Plum Girl (Romance) (36 page)

"Remember how we were supposed to talk about B.J. Flynn?"

"Oh, right. You never called me back; I thought you weren't that interested."

"Well, I am now. What did you want to tell me?" Montgomery asked.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I ask the questions," he said, and she could just picture the cocky expression on his face.

She told him about what Matt had said about B.J.'s job insecurity, and her conversation with Bette, who'd confirmed that Lunther had planned to fire the poor guy.

"Why?" she asked again. "Is B.J. a suspect now?"

"Everyone's a suspect." He paused, as if deciding how much to say. "But Flynn got arrested this past weekend."

"What?"
she exclaimed. "Are you sure? I just saw him this morning."

"Yeah, Stopperton ended up letting him go with a warning."

"But what did he do?" B.J. was a lawyer, for pete's sake!

"He got into a fight with a homeless guy near Faneuil Hall. Apparently, the guy asked him if he could spare a dime, and Flynn snapped."

Lonnie's eyes widened. "Define snapped," she said.

"Well, according to one witness, Flynn started screaming about how he's had to work for every dime he has, and then he grabbed the guy's tin cup and threw it. It almost clocked a couple coming out of Houlihan's."

"B.J. did that?" This was too much to believe. She'd never known he had such a bad temper.

"It gets better," Montgomery said. "Or worse, depending on your perspective. He slugged the homeless guy. Just missed his nose. That's when a squad car showed up, and Flynn ran. You know the steps outside of City Hall?"

"Yeah."

He chuckled. "Well, apparently, Flynn took 'em three at a time, and it was quite a sight." She could only imagine. "Anyway," he went on, "Stopperton caught up with him in Copy Cop, trying to hide behind a color printer."

"I can't believe this," she said, shaking her head. "But how come they let him go?"

Montgomery snorted. "The homeless guy dropped the charges after B.J. gave him a fifty."

"How ironic."

"Yeah. Anyway, I need you to do something for me. Two things, actually."

"What?"

"I need you to keep an eye on B.J. I mean, really keep close tabs on him. Without being an obvious, nosy pest, that is."

"Don't try to change me, Detective." He laughed. "What's the second thing?" she asked.

"Try to stop dreaming about me. I'm too old for you." She laughed.

After she hung up with him, she glanced at the clock. 5:28 p.m. Well, she'd had about all she could take of the office. Sighing, she shut down her PC and tried to mentally will the phone to ring. Very predictably, it didn't work.

She coiled her scarf around her neck, gathered up her coat and bag, and headed toward the elevators... determined to coast right past twenty.

* * *

Tuesday morning Dominick had barely finished half of his first coffee before he gave in and called Lonnie. He'd thought about her a thousand times since their argument, but he still hadn't been sure if he should call her. He couldn't help wondering if it was worth it—if he really wanted to be so involved at this point in his life. In theory, he did. But theory hadn't prepared him for the intensity of their relationship, and he didn't know if he liked it. Honestly, he was used to feeling more in control.

Looking at it logically, he was planning to start his own company within a year. Did he really need the extra burden of a serious relationship? For chrissake, Lonnie was probably moving to Maine, anyway! Did he really want to be involved when he had no idea what the future even held for them, if
anything?

And he'd decided: yes, that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted
her.

After she'd stormed out of his apartment, he'd let his anger consume him for the rest of the night. But in the morning he'd awoken with a dull ache in his stomach. He knew that she hadn't lied to him, and as soon as he recalled those big, guileless eyes blinking in confusion, the ache got sharper. For that reason alone, he'd wanted to call her. He'd wanted to apologize for acting like a jackass. But he couldn't. Not until he was sure of what to say.

Now it had been three days, and he'd already growled at his sweet little landlady and absently put on different colored socks more than once. Fortunately, he'd successfully run the status meeting earlier, though, proving to himself that he still had a head for his job. He had to admit it filled him with a twisted sense of pride to have Harold's respect again.

So he was on top of work again. That was good. Very good. But still...

He was determined to get that affectionate, black-haired cutie back in his life no matter what amount of groveling it took.

Of course, she'd have to pick up the phone first.

