A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (25 page)

M
arco and I stood on the other side of a one-way glass window, watching as a female psychologist questioned Daisy. They were seated at a table in the police station’s interview room. Daisy was drawing with crayons.

Once I’d gotten a few gallons of gas in my car, the police had escorted us back to the station, where I was given a cup of strong coffee for my nerves and Daisy was given a bottle of flavored water that one of the officers had stashed in the refrigerator. It hadn’t been easy to get Daisy to let go of my hand, but she had finally agreed to sit with the psychologist as long as I promised to stay just outside.

Reilly came to give us an update. “Norman Jones is being booked into our jail even as we speak, and Maraville PD has already brought in Sandra and the boy. I faxed over our file on Brody Dugan, and they’re in the process of locating his parents.”

“That’s going to be rough on Bud,” I said. “The only parents he’s ever known are Sandra and Norm. His real parents will be strangers to him.”

“It
will
be rough,” Reilly said, “for him and his parents. But they’ll have a psychologist working with both sides before they’re reunited, so don’t worry.”

“What about Daisy’s parents?” I asked.

“I haven’t heard whether they were located,” Reilly said.

“What will happen if they aren’t found?” I asked.

“The Department of Child and Family Services will place her in a foster home,” Reilly said. “I’ll check back with you in a while to see how she’s doing.”

After he was gone, I said, “I wouldn’t do that to Daisy, Marco. She’s traumatized enough as it is.”

“It wouldn’t be up to us, Abby.”

“I don’t care. I will not let her go to a strange home. She can come home with us.”

“We’d have to get special permission from a judge and—”

“Then we’ll do it.”

“It’s not that easy, babe.”

The psychologist came outside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m not getting anywhere with Daisy. She refuses to talk to me. She wants Abby.”

I looked at Marco and raised my eyebrows as though to say,
See?

I opened the door and Daisy looked around in alarm. Seeing me, she scooted back her chair and ran to throw her arms around my waist, pressing herself as close to me as she could.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here now.”

We sat down again, and Daisy slid a blank piece of typing paper in front of me, placing the box of crayons between us. “Now you can draw, too.”

I began to draw flowers, watching out of the corner of my eye as she made her familiar stick drawings, but this time her mother figure had red hair. Sandra was literally out of the picture. We continued drawing in silence for a good fifteen minutes. I hadn’t felt so relaxed in weeks, and I understood a little better why my mom valued her art time.

As I put the finishing touches on a bouquet, I noticed I had an audience.

“Are those flowers from your flower shop?” Daisy asked.

“Yep. They’re daisies. I made them for you.”

“They’re pretty.” She reached for a different color crayon. “That’s not my real name.”

“What’s your real name?”

Beneath the smallest stick figure she printed:
DAPHNE

“Daphne,” I read aloud. “I like it.”

“Daphne?” I heard someone say behind me.

We both turned in surprise. A redheaded woman stood in the doorway. A redheaded man stood just behind her.

Daisy stared at them for a long moment. Then she whispered,
“Mommy,”
as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“It’s her!” the woman cried with a sob, turning toward the man. “It’s our baby.”

And then Daisy shoved back her chair, crying, “Mommy! Daddy!” Clutching her drawing in her hand, she ran toward them, propelling herself into both their arms at once.

Amid tears of joy and relief, they hugged and kissed her, stroking her hair and gazing at her as though they
couldn’t absorb their great fortune. I felt I was witnessing a miracle. They had their daughter back at last.

Holding Daisy as though afraid of losing her again, her parents thanked me profusely and then asked to thank Marco, too, so I called him into the room. When one of the detectives came to take them to see the psychologist, I followed them into the hallway, wiping tears off my face as I watched them walk away, each holding one of Daisy’s hands, one of which still clutched her drawing. Halfway up the hall, Daisy tugged her parents to a halt, released their hands, and ran toward me.

“This is for you,” she said breathlessly, handing me her picture. Then she spun around and ran back to her mom and dad. Just before they turned the corner, Daisy paused to wave good-bye to me. And then she was gone, just like her phony name.

