Courting Trouble

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Really?” Judy asked. “Plenty of lawyers would.”

  “Not him,” Anne said, but everybody was too kind to question her. She had a feeling she would be questioning herself anyway. And she was still wondering why Matt had brought the Dietzes to her service.

  Mary nodded. “I’m sure you’re right, Anne. But another issue is why Beth Dietz filed the suit.”

  “The affair was over and she was pissed,” Anne answered. “Revenge. That’s what Gil thinks anyway. He said so.”

  Bennie stood up and stretched. “Okay, kids, we have a lot going on. The key thing right now is for us to keep Anne safe until the cops pick up Satorno. Here’s what we do—”

  “I’d love to get showered, changed, and get back to work on Chipster,” Anne interrupted. She was thinking of the secret in her bra, and she still had no panties. She was having definite lingerie issues. “Can I go back to your house and get cleaned up, Bennie?”

  “No. I don’t want you out of my sight. You can use the office shower, like you did before, and we have plenty of clothes here.”

  Damn. Anne had to execute her new Plan B and she couldn’t let Bennie in on it. The boss would never agree, after that meeting with the cops. “Please, the clothes here scream fashion mistake. I’ll be safe. Mary and Judy can come with me. They’ll be my bodyguards.”

  “You can use my apartment, if you want,” Mary said. “I can lend you some clothes. We’re about the same size.”

  Judy finished her coffee. “I’ll watch them both, Bennie,” she offered.

  “So can we go, Mom?” Anne asked.

  Bennie looked dubious, but this time it was Anne who already knew the answer, and they left the office, sailed down the elevator and out the back entrance, sweltering in black. Anne waited until they had all squeezed into the sweaty backseat of a cab and were five blocks from the office before she reached into her bra.

  And the three girls went after Kevin Satorno.

  20

  SCHWARTZ’S FLOWERS, read the sign outside, and the dark-haired sales clerk was so harried that she barely looked up when the empty shop was invaded by three lawyers in black. She had a cordless phone crooked under one ear and was tapping away on an old keyboard at the computer/cash register. “We’re closed,” she said, hitting the Enter key. “I didn’t have a chance to turn the sign over yet, but we’re totally closed.”

  “I just have a question or two,” Mary replied, planting herself at the counter. The girls had agreed by process of elimination that she’d do the questioning; Anne couldn’t draw further attention to herself, Judy was already in the news, and Mary needed assertiveness training.

  The clerk only grunted in response, taking an order over the telephone, and Anne took the opportunity to glance around. The store was a single room, square like a corsage box, and the air smelled floral and vaguely refrigerated. The floor was of green indoor-outdoor carpeting, and potted plants ringed the room. Against the walls sat stainless-steel display cases of Gerber daisies in orange and gold, tall iris in characteristic blue, white gladioli, carnations sprayed pink, and long-stemmed white roses. Despite their beauty, Anne felt a dark shiver.

  Kevin had been here.

  Her eyes fell to the counter cluttered with ribbon snippings, a leftover clump of baby’s breath, and a stray fern. Next to the cash register sat a rack of small gift cards, many of which bore preprinted messages: With Sympathy, Thinking of You, For a Speedy Recovery. Anne’s spotted a plain white card like the one she’d recovered from the floor at the Chestnut Club and had tucked in her underwire. She plucked the new card from the rack and turned it over in her hand while the sales clerk, behind the counter, hung up the phone.

  “We’re closed, honest,” the sales clerk repeated. Her eyes were a hazel brown, catching the light that streamed in the storefront window facing her, and her makeup had worn off. She wore a white T-shirt and jeans under a tall, white apron with a green FTD logo on it. Her nameplate read rachel, in kelly green. “I’m already cashed out for the day. I can’t sell you anything.”

  “I don’t want to buy anything,” Mary said. “I’m looking for a man named Kevin Satorno, who brought or delivered red roses to a memorial service today. You either employ him or he picked them up here and brought them himself. Can you help? I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “His name is Satorno? I can tell you he doesn’t work here.” Rachel smiled. “You gotta be family to work here. If he’s not a Schwartz, he’s not an employee.”

