Sweet Violet and a Time for Love (23 page)

“Hello, Mr. Monroe?”

“Ah, Sienna! I haven't talked to you in ages. How are you, dear?” The elderly man on the other end of the line greeted me with genuine warmth. Horace Monroe, a member of Second Zion, had been a longtime foster parent who I'd had dealings with long ago. Dayonna Diamond, the last foster child he and his wife Elsie had taken in, had given me a run for my money as I searched for a sister she claimed to have, yet there was no record of. I stayed in touch with the elderly couple from time to time, just to check in and ensure that all was well with them. Today, however, I was calling for a different purpose.

“I'm well, Mr. Monroe, and I hope everyone in your family is well too.”

“Oh, we are all fine. Thanks for all you did to help us.”

I smiled, glad to hear that peace had come out of the storm for them. “Look, I didn't want to hold you long, but I was curious if you are still in the home renovating business?”

“Not as much as I used to be. Elsie is ready for me to settle down once and for all and just enjoy the new home I fixed up for us. Why do you ask? Are you looking to update a property? I heard that you are expecting a little one.”

“Yes, we are, but that's not why I called. I just wanted to know how you go about finding the owner of a vacant property.”

“Oh, usually the city can help with those matters.”

“What if the city doesn't know?”

“Well,” Horace chuckled, “I have my ways of finding out myself, but that's a trade secret I keep under wraps for when I want to be the first one to grab up a property.”

“If I give you an address, do you think you can find out who owns it? I have a reason for looking into it as soon as possible, but I can't get into the details right now.”

“I can see what I can do. No promises, though.”

“Great.” I spelled out the street number and name of the vacant home where Amber's body had been found, the vacant home that stood out with several others in the block of renovations. “There may be other homes on that street under the same ownership if that helps to know.”

“Okay. Spell it for me one more time, dear. I found my pen and some paper.”

Hearing the frailty in his voice and recalling the danger of my mission, I wondered if I was making a mistake getting him involved; however, Leon hadn't stopped me so I figured all was well.

“Thanks, Mr. Monroe.”

“Oh, not a problem. After all you did to help bring healing to my family, I'm honored to have a way to help you out.”

We said our good-byes and I handed Leon back his phone.

“Anywhere else?” he asked.

“You need to feed your driver,” Mike shouted from the front seat. We all laughed.

“I guess we all need to stop and eat. Where to, Leon?”

“Let's go eat down at the Harbor. That way we can drive past the shop. One last time.” His laugh died away. “Mike can run in and get us something from one of the food pavilions, my treat.”

Mike nodded, turned toward downtown.

“Leon, you make things sound so final.” I shook my head. “We won't be in the Bahamas forever. We'll be back to your shop before you know it and the insurance company will get it back in one piece.” I thought about the broken glass, the bullet holes, and shuddered.

“Sienna, my bakery is a wrap. This case, the past few months have taken their toll. The shootout yesterday doesn't help things either.”

“Insurance
will
cover that, right?”

“I guess. It's complicated.”

“You mean like how you had my son working there for the past few months and never told me complicated?”

We shot each other potent glances.

“If you ever made time to come by, Roman's presence wouldn't have been a secret to you.”

I let out a loud sigh. “I don't want to start up anything, no arguing. We said we were past that.”

“Then let's be past it. I just want to drive by the shop, let you finish your private investigation mission, and move forward. If you don't have any other stops you want to make, let's just get our food, head back to the safe house and get ready for our trip.”

I had nothing else to say as Mike drove toward Pratt Street.

And then: “Wait!” I grabbed Leon's shoulder and he motioned for Mike to stop.

We were passing the corner of Baltimore and President Streets where an escalator descended down to the Shot Tower Metro Station.

“She's heading for the subway.” I pointed.

Sweet Violet.

Her long black wool coat stood out in the summertime heat. A brown paper shopping bag hung from one of her hands.

“Sienna, I'm coming with you.” Leon followed me as I exited the car.

“I'll circle the block a few times,” Mike shouted from the front seat. “Just cross back over to this corner when you're ready and I'll get you.”

I was already crossing the street. Sweet Violet had just stepped onto the top escalator stair and was moving down into the station.

“Frankie Jean! Sweet Violet!” I still was not sure what to call her, but I saw her turn her head, look around just as she reached the bottom of the escalator.

A train was pulling into the station. I ran down the rest of the steps. Leon was still caught across the street, not having made the light in time. Cars raced down President Street onto I-83 blocking his way.

