Poison Ivy

by Misty Simon

  She snipped some hair from behind my left shoulder and I watched her in the mirror, waiting for the punch line for what I assumed was going to be a snort-worthy story.

  “Everything is ready,” she continued. “He lights the bag, rings the doorbell, and starts to run from the door. Problem is, the bag ripped at some point and most of the poop, which he made sure was soft and fresh, is on the sidewalk. He steps right into it, slips, and falls on his ass in the pile of crap. He didn’t get up fast enough because he didn’t want to get any more dog crap on his clothes, he said. And that’s how Mr. Seaver caught him lying on the sidewalk covered in crap. Let me tell you, Ben was in detention every afternoon for the rest of the year, and the teacher made him clean every smudge of dog doo from the porch and sidewalk with a toothbrush.”

  Imagining Ben down on his knees with his little toothbrush, I snorted until my sides hurt. Once I got myself under control, Bella proceeded to tell me stories about Ben and his various childhood screw-ups, (including one very funny tale about a dog, a bush, and hiding from an overly friendly girl) and his return to Martha’s Point after college.

  I was still laughing thirty minutes later when Bella made me close my eyes while she whipped me around in the chair to face the mirror. “Voila!”

  I opened my eyes, still a little dizzy from the spin, and gasped in surprise. I was...I was beautiful.

  I almost started crying until Bella threatened me with her shears. “I know I was only going to do your hair and nails, but I’m glad you let me do the whole thing. You look fabulous.”

  And I did. My hair was soft and shiny, touchable. The makeup was subtle but emphasized my eyes and cheekbones enough to make my face look thinner, and in addition my lashes looked a mile long. Very nice. Now I had to come up with an outfit that did the face and hair justice.

  I jumped up, gave Bella a huge hug, and laughed as she wished me luck tonight. I didn’t need luck. I was fabulous.

  I hustled back to the shop, locked up after Kitty, and headed for home. I’d left a light on for myself, and the soft glow from my front room welcomed me. I absolutely loved this house and the grounds around it. Every time I approached the cottage, I silently thanked Great-Aunt Gertie. Not for dying, of course, but for leaving me this beautiful piece of heaven, and my shop.

  I had a viable income, a roof over my head, and now I guessed I was approaching a place where a relationship could be my next step. But I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. A lot of Bella’s stories had been about Ben with roughly half the population of Martha’s Point. Did I really want to get involved with someone like that?

  I didn’t know and, until I was sure, I was going to be cautious. Or so I told myself until the doorbell rang an hour later and I opened the door to the sexiest man I had seen outside of a magazine or movie in, well, really, forever.

  Ben stood on the porch, his green eyes twinkling and a smile on his face. He’d tucked his white oxford shirt into a pair of chinos that fell at precisely the right place on his brown suede shoes. Unlike his previous outfits, this shirt looked freshly ironed. His hair was damp, which sent my imagination into overdrive with shower scenes, naked bodies, and fresh clean skin.

  Get a grip! I silently berated myself as I figuratively wiped the drool from my mouth. When I finally remembered my manners, I invited him in for a pre-dinner drink, and he produced a handful of daisies from behind his back.

  Okay, this was getting to be too much. Not only was he totally yummy, but he’d also brought flowers? I wasn’t so sure this was merely dinner any more. This felt like, for lack of a better word, courting.

  Chapter Fifteen

  One car ride later, I was almost positive it was courting. He helped me out of the car before I even had a chance to open the door, and offered his arm as we walked the short distance from the parking lot. An old Victorian house converted into three dining rooms and the kitchen, the restaurant was in a part of town I had yet to explore. A path wound its way from the parking lot to massive oak double-front doors. Soft light filtered out through the beveled panes of glass fitted into the top of each one.

  Was I ready for courting? I mean, Ben was certainly hot and funny and nice. But I was still attempting to nail down the proprietress thing and trying to figure out who stole my underwear, plus ferreting out who would want to kill Janice. Did I have time for a relationship on top of everything else?

