Evil In Carnations (7 page)

“Minnesota, Saint Paul area. So what do you do, Abby?”

Lottie’s warning to not give out any information ran through my head. “I, um, work with flowers.”

“Do you own a greenhouse?”

“Actually, I’m not here for myself. I’m interviewing for a friend of mine.”

“What a shame.” Del leaned toward me. “You know, with your wild red hair, you’d make a perfect Ruby Royale. She’s the dweller’s concubine, also known as the Red Vixen. Let me give you our Web site so you can check us out.”

Del took a slim leather case from his blazer pocket and opened it, revealing business cards inside. He was about to hand me a card when a loud whistle blast made me jump three inches off my chair.

“Stop!” Carmen cried, storming toward us. Del instantly crumpled the card, looking like he wanted to crawl under the table.

Carmen snatched up the card and tore it into pieces. “No personal information! If it happens again, D.I., you’ll be asked to leave.” Huffing, she clicked away in her silver spikes.

Del looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. How about if we meet in the parking lot afterward and exchange e-mail addys then?”

As soon as the buzzer sounded, I glanced back at Nikki and mouthed,
How did it go?

With a scowl, she gave me a discreet thumbs-down. Not a good start.

“Hey, there, chili pepper.”

I turned just as a short, thick-bodied man with coal black hair and a Fu Manchu mustache took a seat adjacent to, rather than across from, me, which made me instantly uncomfortable. I glanced at his name tag. Strike one against José.

“Hey, there, José,” I said, scooting my chair a few inches away. “
¿Que pasa?
”

“Not much until now.” He smiled, revealing a handsome set of choppers. Okay, good oral hygiene. A point in his favor. He wore a Cuban-style flat-bottomed shirt and casual slacks, with black boots that sported quite a heel, making me wonder how tall he really was.

“You like to ride cycles?” he asked, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Depends on who’s driving.”

He laughed, a nice warm laugh. Another point for him. “Listen, José, I should tell you I’m not here for myself. I’m interviewing dates for a friend of mine.”

“Sure you are.”

“No, really, I am.”

“Okay, whatever. Does that mean you’re not available?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“We can work around that.”

I pretended not to hear him and discreetly glanced at my watch. Ye gods, seven minutes to go. “What do you do for a living, José?”

“I own a tattoo parlor. Want to see an example of my work?”

Before I could reply, he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a chest covered with black ink swirls. “How about that?” he asked proudly.

“What’s your theme?” Not that I cared.

“My
theme
? It’s art,
chiquita
. Wait till you see the rest.”

Fearing he was about to drop his drawers, I slapped a hand over my eyes, then separated two fingers to peer through them.
Dear God
. José had removed his hair! Make that a toupee. He leaned forward to show me a baldhead covered with more swirls. As I stared at them, they appeared to undulate hypnotically, making me feel dizzy.

While José replaced his toupee, I took a few deep breaths followed by a healthy swallow of wine. “Why do you keep it covered?”

“For shock value.” With a leer, José put a hand on my knee. “So how do you like your eggs in the morning, chili pepper?”

I pushed his hand away. “Unfertilized.”

Beside his name I wrote:
No way, José
.

 

My third date, a man by the name of Aidan, was sneezing so hard he could barely find the chair. He was a tall, nicely built yet nerdy guy around thirty years old. He wore narrow black glasses, a tan blazer, a blue denim shirt, and a red-striped tie that coordinated well with his red-rimmed, watery eyes.

“Sorry about the sneezing,” he said, tugging his jacket lapel over his shirtfront.

Not as sorry as I was. Three dates into the event and so far it was a bust. The only thing this evening seemed likely to produce was a viral infection in everyone seated in the vicinity, including me.

“I’m Aidan,” he said, then turned his head and sneezed into his arm.

I pulled a pack of pocket tissues from my purse and slid them across the table. “Here you go.” Then I reached for my pen, ready to cross him off the list.

“I’m really sorry to be wasting your time. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

“If I were you, Aidan, I’d go home and take care of that cold.”

