“What are you smiling about?” he asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Maybe you’ll find out later,” I said with a wink.
He gave me a curious look and then bowled a strike. I managed to follow that up with a spare, my first of the evening. A few frames later, the game was over.
I returned my ball to the rack and then swapped out my shoes and took them to the counter, while Jason did the same. We made our way to the exit. For a second, I thought we’d make it out of the bowling alley without Jason gloating, but right as he pulled open the door, he said, “You know, you might want to change your bowling technique. It doesn’t seem to be working out so well.”
“It was an off night. I’ll beat your pants off of you next time.”
Jason gave me a salacious grin. “Strip bowling. I like it.”
When we got to his car, he stepped up next to me and whispered in my ear, “I could give you lessons, you know.” His breath was warm on my neck. He pulled my arm back and mimed rolling a bowling ball. His touch made the little hairs on my arm stand on end. “I have a special technique of my own.”
I swallowed hard. “Lessons are always good, especially private ones.”
He kissed my neck and released my hand. “I thought you might agree.”
Jason held open the car door for me before going around to his side and starting up the engine. Within minutes, he was pulling into his driveway. Once we were inside his place, I sat down on the leather sofa.
“So,” he said, “are you sure you want to do this research?”
Not wanting to get sidetracked, I nodded. “Better now than later. Go ahead and grab your laptop.”
He retrieved it from where it perched on an end table, set it squarely on the coffee table, and fired it up. Settling in next to me, he started typing. “Let’s check the Herald first. I don’t remember covering any major events that weekend, but someone else could have handled a smaller story, like a drunk driving arrest.”
He brought up the newspaper’s Web site and clicked the search function. He narrowed the range to the week before and after Labor Day weekend and entered “alcohol” and “party” as keywords. I watched over his shoulder, but none of the results looked promising.
“Do you have other information we can work with?” Jason asked.
I felt a ball of frustration form in the pit of my stomach. “No, but there must be some reason Lucia started acting odd after that Labor Day party.”
“There could be a lot of reasons, none of which would make the paper.”
I rubbed my forehead. “I know it’s a long shot. Let’s try the Press Democrat. Brittany said the party was down in Santa Rosa, so if something happened there, it might not have made the Herald anyway.”
He entered the Press Democrat’s URL and squinted at the page as it loaded. He repeated his search criteria, but again, we found nothing of interest. Jason leaned back and stroked his goatee. “Are you sure alcohol was involved?”
I considered the question. “Brittany mentioned it was unusual for Lucia to go out drinking. I must have made the connection in my head that alcohol was at the root of the problem.”
Jason scrolled back up to the top of the screen. “Okay, let’s take alcohol out of the equation and do a blank search for only that weekend.” He hit a few keys, and I leaned in to get a better look at the results.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” Jason muttered as we sorted through the list. He scrolled through another page of results. “This looks interesting.”
I straightened up to read the headline: BICYCLIST INJURED IN HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT. I scanned the article and felt my pulse quicken. The Saturday before Labor Day, a woman had been struck by a car while riding her bike on a narrow two-lane road outside of Santa Rosa. Witnesses who passed the accident said a young lady was rendering aid, but when the ambulance arrived, the EMTs reported the bicyclist was alone. The police were able to obtain a general description of the woman and her car, but so far the driver had not been identified.
I laid my hand on Jason’s knee and turned to look at him. “What if Lucia was the driver?”
Jason tapped the screen. “There’s no way to be sure. The article doesn’t provide enough details.”
“You’re a reporter. Don’t you have access to the police reports?”
“Sure, but that can take time. I imagine the reporter who wrote this article already viewed the report and would have included any details that seemed important.”
“Maybe. I still think Lucia might have been the driver. It happened on Labor Day weekend, and running away from an accident would explain why Lucia was so jumpy when that policeman was following her weeks later.”
Jason didn’t look convinced, but I felt like I was making headway. The timing and location matched with when Lucia had started behaving strangely.
That meant I might have uncovered her secret.
Chapter 19
Jason and I didn’t find any other search results that looked promising. After another fifteen minutes of clicking links and scrolling through lists of headlines, we gave up.
That was fine by me. While I couldn’t be positive Lucia was responsible for the hit-and-run accident, it was my best lead. I needed to think of a way to contact her again to find out more. I’d lucked out when I’d found her at the drugstore, but she might get suspicious if I appeared in the cosmetic aisle again so soon, especially if I started asking questions.
If Lucia really was the driver in the accident, how did that connect to her flower purchases? With the way Bethany liked to probe people’s secrets, she could have tricked Lucia into letting her guard down on one of her many visits to the shop. If Lucia told her about the accident, Bethany may have jumped at the chance to blackmail her.
“Earth to Dana,” Jason said.
I realized that Jason had been talking to me the entire time I’d been thinking. I’d missed every word he’d said.
“Would you mind repeating that?” I placed my hands in my lap like a contrite schoolgirl and smiled up at him so he’d know I was paying attention.
“I forgot to mention at dinner that I verified the tux rentals today. Is there anything else you need help with?”