Finally on the fourth ring, there was a click, and then a female voice: "Beauregard Twit's central headquarters for financial litigating prowess. Whom shall I tell Mr. Twit, Esquire, is calling?" Except it wasn't Lonnie. He'd know his girlfriend's mellifluous, honeyed voice anywhere, and this raspy Boston-accented one wasn't it.

"Hi, I was looking for Lonnie," he said, and could've sworn he heard the woman snort before she answered.

"Uh... Lonnie stepped away. Can I take a message and have her call you back?"

"Oh, sure. Could you have her call Dominick when she gets a chance?"

"Dominick. Got it. Any other message?"

He thought for a second and added, "Yeah. Tell her... it's important."

After he hung up, he picked up his coffee mug and headed to the kitchen to reheat it. Until he heard back from her, he was determined to stay focused on his work.

* * *

On Thursday morning, the elevator dinged on twenty-three, and Lonnie got off absently, still engrossed in thought about her interviews at Maine Bay College. Overall, she thought it had gone well. Late Tuesday afternoon, she met Macey's friend Emma who was the director of social research, and they'd talked for two hours about Lonnie's background and goals. Then on Wednesday morning, she'd met with the dean of liberal arts and the chair of social studies for a breakfast interview that seemed to go smoothly. Of course, there had been a few loaded moments, like when the chair asked her if she "espoused more of a postmodern or poststructuralist pedagogical methodology." She'd bluffed her way through it by claiming she preferred a combination of both, but not really either, and that seem to mystify him enough that he dropped the subject with a knowing nod.

Now she shucked off her ice-blue coat, tossed it onto her chair, and looked at her phone, expecting to see a flashing red light indicating voice mail messages. There was no flashing light. Then she remembered that Delia had covered her desk the past two days, so if someone had called—
oh, just a generic "someone," not anyone in particular
—it would be probably be written down somewhere. She plopped down in her chair, on top of her coat, and searched for phone messages. She looked across her desktop, under folders, behind her monitor, inside book jackets. Everywhere, anywhere.

She couldn't believe it. Dominick hadn't called her at all! She'd felt sure that she'd return to the office—after two days' absence, and after four days without speaking to him—and find a message. But he hadn't even called once. How could that be? Didn't he miss her the way she missed him? Namely: painfully, desperately, hopelessly. Obviously not. Apparently, he was just going to give up on her, on them, on all of it.

Well, fine.

It took all of three seconds before she was in full sulk mode, complete with targetless rage and futile bitterness. She decided she needed some caffeine to nurse her self-pity, so she headed to the kitchen, hoping there would be a pot of coffee ready and waiting. She was half right.

Delia was wiping the counter of some errant coffee grounds as the pot finished percolating and a heavenly aroma filled the lime green-tiled room. But as soon as she saw Lonnie, she brought a hand up to stop her from getting any closer to Mr. Coffee.

"This isn't for you," she declared unapologetically. "Beauregard's meeting with clients at nine thirty, and this pot's for them."

"Oh, okay." Lonnie felt devastated—which she recognized as slightly irrational—but she'd be damned if she'd give Delia the satisfaction of seeing how badly she wanted the coffee. Now that she thought about it, she didn't know when or why Delia had become her mortal enemy, but at this point, she was just running with it. She turned to go back to her desk, but stopped midpivot to ask, "By the way, did anyone call for me Tuesday or Wednesday?"

Delia looked at her dead-on, got that Nosferatu thing going with her eyes, and replied simply, "Nope." She turned her attention back to the countertop, and Lonnie tried to hide her disappointment as she made her way down the hall to her desk. She found Matt waiting there for her.

"Hey," she said.

"What's up with your sister?" he asked sharply.

"What do you mean?"
Don't tell me Peach didn't end things with you. Don't tell me I'm going to have to do it.

"I left three messages on her cell phone"—
Cell phone! Of course. Dominick must've left a message on my cell phone
—"and she never called me back. Also, she hasn't e-mailed me. What's the deal?" He sounded unusually testy, but then why was she not surprised that Peach—sassy, adorable, and heartbreaking—was able to penetrate Matt's otherwise pathological apathy? Well, if Peach thought Lonnie was going to do her dirty work and dump him for her, she could think again.

