Night of the Living Dandelion (4 page)

Bob had the decency to look embarrassed. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry to bother you.”

After Bob left, Sara leaned forward to say to Marco, “So what
do
you know about Vlad?”

“He’s intelligent, capable, and dependable,” Marco said. “That’s all I need to know.”

“He served with Marco in Iraq,” I added.

Sara studied Vlad. “He’s sure got that sexy Ranger confidence.” She turned to me and asked eagerly, “What else do you know about him?”

“Sara!” Reilly said, as though offended.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, linking her arm through his. “I think you’re sexy, too. So go ahead, Abby. You were saying?”

“Vlad’s a phlebotomist. He ran a blood lab in a Chicago hospital.”

“A phlebotomist?” Sara asked, giving me a wink. “Is that perfect or what?”

Reilly leaned in. “You’re telling me Vlad gave up a career in science, living and working in the Second City, to come to a small town and tend bar? Listen, Marco, army buddy or not, you haven’t worked with him in a few years, so check the guy out thoroughly. He could be running from someone—loan sharks, an ex-wife, the IRS . . .”

“I ran him through all my sources,” Marco assured him. “I’m satisfied with that.”

Reilly didn’t look convinced.

A cheer went up from all the women gathered at the bar as Vlad lit a Hatch Match
.
Judging by the number of scowling guys in the room, they were less than thrilled with Down the Hatch’s new boy wonder.

“Where is Vlad from?” Sara asked. “He’s so exotic-looking.”

“Romania,” I said.

Sara’s eye grew wide. “Transylvania’s Romania? This just gets better and better.”

“Now you see what I’ve been dealing with all day,” Reilly said to Marco, putting an arm around Sara. “Honey, let’s drop the subject, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think the rumor is funny. Vampire books and movies are so popular that people here in New Chapel
want
a vampire to claim as their own.” She shifted her gaze back to the subject in question, who was still bedazzling the women. “Poor Vlad fits the bill whether he likes it or not.”

“I’m pretty sure poor Vlad likes it,” I said. “Look at those women. They’re falling all over themselves trying to hold his attention.”

“The men, on the other hand,” Sara pointed out, “don’t seem all that happy.”

“Can’t say that I blame them,” Reilly said, leaning back to sip his beer.

“Hey, Marco,” another bar regular said, stopping at the booth. “Tell me it’s not true about that guy up there.”

“Come on, Kyle, not you, too,” Marco said.

“Kyle, you’re an EMT, buddy,” Reilly said. “Don’t you dare say you believe in vampires.”

The tall, doughy, balding paramedic said with an embarrassed grin, “Don’t razz me, Sarge. I hear strange things in my job. You know how people talk in this town.”

“It’s talk started by idiots who have nothing better to do,” Marco said testily.

Kyle glanced around as though to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. “I hear what you’re saying, but I gotta tell you, last night we transported a patient to County Hospital who claimed she was bitten by a vampire. And you know what was really freaky? She had two small wounds in her neck. Just saying . . . Anyway, I’d keep an eye on Vlad, if I were you.”

“Thanks, Kyle,” Marco said, then rolled his eyes as Kyle went back to his booth.

“A paramedic worried about a vampire,” Reilly said with an impatient sigh. “I’m telling you, this town is going bonkers.”

At that moment, I caught sight of a coppery head just coming in the door. “Oh, no!”

“What?” Marco asked, trying to see what had alarmed me.

“The queen of bonkers just walked in.” I ducked behind a menu.

“Too late. She spotted us,” Marco told me.

“Who?” Sara asked, turning for a look.

“Abby’s cousin Jillian,” Marco said, eliciting a groan from Reilly.

The bane of my existence.

 

Jillian Ophelia Knight-Osborne was my first cousin on my father’s side, my blood relation, which was the only thing we had in common—besides the missing tact gene. Being a year apart, we’d grown up as close as sisters—and fought like it, too. Like me, Jillian had inherited the trademark red hair and freckles. Unlike me, Jillian’s freckles were a bare sprinkling of cocoa, and her hair was a silky copper waterfall.