“It’s not a cold. It’s allergies.” He turned away to blow into the tissue.

Sure it was.

“On my way over here, I stopped to help a woman fix a flat tire”—he lifted one side of his blazer to show me a big smear of grease on his denim shirt—“and stained my shirt in the process. Then the woman’s dog got out, so I helped her capture it and carry it back . . . and I’m allergic to dog dander.”

My opinion of Aidan was changing. “That was very kind of you to help her.”

“I kept imagining my mother being stuck on a road at night, with no one to help her.” Aidan shrugged. “It seemed the right thing to do. Anyway, I appreciate your patience.” He stood up and was about to leave.

“Wait, Aidan. According to my watch, we still have six minutes left.”

He gave me a hesitant smile. “Are you sure?”

“I have a confession to make, too.”

He sat down, looking a little more cheerful, so I went into my spiel about helping Nikki and got a favorable reaction. “So, tell me, Aidan, are you allergic to cat dander, too?”

“Just to dogs, thank goodness, because I like cats.”

Score another for Aidan. However, the next question would be important because of Simon. “Do you have any cats?”

“Had one, but recently lost him—a tabby I’d had for twelve years.”

“I’m sorry. My roommate has a white cat I’ve practically adopted as my own. I’d miss the little furball if something happened to him. So what do you do for a living, Aidan?”

“I’m an endodontist.”

“Endo . . . ?”

“A dentist who specializes in pulp and tissue treatment—you know, like root canals . . .”

A specialist. Oh, man, Nikki’s mother would sing for joy. “Are you from around here?”

“I moved to New Chapel two months ago. I’m out at the new dental clinic on Route Forty-nine.”

This guy was racking up points faster than I could calculate them. “How would you feel about dating an X-ray technician?”

W
hen the buzzer sounded a few minutes later, I turned to give Nikki a quick thumbs-up.

She pretended to clap; then her gaze widened at the sight of someone behind me.

I glanced around and my jaw dropped. My next date was the most perfectly constructed man I’d ever seen, and looked like a cross between Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and Leo DiCaprio. He had dark blond hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a little older than I’d hoped for, but still in the acceptable range, especially with all that perfection going on: perfect hair, perfect features, perfect body, perfect clothes. Perfect.

“This is for you,” he said, handing me a white carnation from the wrapped bouquet in his other hand.

Perfect voice, too, although the carnation was a bit over-the-top. As soon as he was seated, I held out my hand. “I’m Abby.”

As an earsplitting whistle shattered the air, I realized my mistake and quickly pulled my hand back. Carmen marched over to scold me anyway.

Pointing her index finger at me, she said, “You’d better watch yourself. That’s the second time I’ve had to come over here.”

Knowing my face was bright red and that every eye in the room was staring, I murmured an apology, then couldn’t help adding, “The last time wasn’t really my fault, though.”

Her eyes flattened into slits of hostility and her mole quivered with ire. “I
know
that.” Casting a venomous look at the gorgeous guy at my table, she marched away.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” I told my date.

“Ignore her. She’s a bitch.” He gave me a brilliant smile. “I’m Jonas, by the way.”

He started our date by calling the EO a bitch? Way to kill a great first impression.

I watched Jonas pull back his French-cuffed sleeve to check his watch, a diamond-encrusted Rolex. “Okay, let me tell you a little bit about myself so we can get that part over with. I’m a University of Chicago grad, MBA from Harvard. I started out in real estate, then switched to land development, a smart move considering the growth in this part of the state. I work the entire tricounty area, turning unused acreage into viable public space.”

Viable public space? Was that developer talk for parking lots?

“I’ve never been married, but I’d sure like to be. I’ve got my career well established and can support a wife and children in a luxurious lifestyle . . . two cars and a four-bedroom house on forty acres. I love to travel, first-class, of course. And I love strong, independent women.”

I gazed at him in awe. Handsome, wealthy, educated— and hunting for a spouse. Could he be any more perfect? Glancing at his white carnation, I thought,
Make that too perfect
, and held off on revealing my reason for being there. “You certainly have great credentials.”

