Bloom and Doom (17 page)

“They’re okay.” And then a thought hit me. “A good chance to run into old friends. I’ve been looking for one person in particular, but I can’t remember her name. You probably know her. She was a friend of Derek’s, too, I think. A redhead?”

“Nope. Never saw Derek with a redhead.” She scrunched up her nose. “Not that I didn’t see him with horses of every other color.”

“So Derek was unfaithful to Jenny?”

“Derek was . . . Derek.” Sarah toyed with the straw. “Jenny shouldn’t have done that, though.”

“Done what? Been in a relationship with him or kill him?”

“Jenny and Derek weren’t in the same league. It was doomed from the beginning.” She stared into her shake morosely.

I’m not sure why people celebrated a wedding by consuming copious amounts of a depressant. Raised by teetotalers, I’d imbibed only once in college. I spent the majority of the evening weeping on a friend’s shoulder over the way my jeans fit and the next morning camped out in the bathroom with my head on the toilet seat.

“I tried to tell her,” Sarah muttered. “Tried to tell him. They liked each other all right, but it wasn’t love. Anyone could see that.”

Shirley came to fetch her. “We’re being summoned for more pictures. This time Carolyn wants us all in the car.”

Sarah saluted and then tumbled off the bar seat. “How do I look?” She plastered on a sad smile then followed Shirley to the exit.

“She’s going to be hurting tomorrow.” Liv pushed Sarah’s deserted drink back toward the server.

The milk shakes, or malteds, as the server explained the difference, were luscious and rich, and I relaxed as I drained the dregs from the glass. Unfortunately, that was when my guard fell.

“Audrey!” Little Joe’s excited voice cut straight through to my backbone, if I possessed one. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

“Hiding.”

“Such a kidder.” Little Joe grabbed my hand and pulled me from my stool. “Ready to take that spin on the dance floor?”

I should have realized he meant “spin” literally. He stopped at the jukebox long enough to make a selection before leading me to the crowded dance floor. “The next song is a jitterbug,” he said, perhaps in way of apology for the awkward waltz. “Well, not really a jitterbug. It’s a swing dance. Jitterbug technically refers to the people who dance it and can’t stop. Did you know there was supposed to be a song in
The Wizard of Oz
about a jitterbug? I found that online, too.”

I tuned him out as we swayed to Elvis’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” A question I didn’t want to ponder, either. So when I heard an older couple mention the name Rawling, I maneuvered in their direction.

“At least we’re spared another wedding. It would have been appalling,” the woman said in an accent I could only identify as old money. Funny how economics often transcends geography.

“I heard that Whitney woman say they were planning the wedding of the century.”

“Not if the Whitneys were paying for it. And from what I hear, the Rawlings weren’t going to pitch in much, either.”

“I thought they liked that girl.”

“At one time they did, but I heard they’re a little strapped for cash.”

Little Joe tried a move in a direction away from the couple, but I stood my ground and yanked him back toward me. Misinterpreting my move, he drew me into a tighter embrace. “Maybe I like waltzes after all,” he said, his breath heavy with the onion rings from the diner bar.

“What do you mean, blackmail?” the man said.

The woman shushed him, and I steered Little Joe a little closer so I could hear. Good thing the dance floor was crowded at the moment.

“. . . business dealings . . . implicate the whole family . . .” I caught only a few words. So I pulled Little Joe and edged as close to the couple as I dared. If we were any closer, we’d be dancing a foursome.

“. . . million dollars,” the woman said.

“No way Jonathan would part with that kind of money.”

I wanted to hear more, but at that moment Elvis finished his crooning and the dancers applauded. The older couple headed toward their table.

“Here it comes!” Little Joe said, a maniacal fire in his eyes. I had just enough time to recognize the song as “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” before everything started shaking, rattling, and rolling.

First the shaking. Little Joe’s long legs started pounding the dance floor. I tried to keep up with him, mirroring the steps, but they were just too fast for me. I think I caught every other one.

Then came the rattling. That was my teeth coming together as Little Joe grabbed my hand and led a series of wild swings that sent me bumping into more than one person. Soon the dance floor cleared around us, and, between spins, I could just make out an audience forming around the perimeter, gaping at us. Any more spinning, and I’d not be able to walk.

But that didn’t prove to be a problem, because then came the rolling. Perhaps cheered on by the spectators now clapping to the music and the occasional flashbulb, Little Joe latched on to my arms and soon I was airborne.