  The answer was not fast in coming. Ben held the left door open and ushered me into the vestibule with his hand on the small of my back, which sent a little tingle of pleasure racing up my spine.

  A sharply dressed man stood at a podium, looking officious. “Two for Fallon,” Ben said to him, and my mind started playing that ridiculous game where you imagine yourself with the guy’s last name. Complete with curlicues and hearts. Mrs. Ivy Fallon. Had a nice ring to it.

  No! I jerked myself out of Inappropriate Fantasyland as we were led to a table draped in white linen and topped with two slender candlesticks in a shade of red that reminded me of blood. The color brought back thoughts of Janice’s murder and dampened my enthusiasm for dinner. The police had to have some leads. Why did I think they needed my help when they had training and expertise of their own?

  Maybe because I had more invested in finding out who had cut down my friend in the prime of her life. Sure, the police would do their jobs, but they had other cases, too, and two heads were always better than one. The metaphor was a little off, but the purpose was there.

  “So what’ll you have?” Ben said, breaking into my morose thoughts.

  I shook my head to clear it of murder and mayhem and reached for a menu, which when opened showed no prices. I was freaked out now, but for an entirely different reason. What kind of small town reporter, excuse me, food critic, could afford to take a first date to a restaurant without prices in the menu?

  Please don’t let me be bankrupting him, I thought as I ordered the least-expensive-looking thing—the chicken fettuccine alfredo. Ben ordered some duck à la something, and wine was brought to the table.

  After over-indulging this last weekend, I didn’t even want to look at alcohol, much less participate in its consumption. I declined, my hand over my glass, and Ben poured for himself.

  “So, well, this is nice,” I said. Dumb, Ivy, dumb.

  “Yeah, I like it. Jerry makes a wicked chicken fettuccine. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  “Jerry?”

  “The chef,” he said, as a breeze streamed past me and in its wake left a man who could have doubled as a Sumo wrestler. I couldn’t see any of the other diners past his girth and wondered if this was the infamous Jerry. The single-breasted chef jacket and tall white hat could have had something to do with my clever deduction.

  “Jerry,” Ben said. Suspicion confirmed. “This is Ivy Morris. Ivy, Jerry Bourcheron.”

  I extended my hand for a firm and business-like shake (after all, Jerry might need a costume one day, though I didn’t know what I had that would fit him), and I was neatly yanked out of my chair into a hug that would have crushed a lesser woman.

  “I love a woman with some meat on her bones,” Jerry said, and I struggled for a moment not to take that as an insult. “You, bella mia, are in for a treat. I am pulling out all the stops for my friend Ben tonight, and you will be treated to the finest meal in the history of meals.” He finally released me, and I filled my lungs with air as he kissed my hand and stomped off. He reminded me of the Jolly Green Giant except he was dressed in white.

  “You have to love Jerry,” Ben said with a little smirk on his face, giving me the impression he knew something I didn’t and was enjoying the moment.

  “He’s very friendly,” I said in my most diplomatic tone.

  Ben laughed, the belly laugh that made my insides liquefy. I waited for the hilarity to stop before I said, “Stuff it, Ben.” Bella would not be proud of my comeback, as it was extremely childish, but I gave myself points for saying anything at all.

  A waiter came over, be
aring a basket of bread and a small dish into which he poured extra virgin-looking olive oil and used one of those cool pepper-grinder things to complete a dip for the French bread. Ben sat back and gave me his full-on smile with the dimples and all. I started to feel distinctly itchy.

  “So, Ivy Morris. I have finally managed to get you all to myself and now can begin my nefarious plan.”

  “Good word,” I said, before I could stop myself, and then endured the blush I knew was creeping up my neck.

  “You like that one?” Ben said.

  “Uh, no. I was, er, enjoying the bread.” I plastered a fake smile over my red flaming face and prayed my babbling would distract him enough for us to have a normal conversation.

