?”

I gazed at her in shock. What was she doing? “Mom, it’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“You’re needed in the back, Abigail. This should be between mothers anyway. Mrs. St. Pierre?” Mom stuck out her hand. “I’m Maureen Knight, and I know something about stubborn daughters.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lottie and I peeked around the doorway and saw the two women laughing together. Another fifteen minutes and Mom came into the workroom to tell me that Darla would be in on Monday to select
her flowers, which would be in spring colors with melon and aqua worked in.

“Well, aren’t you the little negotiator,” Lottie said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Mom said. “I’ve had quite a bit of practice mollifying parents, and I do know something about determined daughters.”

I gave her a hug. “I really appreciate your talking to Mrs. St. Pierre. I couldn’t seem to get through to her.”

“That’s why I stepped in, Abigail. I could tell you were frustrated.”

“What did you say to get her to change her mind?” Lottie asked.

“I told her to stop worrying that her daughter was not going to need her anymore. That’s all it was—a fear of not being needed. Edna wants that wedding to be perfect so she can prove to her daughter how much she needs her mother in her life.”

“Thank goodness you weren’t like that for my wedding,” I said.

Mom gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I just didn’t let it show.”

“Thank you for that,” I said. “Okay, everyone, let’s get these orders finished. It’s almost time to close.” And I was so eager to get back to my investigation, I was practically wiggling.

“Hello?” I heard.

I turned to see Rosa come through the curtain. She had on a black jacket with black jeans and boots and, like yesterday, wore little makeup. But today she had a haunted look, with dark hollows beneath her eyes, like someone who hadn’t slept in days.

“Rosa, I’m so sorry about Sergio,” Mom said, giving her a hug.

“Thank you,” she said sadly. “I still can’t believe he is gone. My Sergio. My heart. My beloved husband. Gone! And my poor Petey, he keeps crying out for him, ‘Papa, Papa, why would you leave me?’”

Lottie was ready with a tissue as Rosa began to sob, wrapping her solid arms around Rosa and rocking her as though she were a child. “We’re here for you, sweetie.”

“We are, most definitely,” Grace added, placing her hand on Rosa’s shoulder.

As was I, but only for the next fifteen minutes. Then I was out of there.

In a few moments Rosa calmed down enough to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to come here and make everyone sad.”

“Nonsense,” Grace said. “Isn’t that, after all, what friends are for? As the fabled Roman philosopher Cicero wrote, ‘Friendship makes prosperity more shining and lessens adversity by dividing and sharing it.’”

“Thank you, Grace,” Rosa said, accepting a fresh tissue. “My heart aches for Sergio so much I cannot sleep at night.” With a deep sigh, she said, “It would help so much if my husband would give me a sign to let me know he is okay, but I haven’t seen anything. Not one thing.”

“What kind of sign?” Mom asked.

Rosa shrugged. “I don’t know how it will come, but I will recognize it when I see it.” She glanced upward and shook her fist. “Hurry up, Sergio! Your little lightning bolt is not a patient woman.”

That broke the tension in the room and made the women laugh.

“You didn’t have to come in today, Rosa,” I said, returning to the arrangement I’d started.

“I was going
loco
by myself at home,” she said, sitting on a stool. “Too many memories there. Petey is with my mother, so I had to get out. This is the only place I could think of that makes me feel better. Can I do something to help?”

“You betcha,” Lottie said, opening one of the walk-in coolers. “We have a bunch of orders still on the spindle.”

“I can stay, too,” Mom said. “I’m not in any rush.”

But I was. All I could think about was that fax of Bud lying upside down on my desk. Of all the days to be swamped with orders, why was it today?

“Have you made any discoveries about Sergio’s note?” Rosa asked me, her sad eyes lifting with hope.

“Not yet,” I said. “But we can talk about this next week, after things settle down.”

“How can things settle down until the man who caused it is caught?” she asked.

I studied Rosa for a moment. Despite her sorrow, there was a spark of determination in her eyes that I recognized. “Then I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

“I am here, aren’t I? What are you waiting for?”

I wasn’t going anywhere until the orders were done, so what was the harm of talking to her? “First of all, are you sure the note was in Sergio’s handwriting?”