Dozens of thoughts jumped around my head, but none remained in place for long. After a moment, I shrugged. “I can’t think of anything specific.”
“Let me know if that changes. I want to help.” He kissed my forehead.
How had I gotten so lucky? “I’m sure I’ll be a mess on our wedding day, but right now, everything seems to be on track. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from waking up in the middle of the night and panicking that I’ve forgotten something important.” I leaned into him, and he rubbed my thigh.
“The day will be great,” Jason said, “even if one or two things go wrong. Marrying you is the most important thing.”
I gave him a kiss. “At least we’ve only invited family and close friends. Can you imagine the extra work if we were having one of those huge weddings with three hundred people? I don’t know how anyone can pull off a wedding like that. No wonder couples hire wedding coordinators.”
I’d swear I felt Jason shudder. “I’m glad we stuck to the basics,” was all he said.
“Me too.” We fell silent. Between the warmth of Jason’s touch and the late hour, I felt my eyelids droop.
I glanced at my phone and reluctantly rose. “I’d better leave before I fall asleep right where I’m sitting.”
“If your goal is to stay awake, I know a way to make that happen,” Jason said, standing up as well. His inviting tone let me know exactly how he planned to keep me awake.
“Easy does it,” I said with a laugh. “You need to save that energy for after our wedding.”
He pulled me close. “Don’t worry. I have plenty of energy.”
I tilted my head up, and he gave me a kiss that reached from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “Maybe I don’t need to rush off right this minute,” I said when I caught my bre
ath. I leaned in for another kiss, and Jason pressed his lips against mine. As he ran his hands along my back, I marveled at how I was soon to be Mrs. Dana Forrester.
* * *
I arrived at work early the next morning, eager to write up my blog about how to clean out a teakettle. The idea had come to me the other night, when I’d made myself a cup of tea before bed, only to find strange bits of a mysterious gray substance floating in my cup. Once I’d posted my suggestions, I responded to the handful of new comments from yesterday’s blog and checked the farm’s e-mail account.
With the correspondence out of the way, I dug out my list of reasons to hold weddings at Esther’s farm and reviewed my ideas. I’d originally placed Wilbur and his pig pals as a highlight, but now I had to question my judgment. Did a bride really want to see pigs at her wedding? I shuddered at a vision of muddy hoofprints splattered across a white bridal gown train as a herd of pigs thundered past Esther’s makeshift altar. I deleted Wilbur from the list.
I spent the better part of the morning adding more ideas, none of which involved farm animals. When my eyes began to burn and my back started to protest, I took that as a sign I needed a break. I stood up and stretched before wandering into the kitchen, where I found Zennia slicing mushrooms at the kitchen table. Wafts of steam rose from the contents of a pot simmering on the stove.
“What’s on the menu for today?” I asked her as I went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of lemonade that always waited there.
She tossed the mushroom slices into a bowl and started cutting up another one. “I decided to go simple today and make mushroom, spinach, and mozzarella panini with roasted red pepper soup on the side.”
What Zennia considered simple would easily take me all day to prepare. Good thing Jason wasn’t marrying me for my cooking skills. I poured the lemonade into a glass and sat down.
I let out a sigh. “It feels good to take a break.” I watched Zennia slice another mushroom. The rhythm was almost hypnotic.
“How are the wedding plans coming along?”
“So far so good. I’m planning to run into town during lunch to check on my flower order with Violet, but it’s more for peace of mind than anything else.”
Zennia nodded. “Don’t underestimate the importance of a peaceful mind. Surprises can be disruptive to your overall well-being.” She glanced at the clock. “Speaking of surprises, I didn’t realize the time. The guests will be arriving in the dining room any minute.” She carried the bowl of sliced mushrooms to the counter. “Dana, if it’s not an imposition, would you mind ladling out the soup while I get started cooking the panini?”
I finished my lemonade, took my glass to the sink, and washed my hands. “Of course not. I can help serve, too.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your lunch plans. You said you were going into town.”
“It can wait.” I took down a stack of soup bowls while Zennia heated the griddle and assembled the sandwiches. We worked in companionable silence as I lined up the filled bowls on the table and helped put the sandwiches on plates.
When everything was ready, I filled a pitcher with water and carried it to the dining room. Most of the tables were occupied with diners waiting for their lunches. I left the water on the sideboard and went back to the kitchen for the first bowls of soup. More guests filtered in as Zennia and I delivered the food, but the two of us easily met the demand. When everyone was happily slurping and munching, I returned to the kitchen to help clean up.
I picked up a sponge to wipe down the table, but Zennia practically swatted it out of my hand. “Don’t even think about it. You’ve done enough already.” She pointed to a single remaining sandwich sitting on a plate. “I made an extra one for you.”
A few months ago, I would have cringed at the thought of eating a sandwich comprised mostly of vegetables, but my taste buds were slowly evolving. Now, the sight of the sandwich, especially the melted cheese oozing down the side, made my mouth water. “Thanks.”