Moving dead bodies around all day must be a great strength-training routine. He swung my legs to each side of him, and I could feel my dress ride up to my hips as he swung me between his legs. One shoe flew off as he picked me up and twirled me around his shoulders, knocking the wind out of me as my diaphragm struck his clavicle and scapula. I struggled for the breath to protest, yet he kept on tossing me around as if I were a Raggedy Ann doll smeared with bacon grease and he were a pit bull terrier.

Finally he let me go. But it was not the relief I was looking for, because, as a finale to his routine, he sent me sliding along the dance floor, feet first. I can describe everything that happened after that, because my brain videotaped it in slow motion, storing it under the title “Most Embarrassing Moment Ever.”

As I hurtled along the dance floor to the closing chords of the music, I got my bearings enough to see Nick Maxwell leap out of the way. And then I saw nothing but the billowing peach satin of the cupcake table. My body slid under the table, my ankle wrenching as my one remaining heel snagged in the table cover, slowing my momentum.

The table above me tilted; the crowd gasped. I had visions of the whole thing coming down, but that didn’t happen. Rather the cloth shifted, as if pulled by an amateur magician, and one lone peach cupcake teetered on the edge of the table. Then it fell, somersaulting like an Olympic diver before landing, frosting side down, right in my . . . um . . . décolletage.

At eleven in the morning, I could delay it no
longer. I plucked clean underwear from my dryer—non-Pippa-the-Penguin variety. I’d tossed those as soon as I slunk into my apartment Saturday night.

I paid extra attention to my makeup. If I couldn’t summon an air of dignity after my public humiliation, at least I could fake it.

“Well, Chester, it’s been fun.” I scratched him behind the ears as he lounged on my dresser. “But it’s time to face the human race again.”

Why would you want to do a thing like that?
he said, or maybe I inferred it, because I wanted to dive back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay there. But that had been the previous day’s agenda. Besides, even though Liv’s message had said she had the shop under control and to take as much time as I needed, I’d have to get back to work sometime.

“G’morning,” my neighbor Tom said. He headed up the steps as I headed down. “Nice picture in the paper.”

“Thanks.” It brought a smile to my face. Sure, the article appeared in the
On
over a week ago, but Tom and I had never hit it off, so it was nice of him to mention it. Maybe the human race was worth rejoining after all. “And good morning to you, too,” I called out with a pleasant wave.

When I arrived at the shop I discovered that Liv was an incredible liar. The shop was still a disaster.

“I wanted to clean up Saturday,” Amber Lee explained, “but customers kept coming in. And then I was dead on my feet.”

“Not a problem.” Liv patted her on the shoulder. “A dirty shop doesn’t matter when we’re closed. Thanks for manning the store on Saturday.”

“I heard I missed a humdinger of a wedding.”

I squinted at her. “What did you hear?”

“Well, let’s just say I never picked you as a Pippa the Penguin fan. Meanwhile the town is divided, fifty-fifty. Half of Ramble is laying odds that you and Little Joe are going to settle down in a little house outside town. The other half insists that you’re going to strangle him with your bare hands.” Her bright smile dimmed as she considered her words. “Not that we need any more of that kind of thing in town.”

“If given the opportunity, you could set the record straight that I’m going to do neither. I’d appreciate it.”

“Already doing that, sugar. I’ve got your back. The hoopla will blow over pretty quick. It probably would have already if it weren’t for that picture.”

Liv cleared her throat.

“What picture?” I asked.

“Good grief.” Amber Lee turned on Liv. “You didn’t tell her about the picture?”

I backed Liv into a corner. “What picture?”

“Don’t get mad. It’s not my fault. I didn’t take it. It was that photographer from the
On
.”

“The photographer . . . the wedding photographer.” I could feel all the color seep out of my face, drain out my toes, and hide under the rubber matting. “How bad is it?”

Amber Lee reached under the counter and pulled out a folded copy of the paper. She handed it to Liv.

“It could be worse,” Liv said.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. When I opened my eyes, the picture was in front of me.

There I was, in all my glory, suspended on Little Joe’s shoulders, floral dress flapping in the breeze, with just enough of a happy penguin showing to confirm her identity. “How could this be worse, again?”

“At least you shaved your legs,” Amber Lee said.

“Or they could have printed a picture of you under the table. Or got your face in the shot.”