  “Really. Well, me, I like big words. I think they’re fascinating. Don’t you, Ivy? They are so interesting when you try to put them into a sentence.”

  This was a very odd conversation. In all the time I’d known Ben, which admittedly was not very long, I had never heard him try to use big words. I mean, this would have seriously tipped the scale toward jumping his bones immediately. Some women fall for a tight behind. Me? I fall for a silver tongue. Hmmm, that didn’t sound right, but it did sound intriguing. Either way, it seemed something was fishy in Denmark.

  “You find words fascinating?” I asked. Come on, Ivy, the man was a journalist after all. Why wouldn’t he find words fascinating?

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely splendiferous. I try and expand my mind every day, dipping into the dictionary and testing my dauntlessness and, ah, endeavoring to make myself more learned.”

  Now this might have flown—have I mentioned big words coming out of Ben’s mouth had made my thighs start tingling? Right. This might have flown if I hadn’t seen Ben’s eyes dart over and down to where I thought his left hand was. I heard the flutter of pages before he said “endeavoring.” Did the man have a freaking dictionary right now? And if he did, how could I expose him without getting caught or being overt?

  In the end, as Ben continued to spew words that would win you top points in Scrabble, I dropped my napkin on the floor. Hokey, I know, but what else could I have done? I bent over to retrieve it and a waiter was already there picking it up. “Leave it,” I hissed, startling the boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. We had a brief tug-of-war, and I won. Score one for the bigger-boned woman. I can take on a scrawny teenager in the blink of an eye.

  By this time, Ben was starting to get to his feet, and I popped up from beneath the table. During the tussle for the napkin, I’d had enough time to catch Ben with a copy of Roget’s 21st Century Thesaurus. I wasn’t far off when I’d thought dictionary. Ah-ha. So the question now begging to be answered: Was he mocking me or flirting with me? And if he was flirting, how did he know big words were my thing? We would soon see.

  “So, big words,” I said, as I straightened the tablecloth on the table and resumed eating the bread dipped in oil and pepper. Delicious, delicious carbs.

  “Um, yeah, big words. Love ’em.”

  “Funny you should say that. My family and I are always trying to one-up each other with big words. How about you? Do you use them to say, spiff up your writing?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, spiff up my work.”

  “So what great word have you come up with to use for your next article? Vociferous? Mastication? Asininity?” I heard the whir of pages and decided to take pity on him. “What’s going on, Ben? Why did you bring a thesaurus to dinner?”

  For the first time in our acquaintance it was actually Ben who looked a little pink under the collar. “Man, she’s going to hate me,” he said under his breath, but I still heard it.

  “I’m not going to hate you.”

  “Not you. Bella.”

  “What’s she got to do with this?” And then it dawned on me. Bella had asked about the big-word thing once, and I had told her all about the word championships and the notes my family and I would slip each other trying to stump someone. (For instance: What’s another word for ‘mendicant’?) That little snot must have told Ben so he could impress me. Though why he had to try to impress me was beyond my comprehension.

  “I asked her if you had any interests, and she came out with ‘big words.’ I thought I’d give it a shot, but I guess I messed it up. I shouldn’t have brought this damn thesaurus.”

  “What was your first clue?” I asked, and then giggled until he joined in. His masculine laugh threatened to turn my knees to mud. Thank God I was already sitting down.

  I think for the first time I really believed Ben was interested me as a person. He certainly went to enough trouble to find out what my likes were, although Bella might need to be seriously maimed for leaking my secrets.

  Dinner flew by as course after course arrived at our table. Following the lobster bisque soup, my chicken fettuccine alfredo arrived. By the time it was set on the table, I already felt like I’d swallowed a whale.