I took the plate into the office, sat down at the computer, and brought up a Web site for a competing spa. While I read about their offerings to see how they compared to Esther’s and whether we should add to our own list of services, I ate my sandwich and tried not to spill bits of mushroom on the keyboard.
Once I was finished eating, I scanned a few more Web sites, taking notes as I read, and then pushed back from the desk. With my keys and purse in hand, I headed down the hall and out the door.
The afternoon air was chilly. Ominous-looking clouds scuttled across the sky. I tried not to think about rain on my wedding day as I got into my car and backed out of my space, but each passing day seemed to be cloudier.
On the drive into town, I considered why I was even going. I didn’t really need to visit the flower shop. If I wanted a status update, I could easily call Violet and save myself the cost of gas. But with my wedding so close, I wanted to be sure Violet knew what she was doing. I needed to see her in person and hear her confirmation. I hadn’t suffered from any pre-wedding jitters yet, but I suspected they lurked just under the surface.
Exiting the highway, I drove down Main Street and parked in front of Don’t Dilly-Dahlia. I was momentarily tempted to pop into the drugstore and see if Lucia was working, but I’d already decided against that strategy. I shouldn’t second-guess myself.
I went inside the flower shop and spotted Violet in the far corner, arranging a collection of small bouquets in a large container. Her back was to me.
“Hi, Violet,” I said.
The sound of crinkling cellophane must have blocked my arrival, because she gave a startled cry and dropped the rose she’d been holding. She whirled around, a hand to her chest. She let out her breath when she saw me. “Oh, it’s you.”
I crossed the shop to join her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in.”
Looking slightly embarrassed, Violet lowered her hand, almost knocking into the handles of the pruning shears sticking out of her apron pocket. “That’s all right. I guess I’m still a little jumpy.” She bent down and retrieved the rose from the floor. The shears threatened to slide out, but she kept them in place with one hand. “Mom and I kept meaning to install one of those chimes that goes off whenever someone opens the door, but we never got around to it. I’d better put it on my list of things to do.”
“List?” I glanced around the shop. “Are you planning a lot of changes?”
“Not really. I’ve had a running list since I started working here, not that my mom ever agreed to any of them.”
“I have an ongoing to-do list myself, but I never seem to cross anything off it,” I said. “Maybe your mom was the same way.”
Violet shook her head. “No, she just didn’t like any of my ideas.”
I pointed to the pictures and paintings of the beach and redwoods. “Bethany told me selling the artwork was your idea.”
“That was the only thing she allowed me to add to the merchandise.” She scowled. “She complained about them all the time. Said they weren’t selling fast enough.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Was there something I could help you with?”
“I wanted to see how everything was going with my wedding bouquets.”
“Fine. I spoke to the distributor this morning and your order is on schedule.” Her scowl was back. “I would have called you if there was a problem.”
I offered her a smile. “Of course. I’m not implying I don’t trust you, but I’d understand if you were more focused on what happened to your mom, rather than what’s happening at the shop. Flowers must seem so unimportant.”
She closed her eyes in a long blink, as if trying to compose herself. “I can handle your flowers. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
I’d obviously hurt her feelings, and I scanned the room for a new topic. “These are pretty,” I said, pointing to a cluster of small red flowers. “What are they?”
Violet squinted at the flowers and shrugged. “Mayb
e it says on the tag.”
I raised my eyebrows and read the name on the sticker. “Matsumoto Aster.”
Shouldn’t she already know that? I’d swear Bethany had said Violet started working here a couple of years ago, giving her plenty of time to learn what types of flowers the shop sold.
“That’s right,” Violet said. “I knew it was some kind of aster.”
“Must be hard to remember all the names.”
“Flowers were always Mom’s thing.” She plucked a dead petal off a nearby mum and dropped it on the floor.
I watched it settle next to another one already there. “Your mom seemed to think you were interested in taking over the business one day.”
“She did think that, didn’t she?”
I studied Violet, but her expression remained impassive. Her answer implied that Bethany may have overestimated Violet’s interest in the flower shop.
“What about all the changes you have planned?” I said. “You are going to keep the shop, aren’t you?”
Violet started gnawing on her thumbnail. “Well, it’s mine now.”
Not exactly a direct answer.
After a second, she sighed. “I came up with those changes because I knew my mom would keep me working here for years, if she had her way, and I wanted to have a small say in how Mom ran the business. I mean, I like this place well enough, and God knows Mom absolutely loved it, but there are better ways to make a living.”
“Like through your writing?” I asked, remembering how Gretchen had mentioned meeting Violet in a writing group at the library.
She gave me a sharp look and gnawed on her nail faster.
“You wrote a play for one of the community colleges, didn’t you?”
Violet’s face broke into a grin. “Did you see it?”
“I’m afraid not, but someone told me about it and said you got rave reviews.”
She nodded eagerly. “I did, I really did. I told my mom about it. I was even considering a writing career, but Mom really likes my help here. I mean, liked.”
“So you’ve given up writing altogether?”
Marriage Is Pure Murder Page 15
