Deadly Arrangements (Book Two in the Cozy Flower Shop Mystery Series) (The Flower Shop Mystery Series)

by Annie Adams

  “Well, attached or not, we’re not taking Shim to the pound.”

  “Shim?” I said.

  “I don’t know if it’s a she or a him, so it’s Shim for now. I’ll get a closer look when we get back to the shop. Shim, you’re coming home with me. Oh, now don’t shake your head, Boss. Shim’s got nowhere else to go.”

  Our little trip to the Mangum household had me completely rattled. Kyle had seemed so normal, so nice, when he came in to plan the wedding. I’d thought it to be odd the bride didn’t come in or care about the flowers, but as Kyle had explained, this was a second marriage and she was busy working out of town a lot. At least I think that’s what he told me. And how romantic was it that he had us send flowers every month on the date of their anniversary?

  It didn’t seem possible such a nice, thoughtful guy could live in such a weird home—and then there were those photos. Maybe he was a stalker, or worse. And where was his wife? Had she suddenly disappeared?

  I knew I needed to report what we had seen to someone I could trust. First of all, we had snooped around that house uninvited. Big no-no. Secondly, I had no proof of anything except creepiness. Thirdly, the only crime that had been committed was a bounced check, which was hardly worth the police force’s time. But I knew something weird was going on.

  ***

  I was just polishing off a Bulgy Burger, tater tots with fry sauce, and a large Coke when I heard a knock on my back kitchen door.

  I opened the door. “Hi, Dad. Come in.”

  “Not much of a meal,” he said when he saw me cleaning the remnants of waxed wrapping and paper bags from the table.

  “I guess not.” Better eating had been one of Alex’s influences on me. He loved to cook and I loved to eat. For now Bulgy Burger was my personal chef.

  Dad turned a kitchen chair backwards and straddled the seat, resting his arms on top of the seatback. I laughed to myself, remembering Alex doing the same thing.

  “Now that’s better,” Dad said.

  “What is?”

  “Your smile, lassie.”

  I felt my smile widen at the hand-me-down nickname from my father’s Scottish parents.

  “Better still,” he said, then winked. “Hey, isn’t your friend K.C. a bird watcher? Your mother and I went to breakfast at Skinny’s today and we saw old Jack Conway. Said he was going out of town.”

  “Yeah, he’s the one who lectured when I went with K.C.,” I stood and walked over to the counter. “Ice cream?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right, you told me about the bird he discovered. I wanted to catch up with him and ask about his world famous discovery, but he was in a blasted hurry. I barely got to wish him well. He grew up in this neighborhood, you know. Went to school with your aunt Rosie.”

  “Oh, really?” I tried to be interested, without much success. I needed more calories to stuff down the lonely feelings. I got two bowls out of the cupboard and pulled the chocolate chip ice cream out of the freezer. Dad came over and commandeered the scoop and told me I should sit.

  He brought the bowls to the table and sat down. “I came over to see how your leg was healing. I expected a half-clad n’er do well to answer the door. Where is that beau of yours?”

  I wasn’t able to conjure a smile any longer. “He’s still in California. He’s got family stuff to take care of.”

  “Oh. I see.” He knit his brows and looked at me with that gaze that always made me come clean when I was a kid. He never had to say anything. He would just look at me or Allie with the eye and the confessions would come spilling out like waterfalls. I don’t think he ever gave the look to Sandy. She never lied to our parents, allegedly. Probably he never had to give it much to Allie, either. It was pretty much reserved for me, the middle child.

  “There aren’t many challenges that make it worth giving up on the right one, Quincy.”

  “How do you know? You’ve been back a few days. What if it doesn’t take this time? I know how challenging Mom is.”

  He laughed, his deep bass voice rumbling tangible vibrations through the air. “She’s my right one. I’m a stupid and stubborn man, my dear. It took a while for me to really see and know what I had let slip through my fingers.” He held up two knotted, meaty hands with fingers calloused from playing the banjo.