I could barely see the image she’d drawn for all the tears in my eyes, but there on the paper were her four stick figures—a man with black hair, a woman with red hair, a girl with red hair, and a dog . . . with three legs! Beneath each figure she’d printed a name:
Marco. Abby. Daphne. Seedy
. They were all enclosed in a big red heart.

I couldn’t speak.

Marco put his arms around me and said quietly in my ear, “You’re
my
hero today, Sunshine.”

Monday

T
he start of the week and the end of a nightmare.

Mondays were always special in my book, and today was extra special because Lottie had decided to throw a celebration breakfast in my honor. She’d arranged to have it at Down the Hatch and set the time bright and early so that my mom could attend before she headed off to school. It was definitely early but not at all bright. A nasty thunderstorm had rolled in overnight and continued with a constant downpour. Yet not even that could bring me down today.

I looked around the bar, watching as my family and friends filled the booths. Besides Lottie, Grace, Marco, and me, both of my parents were there, along with Marco’s brother Rafe and, running in on the highest of heels with a newspaper over her head, the knockout Rosa. Marco’s mom had to decline because of her babysitting duties and Sergeant Reilly was still a no-show, but my niece Tara was there, standing at my side, still half asleep but asking why she hadn’t been invited to my stakeout.

“After what happened the last time you got involved,” I said quietly, recalling with a shudder how we’d been trapped in a garage attic while killers plotted below us, “I’m surprised you’re allowed within one hundred feet of me.”

She waved the concern away like a pesky fly. “My parents are so over that now.”

“Yeah, right.” I sat on the first stool at the bar, my mouth watering at the spread in front of me. There was an egg-and-sausage casserole, a pile of thick cinnamon French toast with a pitcher of warm maple syrup beside it, a platter of crispy bacon, a basket of Grace’s blueberry scones, a bowl of fresh strawberries, a dish of clotted cream, and plenty of coffee and tea. My stomach growled in anticipation. I hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

But first Marco wanted to speak. “Of course you all know why we’re here. We’re celebrating my little hero.” He put his arm around me.

“I believe he means
heroine
,” Grace whispered, loud enough to be heard by all.

“My little heroine,” Marco amended, “for solving not only one, but two cases.” He glanced around the room. “I was hoping Sean Reilly would be here for this. He saved Abby and deserves to be honored, too.”

Continuing, he said, “My wife’s determination and courage not only pinpointed Sergio Marin’s killer but also successfully reunited two missing children with their parents.”

With that announcement came a round of joyful applause. I gave everyone a grateful smile and soaked in that wonderfully satisfying feeling of accomplishment. I couldn’t help but think of Daisy and Bud—or rather
Daphne and Brody—those two little troupers who deserved more applause than anyone.

“I’m still in shock that the children were discovered living so close to their real parents,” Mom said.

“It happens more often than you’d think,” Marco said. “They’re very fortunate that Abby sensed something was wrong right from the start.”

“Hear, hear,” Dad called, starting more applause. “That’s my Abracadabra.”

Basking in their admiration, I was about to stand and thank everyone for coming—and suggest we eat—when Grace came up and patted the stool next to mine. “Rosa, come sit beside our Abby. This breakfast is for you, too, dear.”

What?

When she was seated, Marco said, “Sergeant Reilly wanted to share some news with you, Rosa, but”—he checked his watch—“since he’s apparently otherwise occupied, I’ll stand in for him.

“As many of you already know,” he began, “the Maraville Police have Sandra Jones in custody. We’ve just received word that she will be brought to the county jail in New Chapel tomorrow and will be arraigned later this week. The DA told Reilly that she will most likely be charged with manslaughter.”

Rosa’s eyes welled with tears as she made the sign of the cross. Then, fingering the lightning bolt pendant as though drawing strength from it, she said in a choked voice, “Thank you for letting me know.”

Grace put her hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “We are here for you, love, and will support you through any upcoming ordeal in whatever way we can.”

