Slay It With Flowers Read online

  “Abby!” she cried dramatically when she spotted me, brushing a silken strand of copper hair off her face. Jillian never did anything without drama. “Thank goodness you’re here!” She threw her long, tanned arms around my shoulders and sobbed hideously, ignoring the phone pressed to my ear.

  “Trudee? This is Abby Knight. You called?”

  “It’s horrible, Abby. I just can’t bear it,” Jillian wept. She lifted her head from my shoulder to stare me in the face, and since she was taller than me—everyone was taller than me—it required her to bend her knees to put us at an even eye level. She cupped my head with her hands. “Abby, you have to help me.”

  “Wednesday at four o’clock?” I said into the phone, giving my cousin a hard glare while trying to maintain a smile in my voice. “It’s on my calendar. I’ll see you then.”

  Jillian took the phone from my hand and put it in the cradle. “Are you listening to me?”

  “No, I am not listening to you. I’m seething with fury and that tends to make the blood pound in my ears. Did you happen to notice I was on the phone?” I turned to write Wednesday’s meeting on the calendar hanging on the corkboard.

  “Irate customer?” Jillian asked, settling herself on a stool at the worktable. When I looked around at her to see if she were serious or just really stupid, she had crossed one linen-clad leg over the other and was gazing at me expectantly, her tears magically gone.

  I saw Lottie hovering outside the curtain and knew she was waiting to get on the computer. “Let’s go to the parlor and talk.”

  We settled at a table in front of the bay window in the cozy Victorian-style parlor. Once Grace had brought coffee for Jill and refreshed my cup I said, “What’s the problem?”

  “Claymore. He’s being completely unreasonable. He insists that Punch be his best man even though Punch dumped Onora and now she refuses to walk up the aisle with him. And please don’t tell me to switch my maid of honor. I simply must have Onora as my maid of honor. I mean, look at her name, for heaven’s sake. Abby, what are you staring at? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  I dragged my gaze from the scene across the street, where sheriff’s deputies were moving prisoners from a van to the courthouse for hearings. “Sorry. You lost me after you said Punch. Who’s Punch?”

  “Claymore’s best man, former fraternity brother. You met him.”

  We paused as three middle-aged women came into the parlor and took seats at a table nearby. Grace immediately breezed over to take their orders. “I haven’t met any of the wedding party,” I said to my cousin.

  “Right. Okay, Punch, Flip, Bertie, and Pryce are the groomsmen. They were in the same fraternity at Harvard, except that Pryce graduated two years earlier.”

  “With names like those I would have guessed the Ringling Brothers School for Acrobats.”

  “The Ringling what?”

  “The Ringling Brothers … Barnum and Bailey … A circus, Jill. Did you grow up in Azkaban? Never mind. Hand me the pitcher of cream. And the bridesmaids?”

  “Onora, Ursula, Sabina, and—” She paused to count them on her fingers. “There’s one more.”

  “Me. The one without the a at the end of her name.”

  “Of course it’s you, silly.”

  “Your sorority sisters, I assume?”

  “Yes. Well, except for you.”

  I was so glad she pointed that out. “So getting back to Punch,” I prompted, liberally lacing my coffee with swirls of creamy calories, which helped subdue the urge to choke her.

  “His real name is Paulin Chumley, so they call him Punch. Everyone went by a nickname in the frat house.”

  “He’s lucky they didn’t call him Chump.”

  Jillian didn’t get my joke. She wasn’t real swift on the uptake. “Punch fits him better. He’s a brute who likes to use his fists and thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

  “The kind of guy I love to hate.”

  “Exactly. In college he drove a genuine army Hummer. Now he owns a swanky sports bar. You know the type. He always has to prove he has the Y chromosome. He even wears a solid gold punching bag earring. He says it’s his logo.”

  “Kind of carries that theme thing a bit too far, don’t you think? Just out of curiosity, what’s Claymore’s nickname?”

  “Clay.”