  “Really, is that walking stick of yours okay?”

  I nodded. “It’s fine. It looked worse than it really was when we were at the hospital.”

  “All right, then.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “You’re my favorite girl, you know?”

  I laughed. “You say that to all three of us.”

  “I really mean it, Quincy. And I think you’ve found a keeper in that one. It might be worth overcoming whatever challenge you’re staring down right now.”

  “How do you know that? You’ve just met him.”

  He swallowed the last of his ice cream. “Mmmh, a man knows.”

  I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.

  “Smirk all you want. He speaks the language.”

  “Oh geez, not the Mantown thing again.”

  “That’s a new term to me, but it’s just the thing. Mantown. Yes, your man and me, we speak the language of Mantown.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll be on my way. By the way, don’t let on to the lad that I approve of him in any way. Got to keep ‘em scared.”

  “Dad, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “Oh, he’ll be back, lass. His right one is here, so that’s where he’ll be. You’ll see.”

  I closed and locked the door after he left, then got ready for bed. “Sorry Han,” I said to the t-shirt in hand. “I’m sleeping with Starbuck tonight. Deal with it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I flipped the open sign at three minutes after nine, which wasn’t bad considering I woke up at eight thirty-two.

  My new diet of grease and sugar had not been conducive to waking up any earlier in the mornings. Daphne was going to be a few minutes late, and Allie had asked for the morning off to square things away for a school project. So it was just me responsible for opening the store on time.

  I rushed through the store turning on lights and the computer, then filled the can for watering the lush green plants filling the front of the store. Being alone in the shop had its advantages, and being able to talk to the plants while I gave them a shower was one of them. It definitely helped them to grow fuller and more deeply colored.

  As I unpacked a box of vases in the front design room and put them on the shelf, I heard the doorbell chime. A walk-in customer this early in the morning would be a great start-off for the day.

  No such luck. I looked down from my perch on the stepladder to see my mother dragging a giant garbage bag behind her.

  “What’s all this?” I said.

  “Now what kind of a greeting is that for a customer? Good morning, Quinella.”

  The passive-aggressive use of my full name did not go unnoticed.

  “I’m sorry. Good morning, dearest mother. Did you rest in the peaceful arms of blissful slumber last night?”

  She huffed at my sarcasm and plunked her garbage bag on the design table. “Alright. You don’t need to be that formal. And no, if what you were asking is did I sleep well, the answer is no.” She busied herself pulling silk flowers out of the bag.

  “Sorry you didn’t sleep, mom. How come you’re not sleeping?”

  “Well,” she blushed, “your father’s been gone a long time…”

  “Oh, geez.” Let the uncontrollable shudders begin. “Um, Mom, could you hold on for one second—I just have to go and throw up now. Feel free to make something up next time. I don’t want to hear about that. You’re my parents for criminy sakes.”

  “You asked.”

  “So what are we doing with all these silk flowers from the 1980s?”

  “Since your father and I are going to redo our vows, I thought we could use these for a bouquet. We don’t really need any other
flowers, and I didn’t want these to go to waste.” She pulled a smashed lily with fake plastic rain drops on the petals out of the bag and sneezed at the accompanying dust cloud.

  My ever-practical mother had taken the science of frugality to the level of nuclear fusion. My mother was the Picasso of potatoes, the Manet of macaroni and the Renoir of repurposing. If it still had life in it, my mother could, and more importantly, would turn it into something else. Now, whether she should or not is an entirely different question.

  “Mother, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to use those flowers for your bouquet. We can do silk, that’s fine. But they have to have been produced within the last twelve months. Or,” I raised the pitch of my voice and made an extra happy facial expression, “we could use real flowers.”

  “Real flowers are so expensive, though.”

