Snipped in the Bud (2 page)

“
Pfft
. It was at least two.”

Reilly’s scowl deepened.

“He’s a drama queen, Reilly. Okay, so maybe I was fiddling with my radio for a second. That’s beside the point. The point is, he has it in for me because my father hauled him in on a DUI once.”

“Did you, or did you not, almost hit him?”

I scratched the end of my nose, trying to think of a way around the question. Clearly, I should have paid more attention in those law classes. “Yes, I almost hit him, but—”

“Uh-uh,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “No buts.”

“Mitigating circumstances!” I cried. Wow. I
had
remembered something. “Puffer walked out from between two cars blabbing away on his phone and never checked to see if anyone was coming.”

Reilly studied me for a long moment, then finally growled, “All right. Get out of here.”

“I’m free to go?”

“On one condition. That I don’t get any more calls about your driving. Got it?”

“You bet.” I blew him a kiss, then checked the time, saw I had five minutes to get the flower up to Puffer’s office, and scrambled for the package.

A knot of fear the size of Rhode Island took over my stomach as I tucked the wrapped rose in the crook of my arm and headed toward the stately, two-story brown-brick building that housed New Chapel University’s law school. The university covered an area approximately fifteen square blocks, encompassing ten buildings, three dormitories, and a handful of Greek houses. It was a small, private college, but it had an excellent reputation, and its law school held its own with any in the country—not that they could prove it by me.

I paused at the curb to let a white Saab pass. I recognized the car as belonging to Jocelyn Puffer, Snapdragon’s wife, a subdued woman who seemed the exact opposite of her belligerent husband. Rumor had it that Jocelyn had come from a well-to-do Connecticut family that had disowned her when she married Puffer, not that I ever trusted rumors. Jocelyn wasn’t beautiful, but she knew how to dress and was always courteous whenever I met her in town, most often at the used-book store where she worked. It was unusual to see her at the university. Then again, if I were her, I’d do my best to avoid Puffer, too.

I took a breath and continued on toward the double glass doors, but as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall and saw the sights and smelled the smells that had greeted me every day for nine miserable months, I broke out in a cold sweat.
Focus on the flower, Abby. That’a girl.

Straight ahead was the student commons—a small area with a grouping of worn sofas, a few sets of round tables and chairs, a long table against a wall that held a big coffee urn, a stack of paper cups, and other coffee supplies, and a bottled water and soft drink machine. To my right was a hallway that led to the lecture halls, and to my immediate left was a wide, stone stairway that led up to the professors’ offices—the only access other than a private elevator farther down on the right that was strictly for the use of the three professors on that side of the building. (Apparently, before six more offices had been squeezed in, everyone had been able to access it, but not anymore.) Beyond the stairway was a law library that didn’t get much use now that everything could be found on the Internet.

I trudged slowly up the steps, berating myself for letting my fear of a bully like Puffer get such a grip on me. I was making a delivery, for heaven’s sake, not taking an oral exam. At the top I entered the large, central secretarial pool that served the nine offices around it, three on a side, plus a computer lab, washrooms, and a conference room. To my right were the offices with the most prestige, having access to the private elevator through a shared vestibule in the back—Myra Baumgarten’s, Reed’s, and Puffer’s. To my relief, no light showed through the glass in Puffer’s door. In fact, the entire floor seemed to have emptied out, except for Professor Reed and the one person I’d been hoping to find there—Beatrice Boyd.

Known as Aunt Bea by those of us she’d consoled after we’d limped out of Puffer’s inner sanctum, emotionally bruised and verbally beaten, the fiftysomething secretary worked for two of the full-time professors, Puffer and Reed. Originally from Seattle, Bea was a product of the hippie generation and still dressed in long, colorful, cotton skirts and full, gauzy blouses belted at the waist by a fringed leather sash. She wore silver hoop earrings and turquoise rings, and never used makeup. Fortunately, her smooth complexion and big blue eyes were attractive enough without it. Her hairstyle was another throwback to the sixties—a waist-long, heavy braid of gray-brown hair, usually with a yellow pencil stuck through near the scalp like a hair pick.

I’d always thought of Bea as the ultimate earth mother, yet she’d never had children of her own. I wasn’t even sure she’d ever married, although photographs of her with a man named Zed taken on various backpacking adventures were arranged on her desk. Seeing her now, I remembered the last time she’d come to my aid—when I’d learned that I’d been booted out of law school. She’d held me when I cried, wiped my tears, bundled me into her car, and shuffled me to a coffee shop, where I’d drowned my sorrows in her favorite remedy—hot, spiced soy chai tea.

