by Patti Larsen
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.
***
Chapter Fourteen
The front door bells jingled, distracting me from grilling Simon about what happened. I half turned before my gut lurched and everything about my day turned to ash and gray. I’d done my best to avoid the stunning ice blonde in the perfect yellow suit who simpered on her clicky clacking high heels into the flower shop with her giant designer glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose and so far I’d succeeded. Just the odd chance glance across a crowded street or over the windshield of her little red convertible. But this was the first time since I moved home I actually came face to face with the one person in Reading I would gladly have trade places with Pete Wilkins.
If the way she pulled down her glasses with overly pointed and painted manicure nails and glared at me was any indication, she was about as happy to see me as I was her. Vivian French—her name as pretentious as the rest of her—smiled her reptile greeting with dead blue eyes and slowed her approach to a challenging strut, cute little bag bouncing over her forearm while she looked me up and down.
I hadn’t really worried about my looks despite my envy of Daisy’s beauty. It’s never been something I took into much consideration. I knew I had nice hair, thick and wavy and that deep red my friends in New York always accused me came from a bottle despite being natural. And my green eyes had that clarity I knew a lot of people wore contacts for. I’d always had clear skin, even as a teen, a great figure despite a terrible diet and irregular exercise and the kind of height that allowed me to feel unintimidated by the majority of men thanks to my dad. But there was something about the way my old rival, the former high school cheer squad leader/homecoming queen/overall pain in my younger ass looked at me—judged me—that made me forget former possible murder victims and consider new ones.
“Why, Fanny Fleming.” Oh my God, if one more person called me Fanny I was honestly going to lose my mind. I knew Vivian used it on purpose, just like Robert did. They’d been friends in high
school, after all, or at least co-conspirators against my happiness. Part of the reason I couldn’t wait to cut and run ten years ago. “My word and stars. I heard you were home. And under investigation for murder, no less.” She was loving this, I could tell, how she cocked her hip to one side, slim body posing inside her expensive suit. Personally I thought that shade of yellow made her look sallow and gave her bleached hair a straw like appearance.
“Vivs,” I said, just as sweet, the tightening around her eyes barely reaching the line between them, a sure sign of work done. I’d seen enough Botox injections in my friends to know it when it glared me in the face. “Nice suit.”
Funny how easy it was to fall back into old ways of being and despising. Honestly, I was a grown up wasn’t I? And yet, nope, not at all. I was eighteen again and couldn’t stand the sight of the precious bitch who pursed her pink lips at me.
“I’ve been meaning to stop in,” she said. “To Petunia’s.” The pug made a soft grumbling sound like she’d rather not. Vivian glanced down with a faint frown of disgust before her smile returned, shining white teeth a mouthful of Chicklets no one would ever believe were real.
“Still living in Reading, are you?” I leaned one elbow on the counter, too wrapped up in this encounter to care at the moment Simon had vanished, though Terri continued to watch, eyes massive, mouth hanging slightly open as if unsure exactly what was going on. Poor thing. She clearly didn’t yet get the subtleties of Vivian French’s layers of gross.
Another hit, Fee 2, Vivs whatever, who cared. “I’ve taken over Daddy’s business,” she said, all airs and pomposity. “French’s Handmade Bakery is now in four states.”
Well la de da. I hated the snake of jealousy that bit deep inside me. No way she was allowed to be more successful than me. Of course, she had Daddy’s business and a head start, so there.
“I’m surprised to hear you came back from New York.” Fishing, was she? “That handsome boyfriend of yours, the lawyer. What’s his name?”
How the hell did she know about Ryan? “It’s over,” I growled.
Fake concern met sisterly caring as she touched my arm with the barest caress meant to mean nothing while her sharp blue eyes crinkled as much as they could in her delight. The faintest rims of contact lenses told me the false intensity of the color was due to tinting. Naturally. “Oh, how sad for you. And to lose Iris that way.” She shook her head, blonde locks swinging around her shoulders, tsking. “Then this hideous murder and you being questioned and everything.” She knew far more than she should and her next statement told me why. “I’m sure Crew will clean up your mess before you know it.”
The way she said his name told me everything. They were either dating or had dated or had some kind of emotional connection that burned my socks so badly at the idea I’d even considered that creep attractive I wanted to scrape my tongue from the bitter taste that dried out my mouth.
I could have been the bigger person and just let it go. Yup, I sure could have, because that would be mature and turning the other cheek and stuff like that. Instead, I leaned closer to her, squinting a little, before grinning.
“Do you remember the day I punched you in sixth grade and broke your nose?” I had, too. She’d been picking on Daisy. It was the first time we crossed swords, really. She’d ignored me as unimportant and unworthy until that afternoon on the playground when I’d had enough of her taunting the kind girl who didn’t get she was being played and wound up with a solid blow to the bridge of Vivian’s pointed proboscis.
She flinched at the memory, one hand rising as if in defense.
“Can still see the break,” I winked. And left, Petunia chuffing beside me, while Vivian’s horrified examination of her nose in the glass gave me great pleasure.
Fee—3. Vivian nada, zero, go choke yourself.
***
Chapter Fifteen
I dabbed at the corner of my mouth with the soft, white napkin and sighed in happiness. Mom had outdone herself and from the beaming way she looked at my empty plate, I’d given her the best birthday present ever.
