“Maybe you remember more than you think.” I leaned in to hug her. “I saw the pictures of your nursery. Bells everywhere. And the Tinker Bell doll you loved—it was given to you by your real parents. So maybe . . .”
“Maybe I remember more than I think? But they’ll want me to love them.”
“But they love you, so I’m sure it will come. And they’ll be patient.”
Suzy nodded and turned back toward her groom, who threw his coat around her shoulders and pulled her into a long embrace.
“I’m glad she has somebody to care for her,” I said.
“That’s going to put a kink in the honeymoon,” Brad said.
“Can I take you home?” Nick offered.
“No.” I watched Michael comfort his bride. “I have the CR-V here—and a very hungry cat waiting for me.”
* * *
Chester was curled up on the back of my living room couch, one of his favorite perches, as evidenced by the gray and white hair always collecting on it and the pronounced sag visible even when he wasn’t there. Instead of getting up and running for the door, he lifted one eyelid, identified who I was, then curled up tighter into his ball.
“Sorry to be so late, old man,” I said, slipping off my shoes and curling up next to him. I rubbed his ears, and soon I could feel rather than hear his gentle purring. I tufted the fur on his head into a spiky fauxhawk.
“This apartment living isn’t good for you. You need to be out in the country, chasing birds and butterflies.” I then thought of the hawks, coyotes, and even bears. “Or maybe you can just stalk them from the window. But as soon as the money comes in . . .”
Chester meowed at me. Not sure if he was making conversation or if his new hairdo rubbed him the wrong way.
“Don’t get a hair ball. You’ll love it out there. So quiet.” I leaned back and rested my head for a moment. And before long I was dreaming of Liv and me as children, running in with dirty clothes and faces. And Grandma Mae standing at the door, her arms crossed in front of her flowered apron while she tried to maintain a stern look. But the smile radiated from her eyes.
* * *
After a few days the Ashbury reopened, but the film crew was slow to leave town. I’m not sure they were on the clock, but they seemed to be filming a documentary about the finding of Paige Logan. I guess it was a case of being at the right place at the right time.
Gigi and Henry left first, driving a small caravan, which consisted only of the wedding planners, makeup artist, seamstress, and, of course, Gigi’s lighting guy. Where they were headed after the funeral was anyone’s guess. Even Brad didn’t know if the next wedding was going to be filmed. The town that had welcomed the mass caravan in with a fanfare barely gave a nod to the limo and deluxe RV as they skulked out of town. It seemed Ramble had had its fifteen minutes of fame, but was glad it was over.
So was I. Although I have to admit I did take some pride in looking over Dennis Pinkleman’s viral posts on the Fix My Wedding fan site and on Pinterest, all of which he’d entitled “The Episode That Wasn’t.” His pictures of the bouquets and centerpieces were truly gorgeous, and he had heaped all kinds of praise on the flowers, calling me the “florist to the stars and a genuinely nice person.” I guess it was better than “Dr. Dolittle.”
The fan site was also a magnet for Jackie, who’d decided to get with the program and posted a careful apology for her rants against Gigi and the now-deceased Gary. “Mistakes were made . . .” (She had a career in politics.) She’d also posted that she and her husband—I guess he was now her ex-husband—were in couple’s counseling and considering reconciling. Poor guy.
Meanwhile the show appeared back in the tabloids when an enterprising member of the paparazzi captured a photograph of Henry Easton in Boston with a family alleged to be his wife and five kids. Easton neither confirmed nor denied . . . yada, yada, yada.
Life at the shop resumed a sense of normalcy, even if we were still putting things back to rights after Eric’s reorganization. On Monday, which was my day to start late, I poked my head into the back room where Liv was up to her elbows in gladioli.
Then the shop bell rang, and I headed to the front to greet the latest customer. “Suzy?”
She looked much more somber and, frankly, older since I’d seen her last. She was flanked by a couple I recognized from the news footage as the Logans.
“Actually,” she said, “I think I’ve decided to go by Paige.”
Deborah Logan smiled at that, and Evan Logan looked ready to shed a tear or two.
“I wanted to come by and say thank you,” Paige continued. “Without you I might have never known my parents.”
And with that, they all rushed me, and we passed the next few minutes in a massive hug-fest. Liv soon joined us.
“Another reason I’m here,” Paige said, “is that I’ve decided to get married again. Under my real name. And with my parents—my real father—to walk me down the aisle.”
“Congratulations!” I said.
“Even if it means I have to go through life as Paige Turner. I think I’m going to be Paige Logan-Turner. But I still want to get married in the old church. Not a big deal this time. No huge reception. No camera. Just my new family and a few people we met here. So, one more time, could you make me a bouquet? And we’d love to have you and your friends join us at the wedding.”
Paige and her parents followed me to the consulting nook, where we designed a new bouquet. And yes, she still wanted bell-shaped flowers. “Now I realize that my love of bells was almost like a light,” she said, “guiding my way home.”
This was clearly not the shallow, bubble-headed woman she’d tried to portray on camera.
I explained we’d cornered the market on bellflowers and might have difficulty obtaining more.