  “Hmm,” I stuck my fist under my chin and looked upward, “if only we knew someone who could give you some flowers for free. Someone who has their own flower shop…”

  Mom tried to frown without much success. “Sarcastic as ever, just like your father.” She smiled. “Thank you, dear. That’s very thoughtful.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Maybe I’ll talk you into some other arrangements before we’re through.”

  Daphne arrived and took over the morning’s preparations while I helped my mother drag her bag of ragged silk flowers into the back.

  “Your father tells me he came by for a visit yesterday. He said you were putting on a brave face about your leg. You have to take care of those wounds, Quincy. They have a high chance for infection.”

  “The leg is healing just fine. I’m following all the instructions, plus it wasn’t as bad as it looked in the beginning.”

  She busied herself by rolling all the bolts of ribbon until the end of each rested exactly level with all the other bolts. I couldn’t convince her it would all be ruined in a matter of minutes when I started making bows, so I let her do her never-an-idle-hand thing.

  “I haven’t heard you talk about your friend in a while,” Mom said, facing the wall of ribbon.

  “You mean Danny?”

  “No, I mean your…er…Alex.”

  My Alex. She’d fumbled her words, but it was an interesting concept. I didn’t think he was my Alex anymore.

  “There isn’t much to tell. He’s in California with family.”

  “That’s what your father said. He’s worried about you, dear. I’m worried.”

  I laughed to myself, but it spilled out a little. “What do you have to worry about?”

  “You and Alex, that’s what. You really seemed to be hitting it off.”

  “Who says we’re not?”

  “Please, Quincy, we’re not stupid. It’s obvious something happened between the two of you.”

  I wasn’t comfortable talking to anyone about the subject of Alex and our problems, but especially not my mother. And I wasn’t sure what effect my father’s return had had on the workings of my mother’s spy network. Things were unsettled, and I wasn’t about to give any sort of information to my mother that could be used against me.

  By the time her cronies were finished, they would have turned me into an unwed, pregnant trollop who was left in the lurch by Alex, who went back home to marry his high school sweetheart. That was the mildest version I could imagine the Mormon Ladies Mafia—the MLM— would come up with.

  “I would think you’d be glad to know Alex and I aren’t together anymore. You’re black sheep daughter isn’t with the bad influence, non-member any longer. You should be throwing a party.”

  “Quincy! I’m not glad about that at all. And…and he’s not…a bad influence. He’s actually a very nice young man.”

  I think my eyebrows reached the top of my head. My father must have been putting some kind of drugs in the water at home.

  “He is very nice.” This was true.

  “Your father seems to like him.”

  Also true.

  “What is that smell?” my mother exclaimed.

  Our seat in the back design room was far enough away from the front counter that I hoped Jacqueline DeMechante hadn’t been able to hear my mother’s less-than-tactful question. But it seemed no distance was great enough to prevent the olfactory assault from Jacqueline’s perfume. She was indeed the customer Daphne was helping in the front of the store.

  I held my finger up to my lips then pointed toward the front design area.

  “What?” my mom power-whispered.

  I whispered back, “It’s Jacqueline DeMechante. I’m going to her boyfriend’s place to measure for a decorating job.”

  “Oh, is this the job you’re doing with the wedding money?”

  I nodded slowly. “How did you know about that?”

  “Allie told me. It’s just terrible about that groom. Have they found anything out yet?”

  “No, but K.C. says they keep questioning Fred, and she’s worried they think he’s involved as more than just a victim.”

  “Now, why isn’t Alex taking care of all of this? I’m sure he could vouch for Fred.”

  All I could do was sigh. Alex wasn’t here, for starters. Also, after countless explanations, my mother still couldn’t understand that Alex wasn’t actually an officer with Hillside police, he was a member of the state police, and had been acting undercover as a city officer when we met. I decided not to answer.

  “Boy, she’s swimming in that perfume today,” I said.

  “So this is the woman you’ve been working for?”

  “Yes. I planned on leaving as soon as Daphne got here to go to the condo and take measurements.”