“I hope you saved room for dessert.” She hustled to her feet, the padded bottoms of the dining room chair silent on the hardwood floor as she stood across from me, rushing around Dad to take my plate. I knew better than to try to help, smiling up at her before scowling a bit at my father as Mom divested him of his, too. Usually he did a good job of at least trying to compliment Mom on her amazing cooking despite his lack of enthusiasm for her culinary explorations. Instead, tonight of all nights, he stared at his glass of beer and grunted when she swooped in and took the fine white china plate from in front of him before sweeping off toward the kitchen. Naturally, drooling and hoping for scraps, Petunia followed her, claws clicking on the floor.
I let her go, focused on Dad. I could just reach him at the head of the table with the toe of my shoe, catching his shin with a satisfying blow that raised his head and earned me a frown.
“That was delicious, Mom,” I called out, tilting my head and glaring at him. “The best pork loin I’ve ever tasted.” I wasn’t lying to make her feel better, either. Whatever she’d marinated the meat in gave it a tangy sweetness mixed with spice that melted in the mouth and paired perfectly with the mushroom sauce she’d ladled generously over the garlic mashed potatoes. And forget about the glaze she’d used on the carrots. I’d take a shower in it.
Dad winced and looked away when Mom peeked her head around the corner, pug still stalking her, carefully styled hair caught at the base of her neck to keep it out of the way of her cooking. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “I’m trying a new rub. Did you really like it?” My mother was an amazing woman and had a core of steel hidden carefully behind charm and her own brand of sophistication. She’d managed Dad all these years without a complaint or a scrap of concern, even when he handled really horrible cases and wasn’t fit to live with. But when it came to cooking, she was her own worst enemy and had insecurities just like the rest of us.
You know what? Mom deserved to trust her talent and I did everything I could to support her cooking habit. Including eating everything she made with gusto. And if a little bit of excessive praise kept my tummy happy… I’d forgotten just how good she was at this.
“Mom, you’d put a chef at the finest overpriced New York joint to shame.” Another kick for Dad who shot me a scowl before piping up himself.
“Fantastic, Lu,” he said, voice loud enough I knew she heard. “What Fee said.”
He did not just cop out like that. “You can’t possibly top that with dessert,” I said, tossing my napkin at him and jutting my lower jaw so he knew how much trouble he was in dropping the ball like this. On Mom’s birthday.
Dad sighed then, sipped his beer. “I couldn’t dream of ruining the symphony of perfection that’s still lingering in my mouth with mere sugar,” he said. And stuck his tongue out at me.
Well, that was at least an effort.
Mom appeared at the door, breathless. “You two have no idea,” she squealed before disappearing again.
I leaned toward Dad who had returned to staring into his beer. “Crew says the coroner thinks Pete’s death is an accident.” I hissed that at him, caught his annoyed attention. Did he look suddenly guilty? Or relieved? No way of knowing which, not with my most stoic of Dads glaring me down. “But what if he was pushed?”
“By who, Fee?” Dad’s low tone matched mine. Neither of us wanted Mom in on this. She’d be so disappointed, cop talk on her birthday. “You?”
I snarled at him. “Cute,” I said, almost blurting a repeat of his question—refusing to believe while struggling not to—before sharing what I’d learned. “But I do know the whole signing over of Petunia’s isn’t the first time he tried such a scheme.”
Dad leaned in himself then, focused for real now. I’d finally caught his attention. “You stay out of this, Fee,” he said in that growling commanding voice of his that stopped working on me when I was twelve and knew he’d never follo
w through with any punishment he set. That was Mom’s job, delivered in a disappointed voice but with a will of iron might I could never win against. Who knew? “I mean it.”
Which meant Dad was well aware there were other victims like me. “I can’t just drop this, Dad,” I said. “The man died at my place. While claiming it wasn’t my place anymore. And he’s tried the same thing with others.” Frustration made my hands clench into fists on either side of my now empty place mat. “I need answers.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Dad said, “and I’m taking care of Petunia’s. So just mind your own business.”
Mom reappeared with an enthusiastic, “Ta-da!” and a giant cheesecake on a tray, a ring of sliced strawberries drizzled in vanilla sauce making a crown of crimson and white around the edge. Petunia settled right beside Mom, staring up at her with the whites of her brown eyes showing, eagerly anticipating her own slice. Mom’s return silenced my conversation with Dad. We both ate the delicious and decadent treat like it was a race, me glaring at him over my berries, him staring right back until, as usual, he beat me, cramming the last massive bite down before springing to his feet and saluting Mom with his still dirty fork. Petunia chuffed an impatient yip at him for not even saving her a crumb while he spoke.
“Delicious,” he said around his mouthful. At least, that’s what I think he said. Before spinning and leaving the room.
The coward. I barely tasted my cheesecake to that point, and turned to find Mom sadly watching Dad go. Instantly felt terrible for ruining my mother’s birthday and slowed the hell down. Said yes to a second piece which I picked at while Mom played with her own with a low, sad sigh.
“Dinner was awesome,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. Petunia muttered her dissatisfaction with being ignored, forgiving Mom instantly as she bent and offered the pug a little lick of cheesecake off her finger before sitting up again.