  “That’s original. Can’t Punch be a plain old groomsman instead of the best man?”

  Jillian heaved a big sigh. “That’s what I keep telling Claymore! Onora would be fine with that arrangement as long as she doesn’t have to stand anywhere near Punch. She detests him. I mean, she really, really detests him. And to tell you the truth, I can barely tolerate him myself—he’s such a chauvinist. But Claymore says he can’t drop Punch’s rank because that would show a lack of moral fiber, whatever that means.”

  It would have been pointless to try to explain it to her. The only fiber she understood was listed on the labels sewn into her clothing. And I was the one who had flunked out of school. I rested my chin on one hand and gave her a glazed look. “Just what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to Pryce. Claymore looks up to Pryce. If Pryce tells him to switch men, Claymore will listen. Pryce should be the best man anyway. I mean, he’s his brother, for pity sake.”

  “I have two questions. First, what would make you believe that Pryce would listen to me? He dumped me, remember? Two months before the wedding? When I failed to meet the Osborne standard of excellence? And second, if you can’t come to some resolution with Claymore now, what does that bode for your future?”

  “You obviously don’t know anything about marriage.”

  “Neither do you. Hand me the cream.”

  “I know this much,” she said, pushing the little ceramic pitcher toward me, “Claymore hates making decisions, so once we’re married I will make the decisions for both of us. See? Problem solved.”

  Poor Claymore would never know what hit him.

  “Besides, Pryce still carries a torch for you, so of course he’ll listen. He’ll hang on your every word.”

  I glanced over at the three ladies, who had stopped talking and were now quietly stirring their lattes so they could hear more about this so-called torch.

  I leaned across the table to whisper, “If Pryce is carrying a torch it’s so he can tie me to a stake and set fire to my feet. His parents will provide the kindling.” They were still trying to live down the ignominy of my having been booted out of law school while engaged to their son.

  “Silly! All you’d have to do is crook your little finger and Pryce would take you back just like that.” She snapped her fingers and all three women gave a start. “Besides, you love to help people. So help me.” She grasped my hand. “Pu-leez, Abby. I’m desperate!”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to Pryce.” Anything to get her off that topic so the ladies next to us could resume their own conversation. There was nothing like a juicy bit of gossip to start tongues wagging around this town. “Can we discuss your flowers now?”

  Jillian held up a hand to catch Grace’s eye. “More coffee, please,” she mouthed.

  “Picture this,” I said. “You’re floating down an aisle strewn with rose petals. In your arms—”

  “Am I beautiful?”

  “In your arms,” I continued, giving her a scowl, “are long, luscious, creamy peach callas, their lovely dark green leaves splashed with flecks of white, all tied together with a luxurious white satin bow.”

  “Calla lilies?”

  “Callas. Not lilies. Callas.”

  “Katharine Hepburn called them Calla lilies.”

  “Katharine Hepburn was not a florist. Callas are from the Zantedeschia family, whereas lilies—” Noticing that Jillian’s attention was fixed on a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder, I turned to look.

  Coming up the sidewalk toward my shop was Marco Salvare, moving with a sexy swagger most women—and I include myself in that group—found terribly exciting.

  “Who is that?” Jillian said in awe, and I could almost see the drool forming on her lower lip. The three women next to us craned their necks for a look, too.

  “That’s the new owner of the Down the Hatch.”

  Five of us watched him pull open the door. The bell jingled to announce his arrival, and suddenly tiny bottles sprang from the purses behind us. Hair spray, perfume, and breath freshener quickly filled the air. I waved away the cloud, coughing, as Marco strode into the parlor, grabbed a chair from another table, pulled it up beside me, and straddled it.

  “Hey, sunshine. How’s it going?” The mist settled and Jillian came into view. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Marco.”

  She wrapped her long, graceful fingers around his. “I’m Jillian Knight. Very pleased to meet you, Marco.”

  “Would you care for coffee?” Grace asked coolly, placing a cup and saucer in front of him. Grace was the only woman I knew who seemed impervious to Marco’s charisma. He was impervious to her imperviousness, so it didn’t really matter.