“What about the blue flowers that were at the reception?” she asked. “I thought those were pretty. What do they mean?”
“Bluebells can mean constancy—but also sorrowful regret. That’s why I chose other colors of bellflowers originally.”
“But that’s perfect,” she said. “Sorrowful regret will always be a part of my life. I loved the Webers. I’ll always regret what happened here, what Max did. Part of me will always think of him as my father, and I know he cared for me. And all that time the Logans were constantly looking for me. I regret that we were not able to share my childhood.”
She sniffed. “Yes, let’s use the bluebells.”
Chapter 25
While Suzy Weber’s wedding day had been hot and sticky and almost unbearable, Paige Logan’s day started out with a bang, as a brief band of thunderstorms ushered in a cold front that brought much relief. By the time I was walking into the church, a light, refreshing breeze was drying the pavement and the sun was playing peekaboo with scattered clouds.
I shuffled into a pew behind Mrs. June as the pianist began to play. I put my hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “You’re here early.”
She swiveled in her seat to face me. “I had some news for the family. Just decided to stay.”
“News?”
“Mixed news, really. They found Suzy Weber’s body—the real Suzy Weber—buried not far from where the Webers lived at the time. The forensic accounting guys also dug up . . .” She shook her head. “Sorry, bad choice of words, but they discovered a money trail. Weber was smart about the money.”
“Money?”
“The ransom money he demanded and collected from the Logans. He sat on it for a long time.”
“I never got why he sent that ransom note, anyway. Why take the risk of being caught claiming the money? From what he told me, he just wanted another Suzy.” I shuddered. Replaceable children.
“Well, Max is talking now. And I might just have seen a transcript of one of the questioning sessions . . .” Mrs. June paused and fanned herself, even though the church was untypica
lly cool for the season. “Apparently he convinced himself that he did it for Suzy, so he could give her all the advantages the Logans would have. Like child support.”
“There’s a demented logic in that.”
“I guess he also used the note as an opportunity to misdirect the investigation. I just caught a glimpse of a copy of the analysis of the original ransom note, and he deliberately threw them a few curveballs. Used a special paper he’d gotten from another state. He’s ambidextrous, and he wrote the note using block letters in mechanical pencil with his left hand. Profilers were looking for a bankrupt engineer from Idaho.”
“Still very risky.”
“I’m not so sure he didn’t want to be caught. Anyway, his plan must have worked, because Weber wasn’t even on their radar. When it appeared he had gotten away with it, he still had all that cash to deal with. He slowly began adding it to his landscaping business—padding the money he received from clients and then inventing fictional accounts. To the whole world it looked like he was just doing really well in the landscaping business. Which in turn brought him more clients. He probably tripled the ransom money in profits.”
“Nothing breeds success like success. Any chance that the Logans will get any of it back?”
“A good chance they’ll get all of it. In time. And with a good lawyer. Meanwhile, the FBI has frozen all of Weber’s assets. He can’t move his accounts. He can’t even use them in his defense.”
“How’s the homicide case coming?”
“Wrapping up nicely, especially since Weber’s spilling his guts to anyone who will listen, much to the chagrin of his public defender. They’ve also matched Weber’s handwriting on the ransom demand with the warning notes.”
“At least Brad’s off the hook.”
“I did learn that it was Weber who sent the text from Gary’s phone, asking Brad to meet him in the bell tower. At that point, Gary was already dead.”
“Brad would make a decent suspect, to Max’s way of thinking. He was there when Gary blew up and threatened to fire Brad. And he must have known Brad used to ring the bells. Do you suppose I’ll need to testify?”
“Oh, honey. It won’t be so bad. Besides, you’ve seen the Logans together. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?”
Nick Maxwell slid in next to me before I could answer. Liv touched my shoulder as she and Eric took up the pew behind me. And soon the ceremony was under way. The tolling of the bell in the belfry marked the beginning of the processional, much shorter and more informal than before.
Pastor Seymour, his trusty water glass by his side, stood at the front with Michael Turner. (I finally got his name right.) They watched as Paige made her first appearance, in a simple, demure, knee-length white dress. She had both her parents by the arm and walked the aisle at a glacial pace, stopping to whisper to each of them along the way. I was impressed with how hard it seemed for them all to let go—giving their daughter in marriage when they so recently found her.
But Michael Turner left his spot at the altar, met them halfway, and embraced the Logans. And while the little church was nearly empty since the hoopla of the show was over, I was sure there was not a dry eye in the place.
I felt movement in the aisle, and Brad, slightly out of breath, slid into the empty space on my left. I suspect he was the one ringing the bells to mark Paige’s entrance.
As the simple, heartfelt wedding commenced, Nick reached over and took my right hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Maybe there was a future there, if I was patient enough to wait for his business to start turning a profit. He worked hard, so that was sure to happen. Perhaps someday he’d be standing in front of the church in a spiffy rented tux, smiling at me while I walked down that aisle in a size-twelve wedding dress—not bought from one of Easton’s overpriced and undersized salons.