With a wavering smile, Rosa said, “I am very grateful, Grace. And thank you again, Abby. You have helped me more than you will ever know.” She put her arms around me and gave me a long hug. Then she reached for Marco and hugged him, too.

Looking at everyone, she pressed her hands against her heart and said, “I know my Sergio thanks you, too. I only wish he would give me a sign.”

“Perhaps he’s waiting for just the right time, dear,” Grace said.

She sighed. “I hope so.”

At that, the front door blew open with a great gust of wind. Everyone gasped until Jillian lumbered in, her flawless hair and outfit protected by an oversized clear vinyl bubble umbrella carried by her dutiful husband, Claymore.

I was guessing
that
wasn’t the sign Rosa was waiting for.

“Here we are, here we are!” Jillian cried, coming into the bar while Claymore shook the umbrella out outside, his fastidious brown suit soaking up the rain. “I hope you didn’t start without us.”

I glanced at Marco in surprise. “You invited Jillian?”

“I didn’t invite her. She asked to come.”

“We’re just about to dig in,” Lottie told her. “Grab plates, you two.”

“I have an announcement to make first,” Jillian said. She went to the front of the bar and rapped on the counter with an empty coffee cup to get everyone’s attention. As if she needed more attention.

“As everyone knows,” Jillian began, “Abby and Marco have been on an unsuccessful house hunt ever since they
got married—” She put her hand to the side of her mouth to add, “Until I came into the picture.” Then she resumed in a normal voice, “There was only one house that they really loved, but it sold before they could put in their bid. So . . .” She turned to Marco.

“So,” he said, looking at me with a smile, “I bought a lot in the same neighborhood.”

My mouth fell open. “We’re going to build?”

“Yes, you are,” Jillian said, hands supporting her huge belly. “And I am the magic that made it happen.”

“We’ve got the best site in the development, babe,” Marco said. “It has a southern exposure and backs up to the park, and the house will have all the features that you liked in the model.”

I was overcome with happiness. My dream house! I was going to get my dream house after all. Despite the storm raging outside, it was suddenly sunny and warm in my heart. I could’ve sworn I even heard the happy twittering of birds. “Can we get granite countertops? And stainless steel appliances? And wood floors?”

“Whatever my Sunshine wants,” Marco said. But upon seeing the twinkle in my eye, he added, “Within our budget.”

I threw my arms around him. “Marco, I can’t express how happy this makes me.”

“And in just five short months, you can move in,” Jillian said.

The sun sank. The birds fled. Five months! In my excitement, I’d totally forgotten that part. “Where will we live in the meantime, Marco?”

“We’ve got it all arranged, Abigail,” Mom called.
“You’re going to move in with us! You can even have your old bedroom back. Just think of the fun we’ll have cooking together, buying groceries together, cleaning the house on the weekends . . . It’ll be just like when you were growing up. And you can even help me with my art projects.”

“All thanks to me,” Jillian said.

I was speechless. I was aghast. I was going to kill Jillian.

“Aren’t you excited?” Marco asked.

“Oh, yes,” was all I could manage.

“Oh, no,” Jillian said.

Everyone turned her way.

“Oh, no,” she said again, and this time it was followed by a grimace and a moan.

“Oh, damn,” Claymore said.

“Seriously, Jillian?” I said. “Again?”

“How many times have I told you I can’t control it?” Jillian said, grabbing on to her husband’s arm as another contraction hit. Through gritted teeth she said, “It’s only been two minutes since the last one.”

“Two minutes?” Lottie cried. “Bring the car around, Claymore. Hurry.”

“No rush. It’s false labor again,” I said, but no one was listening.

While Claymore dashed across the street in the pouring rain, Marco and Rafe helped Jillian move slowly to the door. “I still haven’t decided on a name,” she moaned.

“Trust me, everyone,” I said, walking toward her, “she’ll have plenty of time for that. She’s not having her baby.”

Jillian paused at the door to snap, “And you know this because?”

“Because your water hasn’t broken.”

And right on cue, there was a gush that made a puddle between her shoes.

“Ew!” Tara cried, turning away. “I woke up early for this?”

