Bab 13: Chapter 13: Flowers For Mom
It wasn't until almost 4:30 I noticed the beautifully wrapped box sitting next to the phone on the sideboard desk in the foyer that I remembered again. The smiling couple who climbed the stairs with their luggage thumping behind them forgotten, I lunged for the small box, heard the rattle and felt my heart shrivel.
Mom. Groan.
With Petunia in tow, balancing my oversized purse, my phone, car keys and the present from Daisy-while she leaned out the front door and waved and beamed a smile with a, "Have fun!" that made me cringe-I lurched into the driver's seat of my car and waited for the chubby pug to heave herself over to her own side before slamming the door.
Yes, my hands were full. Yes, I had a purse. Yes, it was too crammed with crap I meant to clean out for anything else to fit. I shoved the worn brown leather-my favorite bag ever for its softness and durability when it came to handling my life-down beside the passenger seat of my little hatchback, buckling Petunia's body harness into the seatbelt and making sure her airbag was off before slamming the car into gear and chugging away downtown.
I could have walked, but dinner was at 6:00 which really meant 5:30 in Lucy Fleming time. Considering my mother was making her own birthday meal, I just couldn't be late. And I'd forgotten all about the flowers Dad asked me like a week ago to pick up for her for tonight because he didn't want a delivery car showing up at the house or something silly like that. And, of course, I'd completely dropped the ball leading me to race as fast as I could in the 20mph speed zones and with the complaining old engine of my little compact huffing at me because I hadn't driven her much since we got to Reading.
"Please," I whispered into the windshield. "Just let me get through tonight."
Don't get me wrong. I loved my parents. And Mom was a fantastic cook. But Dad wasn't the most demonstrative of people and I ended up trying to make up for that, creating an awkward and disjointed conversation over food that should have been served in an upscale restaurant while Dad picked at it like it was going to bite him. While visibly contemplating getting a burger later.
Families. So messy.
I pulled into a vacant spot just outside the main door of Jacob's Flowers with a whispered thank you to the parking genies for granting me their favors. Petunia's leash immediately wrapped around my ankles and I spent about thirty seconds turning in circles one direction while she did the same in the other, winding us tighter together. I glared down at her, feeling ridiculous and out of breath and utterly frustrated.
And laughed at the flustered look on her pug face.
"Okay," I said. "Hold still." A quick unhooking and unwinding and we were on our way inside the flower shop, my mood greatly elevated. Who knew having a dog around could be anything but irritating? Dad never let me have a pet when I was a kid, didn't want the responsibility. And I'd kept that attitude even in New York. My memories of the other Petunias were vague and often gross-being licked in the face, snorted on, sat on, farted at-and hadn't endeared me to the idea of taking on Madam Petunia Her Highness the Fourth. But the more time I spent with her, the more she grew on me. Imagine that.
The glass door tinkled a welcome, bells hanging from the hinges signaling my entry. I inhaled a moment, taking in the mixed scents of the lush foliage hanging from the ceiling, the expanse of cases humming behind the counter while Petunia snuffled curiously at the lower displays with a rather royal air.
"Can I help you?" I'd never seen her before, the girl behind the counter. Well, girl was being rude. She was about my age, I guessed, close to thirty, but considering I still thought of myself as eighteen I figured the term was fair game. I crossed to the tidy glass counter where she waited, her long, dark hair caught in a low pony, skin that delightful color between milk chocolate and mocha. Big, brown eyes smiled at me, her Indian heritage obvious in her appearance and the faint accent she spoke in.
"I'm picking up an order for John Fleming." At least Dad wouldn't have forgotten to place it. I don't think my father ever forgot anything in his entire life. "Red roses?" Of course, red roses. So original. He could have just picked up his flowers himself, couldn't he? I privately grumbled in my head, though I knew what he'd say if I called him on it.
"They're from both of us," he'd mumble in his growly voice. "Your mother would like that."
Not a sentimental bone in that man's body. Seriously. And Mom a romance novel addict who loved everything to do with l'amore. Opposites attract, indeed. I really shouldn't have been whining about it anyway. Sure, I was dealing with a murder and the possible loss of Petunia's and an overflow of guests, but this was my mom.
Bad daughter.
The woman disappeared the moment I mentioned Dad and left me to stare down at Petunia who panted at the reflection of herself in the glass counter, propped up in her usual seated pose as if admiring what she saw. I needed to take her casual admiration to heart and apply some of it to myself. I couldn't remember the last time I put on mascara or even really did my hair. Daisy's polished beauty she managed to maintain no matter what had as yet to rub off on me in any kind of meaningful way. And if I was going to be honest, I hadn't really taken much time to see to my appearance since I walked out on Ryan. Nope, not thinking about that jerk right now, forget it. Except his favorite thing to do when he screwed up-often and horribly and I always took him back because I was an idiot-was to slather the apartment in flowers.