  I looked at Ben as he started cutting his duck whatever. His eyes widened as he really took in the portion before him, and I said, “Well, that certainly is ambitious of you.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” He lifted a forkful of duck to his mouth. “I’ve never eaten so much food in my life. I may have to risk the wrath of Jerry and ask for a doggy bag.”

  “There is no way they call leftovers doggy bags here.”

  “Absolutely. What else would you call it? This is rural Virginia. We have doggy bags. Why, is it called something else in posh Southern California?”

  “Did you know ‘posh’ actually stands for Port Over Starboard Home? It originated when wealthy people took ocean liners and ships across the Atlantic, and meant the cabin view they preferred.” Ben looked at me with a gleam in his eye and I went back to the subject at hand. Doggy bags—fascinating. “No, it’s not different in California. I...well, I just can’t see Jerry handing out bags with little doggy logos on them for his food.”

  “Just you wait,” Ben said, but I barely heard him because a scene broke out three tables away from us.

  “You damn well will give me those files,” a man said, his voice loud and his face bright red. “I will not wait for some asshole attorney to muck up things while my project goes unprinted.” He leaned in toward his dinner companion, menace in his every move. “I don’t care if she’s been dead three years or three days. You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll wait another two months. Get me the files or prepare for a court battle.” At the end, he’d started yelling. Everyone in the restaurant heard him, but most pretended to mind their own business. A few shot evil looks at him as he threw his linen napkin on the table and stalked around the other tables to the door, which he slammed behind him in a dramatic exit.

  “I wonder what that was all about,” I said, continuing to watch the older gentleman left at the table.

  “Well, this is a guess, but the guy still sitting at the table is Ralph Mercer. He’s an attorney. And from that wired guy’s parting words and the fact that the only person to turn up dead within the last three days is Janice, I’d guess he wants some files from the attorney and Ralph isn’t willing to give them up.”

  Our “doggy bags” came to the table, and they were the weirdest things I’d ever seen. Now, I hadn’t eaten in very many fancy restaurants and this could have been standard, but have you ever had to take your leftover fettuccine home wrapped in foil shaped to look like a swan?

  I got back to the conversation. My gaze moved from the swan to Ralph, who was still sitting over at his table as if too stunned to move. “That was kind of what I was thinking, too. But what kind of files? And the guy was pretty pissed when he stormed out. What could be so important that he would make such a huge deal of it in a restaurant?” It was something to think about. Right after I ate one more bite of the Death by Chocolate dessert on the china plate in front of me. Hence the to-go swan. I had my priorities, after all.

  ****

  That night, after leaving Ben outside the front door, I savored the kiss he’d planted on
me and kicked myself for still not feeling ready to jump him. What on earth was wrong with me? The man was practically everything I’d ever wanted, yet I wasn’t going for it. I figured I’d chalk it up to temporary insanity.

  I was so confused, and when you added the drama at the restaurant tonight, it didn’t make for a peaceful night. I’d changed into a comfortable T-shirt and a pair of men’s pajama pants. While brushing my teeth, I looked up into the mirror and something about the way the light hit my hair reminded me of Janice before she’d put on the wig to go with her costume.

  Then it hit me. Could the angry man in the restaurant be the idiot customer she was talking about while I got her costume together? Could he be in town trying to get the files he hadn’t paid for, the files Janice wouldn’t give him when she was alive? Could he have killed her to get his hands on what he thought was his?

  That kind of thinking could get me into trouble, though. I had no proof, and whoever heard of someone killing to get a company report back? I decided to put him and the murder out of my head for a little while. Until I had time to check out the identity of the angry man, I had nothing to go on. Who was I kidding? I had nothing to go on period, and no contacts within the police force to see if they had any leads, either.

  I was still too wired to go to bed and found myself firmly planted in front of the television, prone on the couch with a bowl of Cheetos in my hand. Nothing exciting was on, and my thoughts kept circling back to Ben. He had the greatest hands, and his smile could melt butter at thirty paces. Why would a hunk like that go after someone like me?