I was relishing our closeness—and designing a new bouquet for myself—when Brad took hold of my left hand. His thumb stroked mine in that old, familiar manner, sending my heart rate into overdrive. Was it attraction? Did I still have feelings for Brad?
Or was it a sin to hold hands with two men at the same time?
And in church!
And maybe Grandma Mae’s spirit was still alive in the old pew where she’d spent so many Sundays, because I could have sworn I heard her sweet voice, only this time mildly reproving.
What in tarnation? Have you got leave of your senses?
Yes’m. I think I have.
Turn the page for a preview of Beverly Allen’s next Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery
Floral Depravity
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
“Let me guess, Audrey.” Liv pointed to my hand. “He loves you not?”
I glanced down. I’d only intended to remove the guard petals of the rose I was working on. Instead, I’d accumulated a pile of rose petals and one decimated stem. “Sorry. Distracted, I guess.” I set the remnants aside on my worktable—little in the floral business was ever wasted—then picked up another gorgeous red rose. Good thing our cooler was well stocked.
My cousin Liv came over and pushed a sprig of boxwood into a bare spot in the funeral flowers I was preparing for a feisty local woman. She’d passed away at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, and the red roses were ordered by her seventy-nine-year-old husband. (Did that make her a cougar?) He claimed they were her favorites, and he wanted to give them to her one last time.
Although arranging funeral flowers tended to cast a pall over the shop, I still smiled when I incorporated a few unopened rosebuds. Not only would the arrangement continue to grow lovelier as they opened, but the meaning of the red rosebud, you are young and beautiful, was almost delightfully ironic. This arrangement, as it aged, would play out a slideshow of their lives together. As it barely began to bloom, it would represent timid love. Then as they opened, a vibrant love. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat.
“There’s still time to get out of this, you know,” Liv said. “You don’t have to go through with it.”
“What, this condolence arrangement? I’ve made hundreds like it.” Although I much preferred wedding bouquets. Even though I specialized in wedding flowers at the Rose in Bloom, the shop Liv and I co-owned, we all pitched in where needed, so I’d done my fair share of funeral arrangements.
“You know what I mean.”
“Uh-oh,” Amber Lee said. “If it’s time for that discussion, I’m going up front to check the self-service cooler.” Amber Lee, a retired schoolteacher, came to us with little floral experience but loads of enthusiasm after she discovered that retirement didn’t suit her. She was technically my assistant and helped with all the wedding arrangements, but had proved herself capable in almost every area of the shop. She was indispensable. More than that, she was becoming family.
“I just did that an hour ago,” Liv said.
“Then . . . well, I’ll figure out something else to do,” she said.
As Amber Lee hustled out of earshot, I sighed. “We’ve been through this.”
“I know.” Liv set down her tools and stretched her back. “And I don’t want to tell you how to run your life. It’s just that it’s such a big commitment.”
“And what exactly is wrong with big commitments?” My words came out sounding a bit defensive, so I forced a more casual tone into my voice. “You’ve made a few of your own, if I’m not mistaken. A husband, a house of your own”—I pointed at her burgeoning belly—“a baby due in about fifteen minutes.”
She waved off my concern. “I’ve got weeks left, and then some. The doctor suspects the baby will be late. But don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject. We’re talking about responsibility. I’m twenty-nine years old. Why is it that you can run full-speed into adulthood, but when I take on one responsibility—”
“It’s not just . . . ” Liv
rubbed the top of her stomach and breathed out, a pained expression on her face.
“What is it? A contraction?” My irritation melted away into concern. Liv and I squabbled on only the rarest of occasions, and I found staying angry with my cousin and best friend about as possible as man-powered flight, perpetual motion, or a box of chocolate remaining untouched in the shop all day.
“No, I’m fine. And you’re right.” She put her arm around me. “I don’t know why I’m such a mother hen at times. I’ll try to support you, even when I don’t agree with your decisions.”
“Of all people, Liv, you should understand what that cottage means to me.” Liv and I had spent many happy childhood summers there with our Grandma Mae. It was she who inspired our love for flowers.
“I do. I have fond memories there, too, remember? But we’re not talking about making a scrapbook. Some decisions you have to make with your head, not just your heart. Can’t you treasure Grandma Mae’s memory without buying her old cottage? You heard what the inspectors said.”
“That last one was more positive. The bank approved the loan.”
“He also said the sewer line to the road needs to be replaced.”
“Well, of course I know the place is going to need some work.” All of a sudden, my stomach went a little queasy. “Are sewer lines expensive?” Most of my money would be tied up in the down payment. I’d hoped to be able to do repairs and make improvements little by little.
“Eric said there is no sewer line to the road. The cottage has a septic system in the back. What if the only reason you got the loan was because they somehow inspected the wrong house?”
“What are the odds of that?”
“Better than you think. Eric and I figured out what that scrawl on page three said. Something about the bidet on the second floor leaking.”
The cottage didn’t have a bidet. Come to think of it, it didn’t have a second floor, either. “But maybe it’s providence. Maybe I’m meant to have that house.”
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Page 27