“Let’s get you into the car, Jillian,” Marco said.

“Wait! Hand me my umbrella! I don’t want to get my hair wet.”

As the brothers took her by her elbows and practically carried her to the car, Lottie said, “Poor thing doesn’t have a clue as to what’s about to happen to her, does she, Maureen?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Mom said. “My firstborn had such a big head that—”

“Grandma, stop!” Tara cried, putting her fingers in her ears. “Don’t gross me out even more!”

“Everyone, make sure your cell phones are on,” Dad called. “We don’t want to miss Claymore’s call.”

“Here’s to a safe delivery,” Lottie said, raising her coffee cup, prompting everyone to do the same, “and to a healthy mom and baby.”

Once everything had settled down, Grace stood up at the front and said, “Our lovely food is growing cold. Shall we eat?”

It was about time. My stomach was starting to eat itself.

Rosa, who was nearby, turned to us and said, “I would love to stay and have breakfast with you, but I have an interview with the social service agency in half an hour,
so I will just take time for a cup of coffee. But thank you again from my heart. I appreciate everything you have done for me.”

“You’re very welcome, love,” Grace said. “Do take a scone with you for later, and perhaps one for Petey as well.”

“Thank you,” she said, and moved off to get some coffee.

As I began to pile food onto my plate, Grace tapped me on the shoulder and tilted her head toward the hallway. I followed her into Marco’s office, where Lottie and my mom were waiting. Something was up.

Lottie spoke first. “We were wondering whether you’d thought any more about hiring Rosa.”

“Actually,” I said, “I ruled it out.”

“Why?” Mom asked.

“I just don’t think she’d be a good fit.”

All three women objected at once, talking over one another until Marco appeared in the doorway behind them. “Rosa’s about to leave,” he said, closing the door so we wouldn’t be overheard. He nodded toward the women and said to me, “Why don’t you tell them what you told me?”

They gazed at me expectantly. Marco gave me a nod of encouragement.

Now I had two choices: either dig in my heels and say no, end of story, or satisfy their curiosity as to why. If I wanted to fill the cavern in my stomach anytime soon, I knew what I had to do.

“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you why, but I want you to know this isn’t easy for me.”

“Tell us, sweetie,” Lottie said.

“Here’s the thing.” I drew in a steadying breath and let it out. Enumerating on my fingers, I said, “Rosa is drop-dead gorgeous, speaks two languages, has great people skills, and is smart, creative, and talented. Am I forgetting anything?”

“She sells my art,” Mom supplied.

“Thank you,” I said. “She can sell anything. And now you want to make her a florist, too.”

“So?” Lottie asked.

“So—” I shrugged. “Then there’s me. I’m a florist. Just—a florist.”

“Ah,” Grace said. “I believe I understand.” She moved into lecture pose, hands in front of her, fingers interlaced, shoulders back. “As that most brilliant bard William Shakespeare quipped in
The Merchant of Venice
, ‘As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, and shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy!’”

Mom opened her arms and embraced me. “Honey, you’re not jealous of poor Rosa, are you?”

“A little bit,” I said, not wanting to meet her gaze.

“Oh, sweetie, why?” Lottie asked.

“For the reasons I just named. Rosa makes me feel”—I let out a breath—“inadequate.”

“Inadequate?” Mom asked.

“You say that like you’ve forgotten I flunked out of law school,” I said dryly.

Mom gave Marco a quizzical look. He responded with a shrug and a look that said,
I tried to tell her.

“Sweetie,” Lottie said, “you’re letting negative thoughts control you. Remember what I said about thinking positive? Okay, just look at all the blessings in your life.
Look at that handsome man behind you. Look around at everyone who cares about you. Look down the street at the pretty little flower shop with the bright yellow door. And think about that sweet little three-legged mutt who is waiting eagerly for you. See what I mean? You don’t need to be jealous of Rosa.”

Now I felt ridiculous and small-minded. But everything Lottie had said hit home. Sometimes I simply needed a good kick in the pants to remind me of how blessed I was. I’d just have to get over my feelings of inadequacy.