“Sweet Violet,” I called, out of breath. For being so old and frail, not to mention wearing a heavy coat on a summer day, the woman had some speed in her feet. “Sweet Violet,” I called again just as the train came to a screeching halt at the station. I caught up to her just as she shuffled toward the opening doors.

“Sweet Violet, where are you off to so fast?”

“Huh? Oh.” She stopped for a moment as a crowd of people scattered off. “I knew you would come see me off. I knew it.” She clasped her hands together, the brown shopping bag still hanging off of her thin wrist.

“See you off? Where are you going?” I kept a smile on my face, kept my tone easy.

We had only seconds. Passengers who were getting off had already done so. The door would be closing soon and something in Sweet Violet's hurried pace told me she was not going to miss this train.

“To plant my flowers, of course.” She looked at me and frowned. She also pulled her bag closer to her body.

“This is the subway. It only travels back and forth between Owings Mills and Johns Hopkins Hospital. Where are you going to plant them?” I followed along.

She looked to the left, then the right, before whispering to me. “I take the subway to the light rail, the light rail to BWI, and the airport shuttle to the Amtrak station. They gave me the ticket, so I know where to go.”

I noticed then she had a train ticket in her other hand.

“Who gave you the ticket?”

Too late.

She was stepping onto the subway car and the doors were beeping to announce their pending closure. Just before the doors slammed shut, she tossed me the brown shopping bag.

“Just plant these somewhere pretty, will you?” I heard her say as the doors squealed shut. The shopping bag landed at my feet and the train screeched back to life, jolting forward on its darkened tunnel route. Through the glass windows, I saw Sweet Violet take a seat, unbutton her wool coat. The pink sweat suit I'd given to her the night she showed up at the emergency room was underneath. With all those layers, I was amazed the woman hadn't passed out from heat stroke.

“Bye, Sweet Violet.” I shook my head, looked down at the bag, and opened it.

The only things inside were bouquets of violets. Deep purple violets, several bouquets.

“You missed her?”

Leon.

He'd just come up behind me, his voice soothing to my overwhelmed nerves.

“No, she got on the train, said she was about to plant her flowers, then she tossed this bag to me.” I pointed to the shopping bag. He picked it up.

“So.” He eyed me carefully. “Anything else?”

“She had a train ticket. She said someone gave it to her.”

“Aren't there programs that help homeless people with traveling funds if they need to get somewhere and have a relative waiting?”

“Yeah.” I considered, not sure what else to think, what else to say or do. “She's never said anything about relatives.” Leon didn't seem concerned.

“Anything else?” he asked. I could tell from his posture, his words, that anything else I could come with up with, he would find a way to explain it away.

“Let's go. Let's pack and wait. I'm done.” I shrugged my shoulders, not feeling like I was done with anything, but what else was there for me to do? What else was there for me to research?

We headed out of the station and crossed the street where Mike had just circled around and sat waiting for us. The ride back to the safe house was silent.

“I'm sorry that I have to come along. You two should be enjoying your anniversary trip in the Bahamas alone as a second honeymoon.” Roman munched on a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I thought back to our honeymoon in St. Michael's, Maryland. Perfection. I had no idea what this trip would be like. I sighed.

3:23.

Our ride to the airport would be there any moment. We sat in the basement of the safe house, a few pieces of luggage waiting by the door. Leon sat checking the closed-circuit screens from his seat next to me on the futon.

“Considering the circumstances, I'm not sure that I would call this an anniversary trip anyway, Roman.” I rubbed both of my hands over my belly. “Besides, not sure how much of the Bahamas I'll be able to enjoy with all this extra luggage.” I smiled, weakly, but a smile nonetheless.

“It's a family-moon.” Leon's hands joined mine over my stomach. “We probably need this time to just be a family unit. All four of us. We haven't really had time to be so before now.”

A phone sitting on the desk in the center of the room rang.

“That's the signal. Our ride is here. Let's go.” Leon began shutting everything off while Roman rechecked our paperwork.

Was all of this really necessary? I thought about Leon's shot-out store and Alisa's lifeless body and conceded that the extended trip was indeed one that had to be taken.

At least we were all together.

“Shut the lights,” Leon directed Roman as the three of us poured out of the back basement door. Mike had long left us after dropping us off following my failed Sweet Violet discovery mission. I still didn't feel satisfied with the results, or lack thereof, of my mission; but, really, what else was there for me to do? And Leon didn't seem to think it necessary to push for any additional answers.