"Gee, I have no idea," she said, and put her hand to her head as if contemplating something. "Although, come to think of it, she did mention she was having a really busy week at work."

That seemed to relax him a little. "Oh, really?" He paused and shrugged casually. "Okay, well, if you talk to her," he said, "tell her to give me a call."

"Sure, uh-huh, no problem!" She was nodding a bit too hard to conceal her overcompensation. Oh well. Matt was a big boy; surely he'd figure out on his own that Peach had lost interest. They made small talk for a few minutes, during which Lonnie surreptitiously reached into her coat pocket, switched on her cell phone, and glanced down to read the display screen, no messages. So much for that comforting-but-fleeting notion.

Less than a minute after Matt disappeared around the corner, Twit did the duck's two-step toward her desk. This time he brought with him an overbearing and pungent odor.
Good Lord, what is that stench?
It smelled like a cross of incense and dead lilacs and musk. Perhaps it was an unusual cologne that could've been halfway decent if it had been applied with any subtlety. She glanced up at Twit's face and noticed that his eyes were closed as he approached, as if he were in deep thought—or orgasmic bliss—and the minute he opened them, he jerked his head back, startled to see her.

"Oh! LaDonna... er... what are you doing here? I—I was under the impression you weren't coming back till tomorrow." He tensely shifted the weight on his legs, and
ahemed
to fill the silence.

"No, I took Tuesday and Wednesday off for my interviews. But that's it."

"Ah... yes, well... I see." He made a show of clearing his throat again, and it hit her. He'd saturated himself in cologne and sashayed over, thinking Delia was still sitting there. This was too much! She wanted to burst out laughing at what a tool he was. She wanted to ask if he had any spare nose plugs. She wanted to thank him for inadvertently lightening her black mood. Before she could do any of the above, B.J. barreled over. And her senses sharpened, because she immediately remembered his arrest and that Montgomery had asked her to keep a close eye on him.

"Beauregard!" he bellowed. "Did you catch the Celtics game last night?" His manic cheeseball grin was back, and his best-buddies-with-the-boss histrionics had him all but salivating.

Before Twit could comment on the Celtics game, however, B.J.'s face contorted into a revolted grimace, and he exclaimed, "Whoa! Lonnie, I think you OD'd on the perfume!" He shot a sideways look to make sure Twit had heard his hilarious remark, and went on. "Is there some new guy working here we don't know about?"

He kept darting his eyeball over to Twit while he teased her. "Lonnie, if you're trying to get someone's attention..." but his voice trailed off, as he undoubtedly realized that Twit was far from laughing. Instead, Twit shifted his leg weight again, and his face apocalypsed into red dawn.

"Actually," B.J. backpedaled, "it smells sort of good, now that I think about it. Really classy." A futile attempt to save his own ass—not to mention Twit's pride—but then, backpedaling usually was futile.

An awkward silence fell, during which more nausea settled in the pit of Lonnie's stomach. She figured she'd better expedite this little tete-a-tete if she wanted to get rid of Twit and sneak off to Starbucks to get a much-needed and deserved caffeine jolt. "Is there something you need, Beauregard?" she asked.

At first, he appeared flummoxed; then he shook his head. "No, not at the moment. I'll speak with you in a bit. Fare thee well," he finished, and turned on his heel. In Twit-speak, "Fare thee well" was interchangeable with "Best" as a closer. Lonnie had learned not to question these things.

"Well," she said to B.J., who was still standing in front of her desk, "I'm actually going to run and get a coffee." She rose from her chair, grabbed her now-smushed coat out from under her, and headed toward the glass doors.

"I just can't seem to get anything right," B.J. said, and only the pathetic self-loathing in his voice stopped her. She turned and saw her diminutive, dejected coworker shaking his head, as if to say:
why me?
Of course the gesture was inappropriate, considering the fact that B.J.'s sycophantic blunders were, indeed, his own fault, but it was a heart-wrenching scene, all the same.

B.J. didn't
seem
like a bad person, but she couldn't disregard what Montgomery had told her about his arrest over the weekend. If he'd really attacked that homeless man, then he had to have a considerable temper hiding in that little body. Lonnie couldn't help wondering how far that violence would extend. Would B.J. be capable of
murder?