  “No. Thanks anyway.” Marco looked from Jillian to me. “You’re not sisters, so you must be cousins.”

  “How did you know we were related?” Jillian asked, prompting Marco to shoot me a look that said, “Is she clueless?”

  “The last name was a dead giveaway, Jill,” I said.

  She nodded sagely. “That’s true.”

  Our surname was the only thing we shared, a fact that was both a blessing and a curse. On the curse side, Jillian was a head taller, had a well-proportioned body rather than a top-heavy one, and had long, shimmery, copper-colored hair, as opposed to my shorter, fiery red, blunt-edged bob. On the blessing side, I was smart—regardless of what my law professors thought.

  “Jillian is getting married July fourth,” I said
, just in case Marco had any ideas about dating her. “I’m doing her flowers.”

  He eased his hand from Jillian’s hot little paw. “Congratulations.”

  Jillian lifted one shoulder in an effortless shrug. “Maybe I’m getting married. If Abby helps me.” She rose and put the strap of her Ferragamo purse over her shoulder. “I have to run. Let me know what Pryce says.” Her voice dropped to a sexy purr. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Marco.”

  As soon as Jillian had gone, Marco turned a highly skeptical brown-eyed gaze on me and topped it off by raising one dark eyebrow. “If you help her?”

  “She wants me to talk to my former fiancé to convince him to convince the groom to—well, it’s a long, complicated story that will only bore you. The bottom line is that if I want to salvage the vanload of callas I ordered for this wedding, I have to make sure there is a wedding.” I took my cup over to the coffee counter for a refill, where Grace was also giving me that doubtful look. “I’m not meddling,” I assured them both.

  “That’s good,” Marco said when I returned to the table, “because less than forty-eight hours ago you swore off meddling.”

  “Did you come to harass me, or did you have some other goal in mind?”

  “Harass you.” He picked up my coffee and sniffed it, obviously trying to decide if I had poisoned it with artificial sweetener. “Did you put that dead bolt on your apartment door?”

  “Oh, right. I meant to do that.”

  Wrong answer. Counting on his fingers, Marco began to list why I should have a dead bolt, most of which came from the unfortunate events of the past week. I had to tune him out, though, when my ears picked up the threads of a much more interesting conversation the three ladies were having behind me.

  “If it’s a massage parlor, why don’t they advertise? And why do they cover their windows with butcher paper?”

  “I heard that a woman tried to get in and was told it was for men only.”

  “Well, look at their sign, for goodness sake. EMPEROR’S SPA. What does that tell you?”

  “It’s open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. Would a legitimate business do that?”

  I grabbed Marco’s wrist. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be listening for.”

  I leaned closer to whisper, “What the ladies behind me are talking about. Remember those five Oriental women in their skintight Mandarin dresses who came into your bar Saturday night? Remember we heard that they work at the Emperor’s Spa, and give a whole lot more than massages? Remember me suggesting that we investigate? That’s what they’re talking about.”

  “Remember your promise not to meddle?”

  I should never make promises for something I’m inherently unable to do. “Come on, Marco. New Chapel is a very conservative, very clean college town. We don’t want prostitution going on here. As concerned citizens, it would behoove us to expose it.”

  “As a former law school student, it would behoove you not to jump to a conclusion without having all the facts.”

  “But it all adds up. They don’t advertise. Female customers aren’t allowed in. The windows are covered with paper… . I know there’s something fishy going on. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

  One corner of Marco’s mouth quirked, like he had a secret.

  “You found out something about that spa, didn’t you?” I said.

  “I figured you’d try to snoop, so I did a preemptive investigation.”

  My eyes got very wide, then narrowed suspiciously. “You went in that place?”

  “Yes, Miss Marple, I did, and I got a very thorough back massage.”

  “By one of the Oriental women?” I fairly seethed.

