Kate Collins - Sleeping with Anemone

I knew what he was really asking. He was aware that Marco and I were close to making a commitment, but he also knew that I had qualms about taking that step. “I guess this will be a good test… except I was never a great test taker in school.”

He tugged my earlobe. “Listen up, Abracadabra. This isn’t about memorizing facts and spewing them back. It’s about finding a person you trust and enjoy doing things with.”

It had been a long time since Dad had used my old nickname. He’d given it to me when I was a kid because whenever there was work to be done, I’d disappear. “And Marco is that person. It’s just that-I don’t know-I’m still nervous about taking such a big step.”

“It’s understandable that you’d be gun-shy. But don’t overthink this, okay? You have a tendency to do that, you know.”

“I can’t help it, Dad. I get that from Mom. And I think we’d better can this discussion because she keeps looking our way like she wants to know what we’re talking about.”

“Gotcha. Once this case has been solved and you have some free time, drop by the house so we can have a real talk.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” I glanced over at Marco, and he gave me that little half grin that always made my heart beat faster. Why was I so skittish? Marco had so many positive qualities, having him in my life all the time should be a piece of cake.

Since the shop wouldn’t open for another forty-five minutes, the seven of us sat around a table in the parlor sampling Grace’s freshly baked cranberry scones and gourmet coffee, while Marco and I recounted the evening’s events. Mom and Dad had already been to Jordan’s house that morning to see Tara and hear Kathy’s version. Now they needed mine.

After I finished, we turned to Reilly to update us. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to tell. All they knew about the dead woman, Charlotte Bebe, was what had been in the newspapers. An autopsy was scheduled for later that morning, and her boyfriend, Dwayne Hudge, was believed to be in South Bend, Indiana, where he had family. Police expected to have him in custody shortly, and Nils Raand had been brought in for questioning.

“That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you,” Reilly concluded, leaning back in his chair.

“Come on, Reilly,” I urged. “Tell us something that might be in the newspapers tomorrow.”

Reilly eyed me, as though weighing his options. “Can I have more coffee, please, Grace?” He waited until Grace had refilled his cup, then, after a moment’s consideration, said, “Two items came to light that tie Nils Raand to the kidnappers. The first is public knowledge, so there’s no harm in telling you. Charlotte Bebe worked at Uniworld until two weeks before her death.”

“I knew we’d find a connection!” I said.

“It was a big factor in the decision to bring Raand in,” Reilly said.

Marco frowned in thought. “I’m surprised Raand would hire someone to kidnap Abby who had such an obvious connection to Uniworld.”

“Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought,” Lottie said.

“What other item came to light?” I asked Reilly.

“It’s evidence,” he said. “I can’t say anything about it.”

“But it’s my case,” I argued. “Why shouldn’t I be privy to the evidence?”

“Because it relates to the crime committed last night,” Reilly said, “and that’s not your case. It’s Tara’s.”

“Does that mean they’ll share it with my brother and sister-in-law?”

“When the time comes,” he said cryptically.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means forget it,” Dad said. “I know how the prosecutor’s office works.”

“Look,” Reilly said to me, “all I can tell you is that if and when the evidence affects the investigation on your matter, they’ll share it with you.”

What if if and when was never? Didn’t I have the right to know who was trying to kidnap me? Gearing up for further argument, I opened my mouth, but the look on Reilly’s face said, Don’t even think about it.

I glanced at Marco for support, but he gave a quick shake of his head, as though to say, Don’t press the issue.

Fine. I knew someone who could clue me in-Deputy Prosecutor Gregory Morgan, aka Nikki’s boyfriend. I glanced at my watch. Morgan would be in his office. Maybe I could slip into the workroom and give him a call to catch him before any hearings dragged him away.

I stuffed the last bite of scone in my mouth and wiped my fingers on my napkin, my mind busily turning over various ways to get Morgan to give up the info. He’d grown more reluctant to share with me of late, fearing the constant information leak would be traced back to him. Morgan wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he did catch on eventually, so I had to keep my tactics fresh.

“Abigail,” Mom said, snapping me out of my thoughts, “I think you should stay with us until the police have the culprits in custody.”

I nearly choked on a cranberry. Had she really just suggested I live in the same house with her? Had she forgotten my law school days, when we fought over whether a plate had to be rinsed before being placed in the dishwasher? How to wrap the hair dryer cord? How many times a pair of jeans could be worn before they absolutely had to be laundered? And those were just a few of our thousands of points of disagreement.

Before I said something rash, such as, You’d have to shoot me first, Dad said, “Maureen, she has a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard?” Mom glanced at me in surprise. “I didn’t see anyone guarding you.”

Marco raised his hand. “That would be me.”

Mom regarded Marco with some uncertainty; Lottie and Grace looked pleased; and Reilly sipped his coffee, trying to stay above the fray. Dad, however, was watching me. At his wink, I gave him a thumbs-up.

“Our daughter is in good hands, Maureen,” he said.

“We’d better get ready to open,” Lottie announced, standing. “It’s almost nine.”

That ended the discussion. Reilly thanked us for the goodies and left. Mom cautioned Marco to take very good care of me, after which Dad told Marco he had every confidence that he would, and they left. Then Marco departed, too, but not before extracting promises from Grace and Lottie that they wouldn’t leave me alone in the shop.

“And you,” he said to me, tapping the end of my nose with his fingertip, “have to promise not to leave Bloomers without an escort.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’m not in any hurry to make myself a target.”

“Good girl.” He gave me a kiss and left.

I shut the door and glanced around at my lovely little flower shop. It had been more than a week since the break-in, and I doubted whether anyone could tell it had ever happened. Now I just had to make sure it never did again.

Grace was in the parlor preparing for our usual batch of morning customers, and Lottie was taking inventory of the glass-fronted display case against the back wall of the shop, so I went through the purple curtain and settled at my desk to dial the prosecutor’s office. But just as I was about to punch in the courthouse number, the phone rang.

I answered with my usual, “Bloomers Flower Shop. How may I help you?”

An overly chipper male voice said, “Well, good morning there, honey. Is the owner of your business handy?”

I got that a lot. Trying to make myself sound older, I said, “How may I help you?”

“I have a shipment of exotic lilies coming in next month, with the best prices you’ll find anywhere. You won’t want to miss out on this opportunity-”

Another salesman. I hung up on him. I hated cold calls. I dialed the courthouse before anyone else tried to get through on my line. “Mr. Morgan, please,” I said to the secretary. “This is Abby Knight.”