I plopped down on a stool for support. Yes, I’d asked, but I didn’t want to hear that it could have been worse. This was bad enough.

The camera hadn’t caught my face in the picture, but the caption below hinted at my identity. “Local mortician tosses bouquet maker.” I wondered if anybody would notice if I hid in the back room working on flowers and had everything I needed delivered UPS. Or maybe Juneau, Alaska, needed a florist shop. Or maybe not that far. Somewhere beyond the reach of the
On
, at least.

“I’m going to cancel my subscription,” I said.

“I didn’t know you had a subscription,” Liv said.

“I’ll take out one and then cancel it.”

“That’s showing ’em.” Amber Lee punched me playfully in the upper arm.

“Aw, honey.” Liv took my shoulders. “It’s not as bad as all that. Yeah, people will have a laugh for a little while, then they’ll forget.” She lifted my chin so she could look into my eyes. “And besides, we have sweets in the back room today. Nick stopped by this morning with a box—”

“If you say cupcakes, I’m going to scream.”

“Nope, no cupcakes. He thought you might not be too keen on cupcakes right now. He brought scones. Said he got the idea at the Rawling wake.”

And so the power of the scones lifted my depression. Not completely, mind you. That would have taken a lifetime supply of scones. But enough to power me to get working, and as Grandma Mae always said, “A good day of work could cure just about anything.”

We cleaned, stocked coolers, looked over future orders, and put the shop back to rights. Meanwhile, Liv pored over the books, pencils behind both ears, to see where this recent upsurge in business left us financially. It must have been good, because the longer she worked, the happier she got. When she ordered in tacos for lunch, I suspected we’d turned a tidy profit. When I saw she’d ordered extra
queso
, I knew we’d hit pay dirt.

So as we cleared off a workstation and doled out extra salsa, Amber Lee asked, “So besides the dancing, how was the wedding?”

“It went fine, as far as the flowers were concerned,” Liv said. “More than fine. I heard all kinds of positive feedback. It could be very good for business.”

“We already have the wedding business in Ramble sewn up,” Amber Lee said.

“Yes,” Liv added, “but the mayor is very well connected. It could bring us in more countywide business, now that people know we can pull off big events like that.”

“Did we clear enough to give all our interns a bonus?” I asked. “They worked hard and long hours, with such little notice.”

Liv grinned. “I was just about to say the same thing. I think there’s a bonus in there for all of us.”

“Good,” Amber Lee said. “In addition to the roof, I need a new water heater.”

I’d be spending mine on underwear, just in case.

“Speaking of the wedding,” I said, “I learned something from the mayor’s wife.”

“This ought to be good. What could you have learned from Rita? Wait, let me guess,” Amber Lee said. “How to . . . curtsy like a debutante?”

“I’ll have you know Audrey can curtsy with the best of them,” Liv said. “Maybe Rita gave you lessons in mastering the snail fork? You never know when that can come in handy.”

I smiled. Great how my coworkers were able to take a day I dreaded and turn it around. “Actually, she told me a little more about Derek. Carolyn broke up with him because Derek cheated on her.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Amber Lee said. “He was known for that kind of thing.”

“With a redhead.”

Amber Lee’s eyebrows rose. “Not many redheads in Ramble.” She raised tented hands to her lips. “A natural redhead?”

“No idea,” I said. “Only that Rita saw Derek with a redhead in his car a week or so before he was killed.”

Amber Lee rubbed her hands together. “I can’t think of anybody offhand.”

“What do you think the chances are of finding out?” I asked.

“Well, clandestine relationships are just that. If they were trying to keep it a secret, it might be a bit harder, but . . . there’s an old Bible saying, ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’ Anything that juicy will come out in the end. Let me put a few feelers out.”

I smiled at Amber Lee’s new twist on a Bible verse that Grandma Mae had shared with us often—usually whenever something got broken or baked goods went missing. “Thanks. And while you’re doing that, have you heard anything about old man Rawling being blackmailed?”

“Blackmailed?” Liv shot up out of her seat. “There you go with the blackmail idea again. Look, kid, you’re watching too much television. People on soap operas and detective shows get blackmailed, not folks here in Ramble.” She put both hands on her cheeks, doing her best impression of that famous painting
The Scream
. “What makes you think someone was blackmailing him?”

“Something I overheard on the dance—at the wedding. An older couple I didn’t recognize. They were talking about a million dollars.”