  “By a large European woman with hairy arms and a mustache. I didn’t see any women from the Far East.”

  “That’s because they smelled cop.”

  He gave me a look that said, Yeah, right. Marco had left the force because he didn’t fit the police mold. It had been a mutually acceptable decision. “I think you should know,” he said loud enough for the eavesdroppers to hear, “a new restaurant called the China Cabinet had their grand opening this past weekend. The waitresses wore Chinese costumes for it. I’m guessing they were the ones who came into the bar Saturday night.”

  At that, the three ladies behind us gathered their purses and shopping bags and left, obviously in a rush to broadcast the new bit of gossip. I watched them through the bay window as they met briefly on the sidewalk outside, then headed off in three separate directions like a trio of female Paul Reveres. The China Cabinet has opened! The China Cabinet has opened!

  “Let’s see if I have this right,” I said, turning my attention back to Marco. “Those five women at your bar Saturday night are waitresses, not masseuses, and the Emperor’s Spa is a legitimate business?”

  Marco sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to declare a victory. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Then what do you call that?”

  He followed my pointing index finger to a police van that had pulled up across the street, where, at that moment, two cops were dislodging five hissing, spitting, handcuffed Asian women wearing ankle-length, formfitting, brightly hued Mandarin dresses and four-inch spike heels.

  Must have been tough serving food in that getup.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the two minutes it took us to exit the shop and cross the street, a crowd had formed on the courthouse lawn, gesturing, whispering, and making rude comments as the five women were herded to the rear of the building. Marco told me to stay put and went to find someone he knew to ask what was going on. I glanced around, spotted Deputy Prosecutor Greg Morgan near the front entrance, and made a beeline for him. Morgan prided himself on having a finger on the throbbing pulse of New Chapel.

  I’d known Morgan since high school, when we’d both had a crush on the same person—him. One thing he was not known for was his modesty. He was a handsome man, though a little lacking in intelligence. He’d made it through law school by the skin of his capped teeth and was now the courthouse staff’s golden boy, always radiating an angelic charm that was hard to resist.

  Even the defendants liked Morgan. And Lottie absolutely adored him. She had made it her goal to see us hitched, even though I’d told her that being hitched was for donkeys and wagons, and if I were to marry Morgan I’d be the ass on that team.

  Sadly, now that I no longer had a crush on him, he had suddenly discovered me, a little fact I’d used shamelessly to my advantage. Like now, for instance. “Hey, Morgan!” I called.

  He looked around, saw me, and smiled, and I could almost hear a chorus of angels singing a capella from the clouds above him. “Abby! Wow. I heard about what happened to you last Saturday night. You look pretty good for someone who was drubbed two days ago.”

  “I’m resilient.” I nodded my head toward the circus act. “What’s that about?”

  He looked over at the five women. “They’re being brought in for an arraignment.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Intimidation and resisting arrest.”

  “I knew they weren’t waitresses. And that Emperor’s Spa isn’t a massage parlor, is it?”

  Morgan’s wide, smooth forehead crinkled in bafflement. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the so-called massage parlor where those women work.”

  “Massage parlor?”

  “Weren’t they arrested at the Emperor’s Spa?”

  “No, at that new restaurant, the China Cabinet. The girls had a beef with the owner and decided to stage a protest in costume to draw attention to themselves. There was an altercation and someone called the police.”

  “Those women are waitresses?”

  “I haven’t seen the report yet, but supposedly they attend New Chapel U.”

  Had my sixth sense failed me? “You aren’t aware of any gossip about the Emperor’s Spa?”

  “Never heard of the place.”

  So much for Morgan’s pulse on the town. He glanced at his watch, grimaced, and started walking backward. “I’m late for court. Why don’t you check your calendar and see when you’re free for lunch?”

  “Will do.” Only because I could pump him for information. I gave him a little wave and swung around to find Marco leaning against a tree not ten feet away, watching me with that knowing male gaze that said, Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for your coy, feminine manipulations? Silly man. Of course I wasn’t.