The young woman returned, a thankful distraction. I was starting to get the creeps in here just thinking about him.
"Here you are. I hope the design is all right." So soft spoken. Her shy smile triggered an auto response and I smiled back. The bouquet was gorgeous, a dozen lovely, fat buds surrounded by green and a cluster of other flowers in complimentary pink and yellow snuggled inside a sleeve of plastic.
"Perfect." I rifled into my bag for my wallet, but she shook her head.
"They're already paid for," she said. "Sheriff Fleming-I mean, Mr. Fleming," she flushed, dark cheeks deep pink, "called in his credit card. Funny, he wouldn't let us deliver?"
I shrugged. "That's my dad." My wallet dropped back into the quagmire of disaster that was my purse and I tossed the flap over to hide the mess. "Is Mr. Jacob retired then?" I had memories of the previous owner from all the times Dad dragged me in here to take possession of flowers he bought for Mom. As the young woman answered, I made a parallel between Ryan and my father and had a horrible thought-despite swearing I never would, had I been dating my dad?
"My husband and I took over the business three years ago," she said, offering her hand in a hesitant gesture that made me wonder if she wasn't quite comfortable with putting herself out there. "Terri Jacob."
I shook firmly and kindly. "Fiona Fleming."
"Ah!" Terri's face altered from nervous to brightly happy. "Simon's told me about you. You went to school together."
We did, though I barely remembered him aside from the fact he was quiet and played the cello.
"How is Mr. Jacob?" I recalled always being fascinated with him as a girl. Reading was a fairly solid white town and his skin tone caught and held my attention every time. So beautiful and rich looking, exotic in a sea of Caucasian boredom. It wasn't until I moved to New York and discovered diversity I realized just how sheltered I'd been my entire life. So lovely now to realize the faces I passed on the street lately here were nicely mixed thanks to tourism and immigration.
Terri's face fell and she shook her head. "So sad," she said. "He's passed. He had dementia. We tried for over a year to take care of him, but we had to finally find somewhere to care for him." That was a whole lot of guilt right there. And honestly, I guess if it was me I'd feel the same way. Especially if Mom was gone and Dad was on his own. To put him in a hospital or a nursing home? Yikes. "You took over Petunia's when Mrs. Iris passed?"
I nodded and winced. "I guess I should ask how bad it is. Are people talking about the... you know?" She was a fellow business owner, so I had no qualms asking.
Her big eyes widened further. "The murder?" She whispered it like no one knew.
"The very thing." I looked down into Mom's roses through the plastic covering them. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Sarcasm, my dear friend.
Terri snorted like she agreed with me and I perked.
"Good riddance to that man, I say," she said. Then covered her mouth with both hands in horror. "I'm a terrible person."
"Well, he wasn't much better," I said, curiosity piqued. "I take it you had a run in?"
She hugged herself then, nodded quickly. I had the distinct feeling then Terri Jacob didn't get to talk to many people outside of her job because she seemed pretty eager to chat with me. "We almost lost the flower shop to that horrible man," she said. "He showed up here one morning, just after Ranjeet-Mr. Jacob-entered the nursing home, with paperwork that said he'd signed over our property to Mr. Wilkins." She shook her head while my heart stopped beating and I stood frozen, staring like she'd just hit me.
He what?
Terri went on as if my utter surprise encouraged her. "It's true, I swear it."
"Terri?" I started at the interruption, inhaling sharply when the tall, slim man who had entered the back without my noticing approached the counter with a scowl and concern in his dark eyes. Simon Jacob nodded to me once in acknowledgement before speaking again. "We don't talk about our private business in public."
She gulped but smiled at her husband, patting his arm like he was a dear pet she adored. "Simon, you remember Fiona?"
I stuck out my hand which he reluctantly shook, not meeting my eyes. Just as I remembered him from school. "Terri was telling me about your encounter with Pete Wilkins."
"It doesn't matter anymore," Simon muttered. "The man's dead."
Well, that was an interesting thing to say. I opened my mouth to ask about the deed issue only to have Terri finish without prompting.
"The matter is all taken care of," she said, proudly beaming at Simon who just looked unhappy. "Simon talked to Mr. Wilkins and straightened it out. A complete misunderstanding."
Either my old classmate was a miracle worker and I needed his help or something wasn't right about this. It was possible the papers were forged and Simon managed to confront Wilkins about it. But from the uneasy way he shuffled his feet and refused to meet my eyes, it was far more likely Simon Jacob wasn't telling his wife everything.
And that, if my backyard body was murdered, I just found another suspect.
***
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