  “So you know all the delivery people?”

  “They’re all family.”

  “No temps?”

  “You can’t be a temporary Schwartz.”

  Mary smiled. “Okay, that’s a great help. So, that means he bought roses here and delivered them himself.”

  “Whatever.” The cordless phone rang, and Rachel picked it up. “No, Twenty-second Street! Twenty-second Street! Not Twenty-third!” She hung up. “My brother is a complete idiot. This is the bad thing about a family business. Your family.”

  “Were you working here earlier today and yesterday?”

  “Yes. I’m the Schwartz who can count. My brother hates math.”

  “This man bought a dozen red roses here, today or yesterday. He delivered them with a card from this shop. He looks like this.” Mary pulled half of the red flyer from her purse and showed it to Rachel. They had decided it was almost as good as Kevin’s mug shot and didn’t tip off that he was wanted by the cops, thus avoiding any pesky questions. “He’s white, tall, young, and good-looking. He has blue eyes, and his hair used to be pale blond, but he’s since dyed it black. It was either blond or black when he came here. I know it’s not overly helpful, but it’s all I’m sure of.”

  “Either way, his face doesn’t look familiar.” Rachel handed the flyer back.

  “You don’t remember him?”

  “No way. Do you have any idea how many people have been in this store over the past two days, buying red roses? Everybody orders red for July Fourth, for entertaining and such. It’s red-white-and-blue time. I can’t keep anything red in stock.” Rachel gestured at the display case. “See that iris? It’s gorgeous but it’ll rot there. July Fourth is almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.”

  “I see. Do you keep records of what people order, when they buy?”

  “Sure. I fill out an order for the sale, even walk-ins, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Does it contain any personal information, like name or address?”

  “Sure, I ask everybody for name, address, and phone number, but not everybody wants to give it. They don’t have to legally, but we ask anyway, for the mailing list.” Rachel looked defensive. “If it’s really busy though, I don’t always get a chance to write out the order. I just fill it and give ’em the flowers. Drives my dad nuts.”

  Anne was already eyeing the counter for the order forms.

  “This Satorno,” Mary continued, “may not have used his real name and he may have even used a fake address, but he bought a dozen red roses here either yesterday or this morning. Do you have any way of looking him up, seeing if he had an order? We need to find him. It’s really important.”

  “Find his order?” Rachel wiped a dark strand of hair from her damp brow. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to close and I have a shitload to do before I leave. You know how long it would take to go through the orders for red roses? They’re not even sorted and they’re all mixed in. I wasn’t going to deal with it until Tuesday.”

  Anne kept looking for the order forms. Behind the counter, next to a multicolored ribbon rack, sat a series of gray loose-leaf notebooks that contained catalogs, then she struck gold. Order slips. Some were stacked on an old-fashioned spike, but most were in disarray. She nudged Mary, whose gaze had already located them.

  “Rachel, I know you’re busy, but we can help. If you’d let us look through the order forms, maybe we could find him. With the three of us, we could look through them in no time, and we’d leave the orders s
orted for you. You wouldn’t have to do it on Tuesday. We could do it while you closed up and we’d be finished right away. Your dad would think you’re a star.”

  “No, sorry.” Rachel shifted her weight behind the counter. “I’d like to, but I can’t.”

  “A woman’s life depends on it. She’s about your age, and but for the grace of God—”

  Anne stepped forward. “My life,” she said, surprised at the desperation straining her voice. “Please, we won’t keep you, I swear.”

  Rachel looked at Anne, and sighed heavily.

  Half an hour later, the sign on the door had been flipped to closed, but anyone looking through the storefront window would have seen three women in black, standing on the far side of the counter in front of three stacks of order slips. Mary, Judy, and Anne were each paging through the weekend’s slips, but so far no red roses had been sold to a Kevin Satorno, anyone with the initials K.S., or any other aliases he would have used.