It was Bea who’d urged me to forget the law and search my soul for what I truly wanted out of life. She’d encouraged me to explore the idea of buying the foundering Bloomers, where I’d worked during the summers of my college years. It had been the best advice of my life and I’d thanked her many times over for her guidance.

Unaware of my approach, she took a woven leather drawstring purse out of a file cabinet drawer and rose, a distracted look on her normally serene face. When she saw me she gave a little gasp, then covered it with a forced laugh. “Abby! You gave me a start.”

“Sorry. Guess what I have? A delivery for Professor Puffer.” I held up the wrapped rose and scrunched my nose to show my displeasure.

“He’s not in,” she said, backing toward the stairs. “Just set it on his desk and leave the bill beside it. I wish I had time to chat, but I have an appointment.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll catch you later.” I watched her hurry off, hoping everything was all right—it wasn’t like her to be so agitated. Then I remembered my reason for coming and turned to gaze anxiously at Puffer’s closed office door. Why was I so nervous when he wasn’t even there?

Holding the package in front of me like a shield, I walked toward the Dragon’s lair, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. As I passed Professor Reed’s office I could hear him talking in a sharp, but hushed voice. No one answered him, so I figured he was on the phone, and from the sound of it, he wasn’t a happy camper.

I stopped at Puffer’s door, knocked, waited a few moments, then took a deep breath and stepped inside, extremely relieved to find that Bea was right. The Dragon was gone.

His office was just as I remembered it, even down to the smell of pine disinfectant. There was a wall of shelves with the books arranged not only by color, but also by size; another wall of awards, photos, and mementos from his JAG days; a small table that held a battlefield map covered with tiny soldiers and cannons; a desk with metal legs; a high-backed swivel chair; a door at the back that led to the elevator vestibule; and, finally, the small, wooden chair upon which I had sat many times, fighting back tears while he ridiculed my papers.

The memory brought an angry flush to my face, which, on a redhead’s fair skin, was bright enough to look feverish. I plunked the flower on the desk, next to his computer monitor, propped the bill beside it, and was ready to leave—when I spotted the can of glossy black pencils on the far side of his desk and couldn’t resist the temptation. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was there, then snatched one of the sleek tools and held it as if I were going to snap it in two, imagining the satisfaction of hurling the eraser end at Puffer’s head.

Suddenly, the rear door opened and in charged the Dragon in all his intimidating glory—head up, shoulders back, spine stiff, and nostrils flaring, as if he were a general in the military embarking on a war campaign.

And there I stood like an enemy soldier within firing range, holding his pencil.

P
rofessor Puffer was a medium-sized, stocky man in his midforties, with brown hair clipped close on the sides, and small, even teeth. He had on a military-style, tan poplin shirt, brown slacks, and well-shined leather shoes, and at first glance he appeared distinguished, but he banished that notion as soon as he opened his mouth. He either barked commands or snarled them, treating everyone as a recruit, his eyes mere slits whenever he had to deal with people he considered beneath him. Like me.

He quickly assessed my terror-stricken features, then sneered, “Look who came back for a visit. Betty Boob.”

I’d always been sensitive about my, shall we say, generous natural endowments, so his little barb really stung. But I refused to let him know it and, frankly, felt a measure of relief that his attack hadn’t been worse. I forced myself to lay the pencil on the desk—I was shaking too hard to attempt to zero in on the cup—and answer calmly, “It’s not a visit, Professor. It’s a delivery.”

His steely gaze followed my pointing finger to the rose, and his eyebrows drew together in bafflement, as though he’d never laid eyes on a flower before. “What is
that
?”

Another insult? “Your funeral flower. It’s a rose called Ink Spots and it’s the nearest I could get to black.”

“
Funeral
flower?” he bellowed, causing the glass panes in both doors to rattle. “I didn’t order a funeral flower. What the hell are you talking about?”

I swallowed. Okay, apparently he hadn’t ordered it, which made me suspect that one of his disgruntled students had. “Someone must have called using your name. I had no way of knowing it wasn’t you.”

“Not only
didn’t
I order that rose, but I
wouldn’t
order a rose—or any other flower—from you, you ill-bred, clay-brained, candy ass. Now get that abomination out of here.”

Abomination? Say what he wanted about me, he didn’t have to denigrate my flowers. “Excuse me?” I managed to say without too much quivering in my vocal cords. “That’s one of the finest roses in my shop.”