She was also tall, gorgeous without makeup, fashionably dressed even on weekends, and married, although she had jilted four men at the altar first. In fact, jilting fiancés had been something of a hobby of hers until she met the bank account of her dreams, Claymore Osborne, son of one of the wealthiest families in New Chapel.

Coincidentally, I’d been engaged to Claymore’s older brother, Pryce, while I was in law school. Both school and my fiancé had been unmitigated disasters and both had given me the boot. At that thought, I shifted my twenty-pound mummified foot beneath the table. Apparently, the boot was a recurrent theme in my life.

“Hello, hello!” Jillian called to people she knew, as she dragged Claymore toward us. Seeing me, she cried, “Oh, Abs!” and sank onto the small space at the end of our bench so she could wrap her long arms around me and give me a hug. “I heard about your accident, poor baby, and had to come right over to see how my wittle cousin was doing.”

I hated when she talked baby talk. “My accident happened two days ago, Jillian. What’s your rush?”

She pulled back to look at me, her lips in a pretty pout as she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You’re going to have to stick with flats from now on, Abs. Clumsy people shouldn’t wear high heels. It’s one of the first rules of fashion sense.”

I leaned close to her ear and said in a low voice, “Clumsy people shouldn’t let others sit beside them on a bench either, because sometimes they
accidentally
push people off!”

Jillian rose from the bench like a graceful swan and swept back her long hair, which couldn’t have looked like hay even if she’d stuck her head in a thrasher. As she tightened the belt of her Burberry trench coat, she suddenly noticed Sara, and her eyes lit up.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jillian Knight-Osborne, owner of Chez Jillian
,
a personal shopping service that I’m sure you’ve heard about. This is my husband, Claymore, a prominent CPA. And you are?”

Reilly stepped in. “This is Sara Jorgensen.”

Sara smiled and extended her hand toward my cousin. “Nice to meet you.”

As Jillian took her hand, she gave Reilly a perplexed look. “What happened to your other girlfr—” She gasped as I kicked her shin with my boot. When it came to tact, Jillian made me look good.

“Very nice to meet you, Sara,” Claymore said. He pulled a slender purple camera from his coat pocket and handed it to Jillian. “Here, darling. Take your photos and let’s leave these people to their dinners.”

“Photos of what?” I asked.

“The vampire,” Clayton said quietly, casting a discreet glance over his shoulder.

“He’s not a vampire,” Marco said firmly.

“That’s not what I heard,” Jillian said.

“You heard the rumors and didn’t tell me?” I asked.

“I was going to stop by, but then I heard about”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“your accident.”

“I didn’t sprain my ears, Jillian. Why are you whispering?”

She turned to aim the camera at Vlad, but couldn’t get a clear shot. “I wish he’d stop moving! Would someone go up there and ask him to pose for me?”

She pushed the button and the flash went off. “Never mind. I got him that time. Oh, wait. That’s odd. Look at this, Claymore. Everyone but Vlad came out. Let me try it again.”

“Jillian,” I said in a whisper, “that’s enough. People are looking at us.”

She took two more pictures and put the camera away. “I’ll check them when I get home. Nice to meet you, Sara.” She pointed her finger at me. “Remember what I said about high heels.” And then she sailed through the crowd with Claymore trotting behind her.

“Sorry,” I said to Sara. “Jillian is family. I have to tolerate her.”

Reilly’s cell phone chimed. He flipped it open and read the message, then put it back in his pocket. “I’ve got to get back to the station. There’s a situation.” He shrugged, as though he couldn’t say anything more.

Sara scooted out of the booth. “It’s been fun almost having dinner with you.”

“Hold on,” Marco said. “I’ll have your food wrapped so you can take it with you.”

Reilly waited until Marco was on his way to the kitchen, then said to me, “Do me a favor. Make sure Marco actually did that background check on his friend Vlad. Something tells me there’s more to that guy than meets the eye.”

 

Rumors about Vlad continued to spread all week. By Thursday, every person who walked through Bloomers’ door seemed to be buzzing with speculation about him. Since it was assumed I would have answers because of my connection with Marco, I was inundated with questions, until I finally decided to stay in the back room and work on orders while my assistants waited on customers.