  At least one that Anne could imagine. She had only ten orders left and she was already feeling it was a fool’s errand. Kevin would never leave his real name or a real address. He was a fugitive and he was smart. But she wanted to be thorough and she tried not to be discouraged. There were two other piles. “How you doing, Mary?” she asked. “Any luck?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Don’t give up!” Judy said, but Anne could see her pile was down to five orders. No way was there an order for Kevin. It was a waste of time. She couldn’t face it. If they didn’t get him now, when would they? At her funeral? How many fake ceremonies could they stage? She returned to her receipts. Invoice # 00547, Invoice # 00548, Invoice # 00549.

  Anne sighed. That was it. No more orders. She fought back tears of frustration. “Somebody please tell me that they found his order,” she said aloud.

  Mary bit her lip. Her stack had been searched and turned over. “No Satorno. No name here even remotely suspicious. Just a bunch of orders for red roses and red, white, and blue carnations.”

  Judy was examining her last invoice. “Lots of roses, none to him. Most of these orders were bought by women, but he wouldn’t have gone that far with an alias.” She turned to Anne. “Maybe we should just take all the red-rose orders and go to each house that’s listed, regardless of name.”

  Anne shook her head. “No. He’d leave a fake address. Why wouldn’t he? I bet he walked in, paid in cash, got his flowers, and walked out.”

  Rachel came from the back office, her apron gone and her hair swept back by a headband made from a leftover ribbon. She held a Hefty bag full of trash. “I’m all done locking up out back. I even cleaned out the delivery vans. Did you find him?”

  “No,” Anne answered, dejected.

  “I’m sorry. If I could think of another way to help you, I would.” Rachel logged off the computer at the counter, then unfolded the Hefty bag and snapped it open. “I only have one chore left, then I really do have to go. My family expects me at a barbecue.”

  “Sure, I understand,” Anne said. She was wracking her brain. What else could they do? Should they go to the houses? Check if the addresses really were fake?

  “My brother’s already there, and my parents.” Rachel reached under the counter, pulled out a large wastebasket painted with flowers, and hoisted it with one skinny arm. Anne grabbed the Hefty bag by its yellow drawstring and held the other side open for her, having nothing else to do but cry. “Thanks,” Rachel said, with a grateful smile. “My brother always leaves the trash for me. Pig.”

  “Thank you for trying to help.” Anne held her side of the Hefty bag while piles of silver flower-wrap, green tissue, and plant material tumbled inside, followed by a discarded catalog and soggy paper towels. Then she saw it. A plain white card. I love you, it said. Or did it? White freesia buds buried it like an avalanche. Was Anne seeing things? Wasn’t that a card, like the one he’d delivered to the memorial? Wasn’t that Kevin’s handwriting?

  “Wait!” Anne shouted. She shoved a hand in the trash, attacking it like a madwoman, shifting through the papers and cards and ferns. “Did you see? I thought I saw another card Kevin wrote.”

  Mary came over. “Like the first? Another one?”

  Judy reached for the Hefty bag. “In the trash?”

  Anne rooted around the trash, fishing for the card. “Can I dump it, please? Please? Rachel, please? I’d owe you so big-time, I swear.”

  Rachel half-smiled. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just that I saw something he wrote.” Anne took the bag and dumped it on the floor, shaking it empty. She knelt down beside the filth and started sifting.

  Mary held up the plain, white card they’d brought with them. “It looked like this, and says, ‘I love you.’ That’s all.”

  Rachel took the card from Mary’s hand, examining it. “This looks familiar to me. I remember this. I don’t remember the guy, but I remember the cards.”

  “Cards?” Judy asked. “What do you remember? Cards? Plural?”

  “Cards!” Anne almost cried, half-listening as she went through the trash. Rosebuds, daisy petals, gum, cigarette butts, and inventory sheets went flying. There was the card! She picked it up and held it high. “’I love you,’ it says.” Then her eyes fell on another card atop the trash. I love you. Again, in Kevin’s writing. “Look at this! There’s more!” She searched. I love you I love you I love you I love you. Four more cards, all in Kevin’s hand. Then another. “There’s five of them here! Wait, six!”