Puffer’s mouth flattened so much that his lips disappeared. That usually happened right before the pencil snapping, so I took a step back, prepared to dodge the missile. “Here’s what I think of your fine rose—and your witless prank.” He dropped the flower into his trash can with a loud bang. “Get out of my office before I call security and have you arrested.”

I fled without a backward glance—and ran smack into Carson Reed, who must have heard the ruckus and come to see what it was about. As I bounced back a step, he made a
tsk
sound with his tongue. “Causing more trouble, Miss Knight? Cooling your heels in jail didn’t teach you anything?”

Being in a highly emotional state already, I knew I should ignore him and keep going, but that smug look on Reed’s face was too much. “It taught me one thing, Professor. Beware of snakes with forked tongues, who preach one thing and practice another.”

His eyes twinkled, as though he were enjoying the verbal sparring. “Spot quiz. Is name-calling libelous or slanderous? Oh, I’m sorry. You probably didn’t pass that test, did you?”

I knew Reed was baiting me, so, as difficult as it was, I bit back any further reply, moved around him, and continued toward the staircase.

“The answer is slanderous,” he said, and when I still didn’t answer, he called, “I was considering holding a rally for snakes’ rights. Want to come? You can carry the snakes.”

Five more seconds and I would have been in the clear, but I couldn’t let that remark pass without a reply, so I stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to give him an icy look. “That’s okay, Professor. Some snakes deserve to be skinned.”

Ignoring his hoots of laughter, I held my head high and marched down the steps until I was out of his line of sight, then I nearly tripped over my own feet in my hurry to get out of the building, just in case Puffer made good on his threat to call security. At the bottom, I pushed open the glass doors, checked to see whether I was in the clear, then ran all the way to my car, where I sank into the bucket seat and dropped my head against the back. Could the day get any worse?

After a few moments to catch my breath, I started the motor, then switched it off again. The sun on my head wasn’t nearly as hot as the anger boiling inside. The nerve of Reed to make fun of me for taking a stand against injustice! And how dare Puffer accuse me of sending the rose as a prank. Even if I were so inclined, why would I use one of my own products as a means of revenge? I let out a sigh, thinking about that beautiful flower and vase lying in the trash can, knowing they would end up in the county dump. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Or was there?

I dug my phone out of my purse and punched speed-dial number two. The phone rang five times, then Marco answered in that sexy, deep purr that always sent little vibes of pleasure straight through to my toes, even when I was in a bad mood.

“Hey, Sunshine. What’s up?”

“Just a little problem. Do you have a second?”

I heard him speak to someone in the background, probably to Chris, Marco’s head bartender at the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill. Then he said to me, “I’m going to take this in my office. From the sound of your voice, this isn’t a little problem or one we can cover in a second. Am I right?”

Was he ever wrong?

Marco Salvare was the tall, dark, and hunk-a-luscious owner of the local watering hole two doors south of my flower shop on the town square. A former Army Ranger with a private investigator’s license, he had also served a stint on the police force, but left due to his reluctance to follow senseless policies. He’d bought the bar shortly after leaving the force and since then had helped me out of a few scrapes, earning himself the honorary title of knight in shining armor—except that he didn’t clank when he walked.

“Okay, shoot,” he said.

I gave him my story, starting from my near mow-down of Puffer and ending with Reed’s last words and my headlong dash to the car. Then I waited as Marco digested the information. Being a male, this took a while. Sometimes days.

I had rearranged my glove compartment, applied more lip gloss, and filed a nail with a snag in it when he finally offered his opinion. “First of all,” he said, “I’m not going to tell you that Lottie should have made the delivery for you, because you’d only argue the point.”

“True.”

“Second, I’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t have engaged in a war of words with Reed because you already know that.”

“True again.”

“Third, I
am
going to tell you to start the engine, put the car in gear, and leave while you’re still ahead—but you’re not going to listen.”

Like I said, he was never wrong. I could ignore Reed’s jabs for the time being, but there was no way I could let Puffer defeat me once again. I had come to the law school determined to take back my self-respect, and by George, I was going to do it. “Marco, you know that there are two things in the world I absolutely hate. Injustice and bullies.”

“Here it comes,” he said with a sigh.

“I’m going back in there to get my flower.”

“What can I say but do what you have to do?”

“Thanks, Marco. I needed that.”

I got out of the car, slammed the door—that always made me feel more in control—and headed across the street, prepared to battle the Dragon. Boy, was I going to tell Puffer where to get off. He could sneer, insult, and bellow all he wanted, but there was nothing short of death that would make me leave without my rose.