I instructed them to assure people that Vlad was a regular guy who simply happened to be of Romanian extraction and to remind them that human vampires were merely folklore.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to make any difference. The women who came into Bloomers were thrilled at the prospect of having a real-life Count Dracula in town. The men either dismissed the rumors as nonsense or made angry comments about what nerve the vampire had to show up in their peaceful burg.

During a brief midafternoon lull, I ventured out of my inner sanctum to grab a cup of hot tea and bask in the delights of my shop. I wheeled to the cheerful yellow frame door, with its old-fashioned beveled-glass center and brass bell over the top, and then turned around to take in the scene.

Bloomers occupies the ground floor of an old three-story redbrick building, which still has its original tin ceiling and wood floor, both refinished. The retail side of Bloomers has a cash counter near the front door, a glass-fronted display case on the back wall, various shelves and tables, and an armoire for gift items. A wide doorway in the side wall opens into the coffee-and-tea parlor, a Victorian-inspired room featuring white wrought-iron ice-cream tables and chairs, rosepatterned china, and a coffee counter at the back for the various machines.

Both rooms have big bay windows filled with lush plants and silk arrangements, and views of the courthouse square. The window in the parlor is a favorite with customers who like to drink coffee and watch the happenings on the square.

A curtained doorway at the back divides the shop from the workroom, my personal paradise, redolent with all the colors and sweet scents of greenery and blossoms. It holds containers in every shape and size, silk flowers in big buckets, drawers filled with florist’s tools, my desk and computer station, and the two giant walk-in coolers where our fragile flowers are kept.

Beyond the workroom are a tiny bathroom, a kitchenette, and a fire exit that opens onto the alley. A staircase by the rear exit leads to the basement, where we keep large bags of potting soil, giant clay pots, and supplies too bulky for the workroom cabinets.

Filling myself with good karma, I wheeled to the parlor, where Grace was straightening chairs.

“Did you need some tea, love?” she asked.

“A cup of mint tea, please.”

“Coming right up.” She paused to glance out the window. “A group of ladies is headed this way. Shall I bring the tea to the workroom, do you think, so you can avoid more questions?”

“Good idea.” I turned the wheelchair around and banged the footrest against the doorframe, nicking the white paint. I backed up and knocked over a chair.

“Perhaps you could just send Lottie to get your tea next time,” Grace said.

 

Back in the workroom, I plucked an order from the spindle on my desk and studied it. The client wanted a fragrant arrangement done entirely in shades of peach, so I wheeled myself to the second cooler to see what was available. I found blossoms of sweetpea, snapdragon, Prima Donna roses, mini carnations, Gerberas, and tulips. For my accent color, as well as for fragrance, I pulled stems of Pelargonium graveolens, or “Lady Plymouth,” pale green leaves with frilly white edges that were known for their sweet scent. I decided to use a square glass vase filled with white gravel in order to make a crisply modern, yet peachy soft statement.

I was stripping thorns from the rose stems and humming with carefree abandon when my thirteen-year-old niece, Tara, came through the curtain with her friend Jamie. Tara is the daughter of my younger brother, Jordan. Because she and I share the same hair color, height, and freckles, people meeting us assume we’re sisters. All Tara lacks to be my twin is fourteen years, twenty pounds, and a generous bustline. If only I could give her half of mine . . .

“Guess what, Aunt Abby!” Tara exclaimed. “We made a Web site for the New Chapel vampire. We call it We Heart Vlad dot com. Show her, Jamie.”

Jamie, all legs, arms, and big brown eyes, with cocoacolored skin and a long black braid down her back, climbed onto a stool, opened her backpack, and removed a sleek pink laptop.

“Are you Wi-Fi’d?” she asked. “Oh, never mind. I found a free connection.” She typed a string of letters into the SEARCH box and then swiveled the computer to show me. “See?”

“How do you know you
heart
Vlad?” I asked the girls, gazing at the pink hearts, white bows, and photos of movie actors that played vampires. “Have you met him?”

“We’ve seen him through the front window of Uncle Marco’s bar,” Tara said. “Besides, we’ve never met the Jonas Brothers either, but we
heart
them, too.”

“News flash,” I said, tickling Tara’s chin with a rose petal. “Vlad is not a vampire and Marco is not your uncle.”