Amber Lee whistled. “That’s a chunk of change.”

“Nonsense,” Liv said.

“Well . . . maybe not,” Amber Lee said. “The Rawlings and the mayor run in the same circles. They’re both members of the same party and go to all the highfalutin fund-raisers, hobnobbing with those high-profile DC types. You know, those hundreds-of-dollars-a-plate shindigs.”

“Which is why they’d keep their noses clean,” Liv said.

“Or why they’d want to
appear
to keep their noses clean,” Amber Lee amended. “That would make them prime candidates for blackmail, when you think about it.”

Liv was still shaking her head when her cell phone rang. She plucked it from her apron pocket, checked the caller ID, and answered. “Eric?” She listened for a moment, then stepped away for some privacy.

While she was gone I helped myself to her nachos. And maybe another scone.

“You know, I can see someone trying to blackmail old man Rawling.” Amber Lee crumpled her taco wrapper into the take-out bag. “What I can’t see is him paying it. That man is tight. And a million dollars? He’d kill first.”

I recalled Jonathan Rawling’s words spoken over the casket of his son.
You really mucked it up this time, son.
What had Derek mucked up? Did it have to do with the Rawling family’s business practices? Derek’s gambling or his engagement to Jenny? His relationship with the mysterious redhead? Or some other obscure failing we’d no inkling of?

And could old man Rawling have something to do with it? A son with sins as wide and varied as Derek’s couldn’t remain hidden for long. Could Jonathan Rawling be as ambitious and coldhearted as to consider his son a liability and eliminate him?

Maybe Liv was right. Maybe I watched too much television.

Speaking of Liv, she walked back in with a huge smile on her face.

Amber Lee and I shared glances.

“It looks like someone has good news,” Amber Lee said.

“Spill,” I added. “We need some good news about now.”

“Well, it’s mostly good news. Eric got a call from Jonathan Rawling this morning. I guess the bad news is that he needed someone to manage his properties now that . . .”

Liv started to tear and wiped a drop from one cheek. “Sorry,” she said. “I feel a little like we’re profiting from the dead again. But Mr. Rawling wants Eric to manage his property.”

“Just out of the blue?” Amber Lee asked.

“Well, Eric did some work on local properties for Derek. I guess he got points for coming in on time and within budget. And he’ll still be able to keep his construction business going. In fact, Rawling wants him to use his own guys whenever possible. He’ll just have to keep it at a union scale, so everything is aboveboard, and hire a supervisor when he can’t be on-site.”

“Wow,” Amber Lee said. “Sounds like he’s considering it.”

“He has to. The offer was just that good.” Liv bit her lower lip. “My reservation is what would happen if Rawling sold off his property. Where would that leave Eric? But since he’s able to keep his own construction company operating, it shouldn’t be a problem.

“Anyway, Eric is meeting with Rawling and his lawyer this afternoon. If everything looks okay, I told him to go for it.”

We congratulated her and worked normally for the rest of the afternoon. Well, they worked normally. I darted into the back room whenever the bell over the door sounded. I still wasn’t ready to face customers.

Just before closing, the bell sounded again, but Eric’s booming voice drew me from my exile.

“Where’s that enchanting wife of mine?” he said.

Liv stepped out of the cooler and walked into his embrace. He swirled her around—a bit more gently than Little Joe had me.

“And her lovely cousin.” He kissed me on the cheek.

“And what am I?” Amber Lee teased. She and Eric maintained an easy relationship.

Eric put his hand on his hips and eyed Amber Lee up and down. “And hail to the stalwart minion.” He removed his ball cap and bowed.

“Stalwart?” Amber Lee said with a pout. She spun around and struck a pose. “Do these pants really make me look stalwart?”

Eric laughed and reached into a shopping bag hung around his arm. He presented Liv with a box of her favorite chocolate truffles. One can hardly give a bouquet to a florist, but chocolate is always fair game. Especially if you leave it out in the open. Or in an unlocked desk.

“I take it the meeting went well,” I said.

“Tell me all about it.” Liv flipped the sign to “Closed” and turned the lock on the door.

“I met with Rawling and the lawyer, and his main accountant was there, too. His secretary even sat in, taking notes. The job looks just as good on paper as he described it over the phone. It comes with a steady salary and some nice benefits that will come in handy about now. He even offered to put me and my guys on his corporate health insurance.”