  “My God,” Mary said, hushed, and Judy bent over the trash pile and started looking.

  “Here’s another!” Judy said, finding a white I love you card. “I don’t get it. They all say the same thing?”

  “I thought that was a little weird!” Rachel exclaimed. “It’s coming back, now. This dude wrote the card at the counter, which a lot of people do, but he wrote it over and over. At first, I thought it was so cute. He wanted it to be just right. I made a joke but he didn’t laugh. He kept writing them over and over. Is he the guy?”

  “Yes!” Anne was arranging the cards in a line on the counter. Eleven cards lined up like a dotted line. I love you I love you I love you I love you. “So, where is his order?”

  “Oh, no. I was mad busy. He must have been one of the ones I didn’t fill out.” Rachel’s face clouded. “He must have come at the worst time. I didn’t have a chance, I just wanted to make the sale and not hold anybody up. That’s why I don’t remember his face, I guess.”

  “No address?” Anne’s heart went through the fake-grass floor, but she didn’t want to make Rachel feel bad. Kevin had probably planned it that way so he wouldn’t be recognized, or maybe he just got lucky. “He wouldn’t have left a real address anyway. Did you see where he came from?”

  “No. I’m so sorry.” Rachel looked so crestfallen, Anne reached out and touched her arm.

  “It’s all right. Did he drive or was he on foot, do you know?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t park around here. He must have walked.”

  “Do you recall how he paid?”

  “Cash, I think. Yeah, cash.” Rachel screwed up her cute nose. “It is weird to write the same thing so many times, isn’t it? I mean, some people mess up or get obsessive, but not like that.”

  “He’s more obsessive than most.” Anne found a laugh, and suddenly Rachel brightened.

  “Wait! I remember, he left his pen! He left his pen! He was writing so many cards and he was so happy when he got a good one, and then I made the joke and noticed him, and he got pissed off. He walked out so fast he left his pen. Does that matter?”

  “I doubt it, but let’s see.” Anne couldn’t help but feel excited, and Rachel was already grabbing the tall white pen-and-pencil holder.

  “I put it in here. His pen, with the others.” Suddenly she dumped the cup on the counter. Pens, pencils, a screwdriver, and an Exacto knife clattered onto the clean surface and started rolling around. There had to be thirty pens;
red, green, blue, and white, piled like a child’s pick-up sticks. Then Anne noticed something about the pens.

  “They have logos! Maybe they’ll say where they’re from.” Anne scooped up a navy ballpoint, twisted it, and read the imprinted letters out loud. “Property of The Best Grandpop in The World.’”

  Judy was reading a purple pen she’d found. “’Claritin-D 24-hour.’”

  Mary squinted at a black pen. “‘Ace Appliance.’ I use them!”

  Anne grabbed a white pen, read it, and felt a jolt like electricity surge though her system. She thrust it into the air, and it shot up like a Roman candle. “We got him!”

  21

  Anne was surprised to discover that a lime-green VW Beetle could be almost as much fun as a Mustang convertible. Okay, not really, but she was so excited that they were finally going to get Kevin that she was trying to convince herself. Judy was driving her car, Mary was in the passenger seat, and Anne bounced along on the cloth-covered back bench as the VW chugged its way up the incline of the Ben Franklin Bridge. Mental note: Any vehicle with daisies in the dashboard is not a muscle car.

  Anne rolled the white pen from the florist’s between her fingers. It was a cheap plastic ballpoint with gold-toned letters that read daytimer motel. Underneath was the motel’s address and phone, in Pennsauken, New Jersey. It had been the only motel or hotel pen in the pencil cup at Schwartz’s, and Anne was praying that Kevin had found a room at the Daytimer. The Beetle reached the top of the bridge and slowed behind snaky lines of traffic.

  “Uh, oh. People still going down the shore,” Judy said with a sigh. She had rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and let her left arm dangle out the window. “I was hoping everybody who was going had gone already.”

  “Damn.” Anne edged between the two front seats and assessed the traffic through the funky windshield. “This looks bad. How long will it be, do you think?”