Kate Collins - Sleeping with Anemone

“How about a gift certificate?” I asked. “The bride-to-be can pick out something for herself later or apply it toward wedding flowers, which would give me her wedding business.”

Jillian put her hands on my shoulders and bent at the knees so she could look me straight in the eye. “Do you recall me using the word extraordinaire? Is there anything extraordinaire about a gift certificate?”

“Perhaps an original piece of art deco jewelry?” Grace suggested as she passed by.

Jillian’s eyes widened with enthusiasm-or maybe from too many espressos. “Art deco?”

Grace had cleverly redeemed herself. I led Jillian to the armoire. Obviously she’d overlooked my mom’s brooch during her initial search, because it was right-nowhere. “Grace, did you move it?”

“No, dear. Look on the middle shelf.”

“I don’t see it.”

Grace came over to join the hunt. Then Lottie came to help. Then the four of us did a search of the entire room, but the brooch was gone.

“Great,” Jillian said, slipping on her coat. “I’ll have to hope Claymore can come up with an idea.” With her cell phone to her ear, she gave me a quick wave and hurried out.

Grace flicked off the overhead lights, turned the sign to CLOSED, and locked the door. “It’s a puzzle about that brooch, isn’t it? Could someone have nicked it, then?”

“What else could it be?” I asked as we headed for the workroom to clean up.

“Will you tell your mum, do you think?” Grace asked.

“She’d probably feel honored,” Lottie said, “creating something worth stealing.”

As I swept trimmings off the floor, I considered what to do. If I told Mom her piece was stolen, she might think it was worth duplicating. If I told her someone had purchased it, I’d have to make up a price that wouldn’t hurt her feelings-and then pay her. Or maybe I just wouldn’t say anything at all and hope she didn’t notice it was missing.

My cell phone rang. Marco’s name appeared on the screen and I answered it.

“Hey, Sunshine, are you coming down to the bar for dinner?”

“Um, was I supposed to?”

“We never did get to have that discussion.”

Oh, right. The discussion. In the background, I heard guys shouting and laughing, glasses clinking, and the noisy whir of a blender crushing ice. Ugh. “You know, Marco, after the busy day I’ve had, what I really need is to go home and unwind.”

At a sudden furious pounding on the front door, I said, “Hold on,” and followed Lottie through the curtain.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Lottie cried, then opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. There stood Jillian, beret gone, hair awry, purse strap broken, and designer coat torn at the shoulder. She fell into Lottie’s arms, sobbing hysterically. “I was kidnapped!”

Wow. Marco was right. Things were happening.

“Marco, someone tried to kidnap Jillian. I have to call the police.”

Quickly, I ended the call, dialed 911, spoke to the emergency operator, then hung up and hurried over to my cousin to hear her story.

“I was talking to Claymore on the phone when I left here.” Sniffle. “I put my phone in my purse, turned the corner, and bam ! Someone snatched my beret. When I went to see who it was, some thug twisted my arm behind my back and pushed me toward the street. I struggled and tried to get away, but he shoved me into this dirty old van, then climbed in with me and shut the door. Then the van pulled away.” Sniffle. “I thought for sure I was going to die.”

“Good heavens!” Grace exclaimed. “Did you get a look at his face?”

“He was wearing a ski mask.” Jillian wept, abandoning Lottie to switch to Grace’s shoulder. “He snarled something about giving it up, and I said, ‘Give up what? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and then he grabbed me by the arms and shook me. Then he said in this whispery, scary voice, ‘Don’t play games with me, Abby Knight,’ just like that. So I said, ‘I’m not Abby.’ And he said, ‘Right.’ And I said, ‘No, seriously. I’m her cousin.’ And he said, ‘No way.’ And I said, ‘Surely you’ve heard of me. I’m Jillian Knight-Osborne, the well-known wardrobe consultant.’ ”

Dear God. She gave the kidnapper her name.

Marco rapped on the front door, and Lottie let him in. At the same moment, a squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and two cops got out, one of them Reilly.

Jillian blew her nose on a tissue Lottie offered. “Then the guy said in this hoarse voice, ‘You swear you’re not Abby Knight?’ And I said, ‘I told you I’m her cousin. Would you like to see my ID?’ Then he banged on the roof, the van stopped, he opened the door, and shoved me out! Look at my purse! It’s ruined.” With an angry sniff, Jillian brushed her hair away from her face, then patted the top of her head. “And he still has my beret!”

With Marco and the cops there, Jillian repeated her tale. She’d gathered her wits sufficiently to embellish it, so I knew she was going to be okay. Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling so hot. Cold, actually. Shivering, teeth-chattering cold.

I hugged myself for warmth as the cops began questioning her. Was she sure the man had called her Abby Knight? She was. What had he said to her exactly? She couldn’t remember. It was all a bit fuzzy. What color was the van? Dirty. Okay, white. How old was the man who grabbed her? She couldn’t tell by his voice because he whispered, but his arms were thin, so probably a teen. Could she give a description to their sketch artist? Only if they wanted a drawing of a guy wearing a ski mask. Did she see a license plate number? Puh-leez! She was facedown on the street.

“Sweetie, you look as white as a sheet,” Lottie said to me, while the cops finished up. “Come on. Let’s get you a glass of water.”

Lottie escorted me into the parlor with Grace hurrying ahead of us. “A nice bracing cup of tea is what she needs.”

I sank down on a chair at one of the ice cream tables and rested my forehead in my hands. Moments later, Marco pulled up a chair and put his arms around me. “You okay?”

I nodded, turning against his chest. It felt safe there. Warm and safe, melting the cold.

“Reilly wants to talk to you,” Marco said quietly, rubbing my back.

“Here’s a glass of water, sweetie,” Lottie said.

“And a cup of herb tea,” Grace said, setting a cup and saucer next to the glass.

I reached for the water as Reilly sat down at the table and got out his notebook. His partner stood behind him, keeping an eye on the front door. In the other room, Jillian was retelling her story to someone on her cell phone.

“Have you noticed anyone following you lately?” Reilly asked. “Any suspicious vehicles, or this white van your cousin described, parked outside the shop or your apartment?”

I shook my head.

“From what your cousin said,” Reilly began, “it seems likely that the perps are the same two who went after Nikki.”

Stating the obvious. I took a sip of water. It didn’t want to go down. I switched to tea.

“It also seems likely that they were, in actuality, after you both times.”

Hence the chattering teeth.

Reilly glanced at me to see if I was paying attention. “Plus, we have the threatening letters and the burning brick.”

Why was he drawing this out?

“Naturally, we’ll be actively looking for these people,” Reilly said, “but until we figure out who’s behind this, it’s best if you’re escorted to and from work.”

“I’ll handle that task,” Marco said.