I guessed she was just a harmless older homeless woman whose presence at so many tragic scenes was mere coincidence. I picked up the shopping bag filled with violets on my way out of the door, determined to plant them wherever we ended up as a sign that I had moved on.

A final task.

Seemed like I always had another “final task” to be rid of this woman once and for all.

Leon shook his head at me as we walked toward the blue cab that waited in the parking pad behind the house. “You have a good heart, Sienna,” he said as if he could read my mind, as if he understood my intentions. “You are obsessed with completing a case and leaving no stone unturned.”

I tried to smile back at him, but something had caught my eye. Leon saw the change.

“What is it now, Sienna?” He asked as he and Roman loaded the trunk with our bags.

“Nothing,” I stammered as I walked toward the cab. What could I say? Leon would think I was crazy, overthinking if I pointed out the observation that had just disturbed my already shaky sense of peace.

The numbers painted on the side of the cab.

511.

It was the cab's ID number, that's all, I chided myself, forcing myself to ignore the sudden pang of alarm that went off in my stomach.

A coincidence.

Not worth bringing up.

My hands shook as I sat down in the rear seat next to Leon. Roman sat up front. The driver, a middle-aged black man with salt-and-pepper stubble on his face seemed oblivious to my alarm. Leon and Roman joked around about something or other, and I did my best to assure myself that I was being silly, unreasonable for thinking the numbers on the cab were more than a coincidence.

The car backed out of the parking pad, crept through the alley, and then joined the beginning rush-hour traffic out of downtown.

“Not going through the city to get to 295?” Leon spoke up, taking a pause from cracking jokes with Roman. How had I missed how close those two were?

The driver shook his head. “Gotta loop around for a while to make sure we're not being followed. Don't worry; I'll get you to the airport on time.” The man had a voice that was both rough and rhythmic; a voice, like one, I imagined, an old jazz singer would have after a lifetime of whiskey and smokes.

Whiskey.

Thinking of that reminded me of Sweet Violet and her Old Grand-Dad offering she left by her planted rose on New Year's Day. What was up with the woman and flowers anyway? I wondered.

The shopping bag of violets was at my feet. Not sure how or why I thought I would get the blooms past security at the airport, or through customs. I looked in the bag. Ran a finger over the dark purple blooms.

Five bouquets.

My heart dropped to my knees as I took out one of the bow-tied bouquets.

Eleven stems each.

Oh, God.
What was it with me and this number? I shut my eyes, opened them, noticed that we were traveling farther away in the opposite direction from the airport.

Leon still didn't seem perturbed. Would I sound like a fool if I pointed this out to him? If I showed him the flower count or mentioned the numbers on the side of the cab?

My nerves were getting the better of me. I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to contain them, the synapses in my brain firing away in a desperate effort to make sense of the continuing strands of coincidences that seemed to be leading me away from thinking there was no connection between Sweet Violet and the series of violent events that had comprised the last few months of my life.

I swallowed hard at the distant memory of her words, a sense of desperation and anxiety taking over me as I struggled to find sense and meaning of it all.

“Sienna, you okay?” Leon was studying my face, his eyebrow raised. The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
I can't let him know that I suspect anything.
Did I sound crazy or what? I wanted to kick myself for my growing paranoia.

“What is it, Sienna?” Leon looked more concerned as I'm sure my face was turning pale.

“Ma?” Roman turned around, stared.

I racked my brain trying to think of an answer that would make sense and that would safely get us out of this cab that I no longer trusted.
Because of painted numbers and a bunch of unplanted flowers.
I heard my own silliness. I thought of what to say, what to do, and only one thing came to mind.

I grabbed my stomach.

“Something's not right. I think I need to get checked out. Now.” It was not a total lie, I decided. Something sure didn't feel right, and I needed to make sure, for the sake of my baby, that our current situation did indeed check out.

The immediate concern on Leon's face left me feeling guilty. I watched as he looked from the papers in his hand to the time on the driver's dashboard.

“Make the next right,” he directed the driver. “We need to go to the hospital.”

In the mirror, I could see the man's eyes narrow and a single bead of sweat form on his forehead. He switched lanes and did a U-turn heading back toward the city.

“There's a closer hospital the other direction.” Leon sounded aggravated, worried. Roman shifted in his seat, alarm ringing in his eyes as well.

“We're going to Metro Community,” the man said, the sweat now gone from his forehead.

Maybe I was overthinking and overreacting, but my gut told me I'd made the right move.