  “Ooh, Quincy, I have a great idea.”

  Here it comes.

  “I’m not doing anything especially important today, and your father is messing around with his banjo. Why don’t I come with you to the condo and help?”

  Whenever my mother says the word help in that context, she should be required to use air quotes at the same time. There would be no real help. There would be snooping and mental cataloguing. Then, during the refreshment portion her Daughters of the Utah Pioneers or DUP meeting, otherwise known as the MLM intel briefing, she would give her report.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I wonder if Jacqueline would want another person there. You know, privacy issues and all.”

  “Well she’s here, right?” She stood and made it to the door before saying, “Let’s just ask her.”

  Grrr.

  Jacqueline actually loved the idea the way my mother presented it. Go figure.

  ***

  I laughed to myself as I punched in the keycode to enter the parking garage to Bruce Tanner’s condo building. Mom stood next to me, propping up the portable step-ladder I usually kept in the van.

  “What’s that for?” Mom said.

  “What?”

  “The look on your face. What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking how easily Jacqueline gave out the code to get into Bruce’s condo. She doesn’t trust me enough to handle her Lapis or Nile blue and she micromanages the air out of the room, yet she’ll give me the code to a private home as easily as they hand out free samples at the grocery store.”

  “People have their quirks, that’s for sure,” Mom said.

  We took the elevator instead of the stairs to Bruce’s floor, since we had brought a portable step-ladder with us. His condo was all the way at the end of a beautifully decorated hallway. Earth tone paint and pictures of native Utah rock carvings made me question the need for this decorating job if the condo interior matched the path to the front door.

  I punched in another code on his door, nervous at my capabilities as a decorator. I wondered if I was in way over my head. Of course, I wasn’t the one who would be doing the interior designing itself. Allie—the interior design major—was in charge of that portion. I suppose I just felt nervous on behalf of everyone, since my shop’s reputation was on the line. Once I opened the door I was relieved of all insecurities. Well, not all of them, ju
st the ones related to this particular design job.

  Austere would have been a kind word to describe Bruce’s condo. Dump is what came to mind.

  I heard a quiet groan from behind me. “He must travel—a lot.”

  “This is going to require a lot more than just the wedding money,” I said. Admittedly, I did not have a finely furnished home. All the furniture and appliances had either been given to me or I’d found them at the second-hand store. All my artwork consisted of cheaply framed movie posters or prints from the clearance racks at Target. But Bruce Tanner had me beat by a long shot.

  The living room contained a Santa Fe motif couch and a TV on a spindly faux-oak coffee table. The pass-through to the kitchen revealed nothing but a stainless steel fridge, which must have come with the condo, because it was the fanciest item in the place and it fit perfectly in the space carved out of the cabinets. A diminutive round table stood in the corner of the kitchen, with two clear plastic-backed swivel chairs which churned up memories of my Aunt Sally’s kitchen in the late eighties.

  The same story was retold in the main bedroom and the spare bedroom-turned-office. Despite the sparseness of any real décor, the office did show some signs of practical use, with a computer and printer atop a fairly large modern metal desk and rolling chair, flanked by two large filing cabinets.

  And then there was the familiar fragrance of Jacqueline’s perfume embedded in the gray- white paint covering every wall. I joined my mom in the occasional cough when we would enter a particularly strong Jacquie Zone.

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely to make this into a real office?” Mom said.

  “Anything would help. I wonder if Bruce or Jacqueline will really go for it, or if they’ll just want us to put up a few curtains and a table and lamp here and there.”

  I measured the window while my mother walked around taking notes on the small spiral-bound book she’d always kept in her purse.

  “At least there’s a little personality in here,” she said. “He must spend most of his time at home in this room. Look at these photos on the desk.” She picked up a framed five-by-seven from the edge of the desk. “He must be a real golfer. All of these pictures look like they were taken at golf courses. What company did you say Bruce worked for?”