“What can I say?” He gave a large shrug, a weak attempt at modesty.

“You can say why you need to come to a speed-dating event to meet women.”

His smile never faltered. “If I didn’t, how would I meet fascinating women like you?”

Jonas gazed at me as if I were the most engaging creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m betting you’re a nature lover.”

I was betting that was part of a pickup line. “What gave me away?”

“You’re like a breath of fresh air on a spring morning.”

Yep, a pickup line. I had the perfect comeback, too. “Being a breath of fresh air on a spring morning was my major in college.”

“No kidding,” he said, trying to look impressed but clearly not paying attention. “So, do you like Ferraris?”

“Love them. I’m something of a car nut. I own a 1960 Corvette convert—”

“You’ll have to see my Ferrari. It’s parked outside. A fully loaded F430 coupe in racing red with camel leather interior. Top-of-the-line in every respect”—he dropped his voice—“and priced at a cool two hundred thou and some change.”

Two hundred thousand dollars for a car? Imagine that. Was I impressed? Jonas sure hoped so. Awed? Nope. Bored?
Yawn.

He held out one arm so I could examine the sleeve of his stylish dark gray suit. “It’s a Brioni. Also top-of-the-line. I won’t settle for less—in my life
or
my women. It’s got to be top-of-the-line all the way.”

I was starting to wish he was on the
end
of a line so I could use him as shark bait.

 

After Jonas, I met a young ad executive with green-stained teeth who told me he was a gourmand, loved to help out in the kitchen, and suggested I’d look wonderful wearing nothing but a frilly lace apron and my freckles. His ideal woman, it seemed, was a nude freckled chef. I barely made it through all nine minutes without calling for a wine refill.

I also met a forty-year-old bank teller named Kipp who lived with his mother, had never been married, and said Mom would approve of my wholesome looks. He suggested a perfect date would be at home, with his mother cooking dinner, after which the three of us could play Scrabble. Next to Kipp’s name I wrote:
Missing a game piece.

The last three guys were pleasant, well mannered, but not right for Nikki. My bets were on Aidan. I couldn’t wait to compare notes with Nikki.

 

“I found the perfect guy for you,” I said to Nikki when we met in the ladies’ room to freshen up before the mixer.

“I did, too! I’ll bet it’s the same guy, but you go first.”

“Okay. It’s Aidan.”

“Aidan?” She gazed at me as though I’d just stepped off a bus from Jupiter. “He was okay.”

“Come on, Nikki, he was way better than okay. He was a nine and a half out of ten. Did he tell you what happened to him on the way here?”

She pulled out her lip gloss and leaned toward the mirror over the sink to apply it. “No.”

“Did he explain why he was sneezing?”

“No.”

“Then what did you talk about?”

“He mostly asked me questions. He was very interested in my job at the hospital.”

“Probably because he’s in the medical profession, too, not to mention that he liked you! Nikki, you need to talk to him during the mixer. Aidan is perfect for you.”

“But I found one even better, Ab. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t choose him for me.”

“Who?”

“Jonas.”

“Jonas! With the French cuffs and the Ferrari?”

“Wasn’t he to die for? I mean, could he have been more drop-dead gorgeous, not to mention rich and successful
and
looking for a wife?”

“He made sure to point all that out to you, didn’t he?”

“Look what he gave me.” She showed me the white carnation she’d tucked in her bag.

“Big deal. He gave one to all his dates.”

Nikki scowled at me in the mirror as she dropped her lip gloss in her clutch bag. “I thought he was cool. In fact, I rated him an eleven out of ten.”

“Come on, Nikki. Jonas was so full of himself, I’m surprised he had room inside for a drink. He treated my nine minutes like kindergarten show-and-tell, flashing his Rolex and his Brioni suit. Trust me, Nik, this is not the guy for you. Avoid him like the plague.”

“I liked him,” she said firmly.

“Think about it, Nikki. This guy has it all—looks, a fancy car, his own business—yet he needs a speed-dating event to meet women.”