“He did not write,” she said. “He printed. He only went to school through fourth grade because he was needed to work on his family’s farm. Anyway, why would someone else print ‘Help me’ on a piece of paper and put it in Sergio’s pocket?”

“The only problem we’re having,” I said, smudging
the truth around the edges, “is that we don’t know who Sergio would have intended to give the note to.”

Rosa looked puzzled. “Why else would he have it?”

“Mr. Appleruth said the men usually carry pencils. I wondered if you’d ever seen him with a red marker.”

“No, but that does not mean he didn’t carry one in his tool belt. Why? What are you thinking?”

“That someone gave the note to him.”

“Abby, that would not make sense. If someone handed my husband a note asking for help, Sergio would not stuff it in his pocket. He would do something about it.” She patted my hand as though I were a child. “Keep trying.”

“Here you go, Rosa,” Lottie said, laying an armful of yellow roses on the table. “This is an order for a simple bouquet. You know what to do to roses, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said with a grateful smile.

“Abby, I’ll be up front with your mom,” Lottie said.

As Rosa and I worked, I could tell by the relaxing of her shoulders that she was so absorbed, her grief was not the first thing on her mind. Flowers were as much a balm to her soul as they were to mine.

She finished her bouquet, put it in the cooler, and sat down on the stool to watch me. “What is that arrangement for?”

“A table centerpiece.”

“I recognize the peonies, but what are those flowers?”

“Snowballs.”

“And those?”

“Dahlias.”

“I like the pink and cream colors together. They’re very romantic. What if you added lily of the valley? Wouldn’t that be pretty?”

“I suppose it would.”

“I’ll get some for you.”

I tried not to be annoyed—I knew she meant well—but would a painter want someone else telling her what colors to use?

Rosa returned from the cooler with her arms loaded down. “Here are the lilies and I brought some of these leafy things, too.”

“Eucalyptus,” I said, feeling my annoyance meter creeping upward. “I was going to use variegated euonymus—”

Rosa’s face fell.

“—but these are good.”

She smiled broadly. “See? I am a natural.”

“How about putting your talent to work on an arrangement of red and yellow tulips?” I suggested.

“I would love to do that.” She gave me an exuberant hug, then hurried to the cooler to gather her blossoms.

My cell phone rang and it was Marco calling from the bar, so I took the call in the kitchen. “Hey, Buttercup,” he said. “What time will you be here for dinner?”

“I’ve still got work to do, so maybe six thirty?” I didn’t tell him that work included the Jones case. I was so eager to get to it, I wasn’t even hungry.

“I’ve got to meet with a client then, babe. Can you make it sooner?”

I stifled my frustrated sigh. It seemed that the universe was conspiring against me. “How about six?”

“See you then.”

At five forty-five, as we put away supplies and cleaned off the table, Mom came in to say good-bye. “I enjoyed myself, Abigail. I can see why you like Bloomers so
much. The shop is such a pleasant environment.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the curtain and sighed. “I was hoping my sconces would have sold by now, but I guess it will take just the right buyer.”

Lottie stuck her head through the curtain. “Don’t forget the cheese you bought at the deli today, Maureen.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Mom said. “Jeff would have been disappointed if I’d forgotten his favorite cheese.”

When she went into the kitchen, Rosa gave me a discreet nudge and whispered, “I will talk to your mother now about the ugly fish.”

I shook my head. “She had a nice day. Don’t spoil it.” Besides, if Rosa told my mother her art pieces were ugly, I’d have to stay and pick up the pieces of Mom’s heart—and I didn’t need any more delays.

Rosa planted her hands on her hips. “Is that what you think I would do?”

I was about to argue when Mom came out holding a small white paper bag. “If you need help tomorrow, honey, let me know.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then turned to Rosa. “And if there’s anything I can do for you, please call me.”

I saw Rosa getting ready to speak, so I put my arm around Mom’s back and ushered her rapidly through the curtain. “Okay, Mom. Hug Dad for me. Bye.”

“Wait, Maureen,” Rosa said, holding one side of the curtain back. “Before you leave, I need to talk to you.”