by Leslie Caine
“Yep,” I joshed her,“those oils are essential, all right.” She gave me her patient smile. “Actually, the essential ingredient in potpourri is the fixative to capture and retain the aromas. Otherwise you’ll find yourself needing to replenish the stuff as fast as you can make it.”
She waved her hand over the next set of three jars.“In the middle here are ingredients for sachets . . . to be used in bedrooms—the relaxing lavenders and sleep-conducive scents, the rosebuds and petals, the—”
I scanned the entire array before me and interrupted, “You collected this many flowers just from your garden?”
“Florist shops. I drive around town and ask for their discards, then I dry them.” She indicated a third collection of potpourris. “What I’m working on right now is the final blend in the kitchen category of potpourri, which for obvious reasons leans more toward fruit peels and spices. And lastly, on the far side of the counter, we have our public-spaces scents. These are designed to lightly enhance the air, never to overwhelm. Your job, Erin, is to rank the blends within each category.”
“Excellent. That’s a task exactly up to my speed today.” We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since yesterday. I swallowed hard, realizing that I had to tell her my horrible news.
She searched my eyes, then put her arm around my shoulders and said quietly, “I heard about your friend, dear. I’m so terribly sorry.You must feel utterly traumatized.”
“You could say that, yes.” My throat tightened, and sensing I didn’t want to talk about it now, she went back to her task of breaking off dried flower buds from their stems, without pursuing the topic. I, meanwhile, struggled to push the memories away and to concentrate on Audrey’s pleasant assignment. John had said he’d call, and I had until then to avoid the subject of Wong’s claiming that John had mentioned my name several weeks before we’d even met.
With fish-cooking odors on their way, I decided to start with the kitchen category, and ultimately selected the lemony one over the cinnamon-apple or minty ones. My favorite blend had an unusual and pleasing lemon-vanilla aroma. Audrey told me that she’d used gum ben-zion as the fixative, which was the vanilla scent that my nose had detected. I reasoned that it would be best to judge the more subtle aromas ahead of the stronger ones. As I moved on to the “public areas” collections, I asked, “Are you going to be keeping them in these containers?”
“Good heavens, no. I’ll demonstrate how to make sachets and herb pillows, or how to make really attractive displays within open bowls, or lace-covered containers wherever there’s the good possibility of the bowl getting tipped over.”
The thought of bowls getting knocked over brought my bull-in-the-china-shop customer to mind.“By the way, through a strange coincidence, your Saturday night date is with one of my clients.” I deliberately withheld the words least favorite from my description of Hammerin’ Hank.
“Henry Toben is your client?”
“Yes. He doesn’t exactly seem the sophisticated, distinguished type you normally go for.”
“Don’t remind me.When it comes to Mr.Toben, I’m definitely slumming. But this is only one evening out of my life, and sometimes these low-expectation dates can surprise you. I remember that I didn’t especially want to go out with Walter.”
“Husband number three?”
“Four.”
“Audrey, I’ve gotta say, if you wind up being the second Mrs. Hammerin’ Hank, I’ll cry myself to sleep for weeks afterward.”
“If that happens, you and I will be sharing Kleenex boxes, believe me.” She dropped a rosebud into the bowl and its rich perfumes wafted toward me.“But don’t worry, dear. Finding the fifth Mr. Audrey Munroe is nowhere on my list of things to do this year. And Hank is dead last on my list of eligible-bachelor candidates.”
“Who’s number one?”
She clutched her hands over her heart, beamed at me, and murmured wistfully,“Gregory Peck.”
“He . . . died a couple years ago, Audrey.”
Her face fell. “Did he? Oh, dear. That’s dreadful news.” She sighed and grabbed my arm as if for support. Under her breath, she added, “For one thing, this means that Hammerin’ Hank just moved up a notch.”
Audrey’s Potpourri Recipe: Walk in the Woods
2 cups crushed leaves
2 cups crushed pinecones
1 cup pine needles
1 cup rose petals
1⁄2 cup violets
1⁄2 cup rosemary
6 drops pine oil
3 drops eucalyptus oil
1 cup cedar wood chips
1 cup mint leaves
5 tablespoons dried orris root
Chapter 12
Early the next morning, Sullivan came to my office to brainstorm about Henry’s new purchases. I was already in a sour mood; I’d endured a rough night, unable to sleep as I ruminated on George Wong’s passive-aggressive behavior. Plus, John hadn’t called me despite saying he would, and it grew too late to place the call myself. So, when Sullivan remarked about it having been “awfully convenient that John claims he may have touched the blade just yesterday,” it was all I could do not to light into Sullivan for introducing me to someone he now quite obviously believed capable of murder. Under the circumstances, I decided not to fuel Sullivan’s fire and tell him about my confrontation with Wong. And I certainly wouldn’t tell him about Wong’s parting line.
As for Sullivan’s and my ability to work together on Henry’s project, things started out well. We groused for a while about what a difficult client he was, though I pointed out that he was a recent widower. Sullivan agreed that the chartreuse velour beanbag chair would work best in a trash bin and that my vibrant violet and Kelly green to avocado accessories for the living room had to be returned and replaced with neutral hues. That was as far as our agreement could go. Like an old man with his one prized-but-hideous chair, Sullivan settled into and then clung to a ridiculous notion of creating an “African safari room,” complete with the masks and various animal-skin products. He insisted we’d be better off sacrificing one entire room to the taste-challenged, whereas I was determined to minimize the impact of the tacky items and, at once, unify the home’s interior by locating one piece of pseudo–African kitsch in each room.
“Here’s the deal, Sullivan,” I eventually proclaimed nastily, pulling rank. “This is my project, so I get the final say-so. But it’s Henry’s house, not mine. So. We’ll each do a quick work-up of our respective ideas, and we’ll let Henry decide.”
“Fine.” He rose, obviously eager to escape my company.
“Fine. And may the best designer win. Even though she might not.”
He leveled his gaze at me. “She?”
I spread my arms. “If Henry had even one iota of good taste or judgment, he wouldn’t have switched orders on me in the first place. So you’ve probably already got this silly competition in the Gucci handbag.”
He made a derisive noise and growled, “Nice, Gilbert. Now if my design gets chosen, you can protect your ego and tell yourself that it’s only because the customer is too unsophisticated.”
“Only because that happens to be the truth.”
“And it’s also true that my solution for Toben’s home is better than yours.”
“No, it isn’t, Sullivan!”
He glanced back at me, smirked, and replied, “Whatever you say. Keep up the good work, Gilbert.” He descended the stairs.
“You too, Sullivan!” I called after him, livid. “Come to think of it, lumping all of a client’s white elephants into one room is just freakin’ brilliant! Why actually try to incorporate them into the overall design of his living spaces, when we can accept his money for treating an entire room of his like one great big junk drawer?”
Standing in the stairway below, he retorted, “Ask yourself this, Gilbert: If these were real white elephants, which would you prefer—having the herd isolated in one room, or spread throughout the entire household, wrecking everything in their path?”<
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The hinge creaked as he opened the door. Before it could shut behind him, I yelled, “I don’t know and I don’t care, because they aren’t live elephants. Furthermore, your question proves that all those teachers who insist there’s no such thing as a stupid question are dead wrong!”
“And so are you. Maybe you can all get together and form a club. See you later.”
Unable to formulate a comeback, I grumbled to myself, “And, by the way, Mr. Sullivan, I am the best designer!” The door had already shut behind him.
The day dragged on. I had to admit that I’d been less than gracious to the deliverymen when I signed for the cherry-red sectional that morning. The fact that I still hadn’t spoken to John about George Wong’s insinuation was never far from my thoughts. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone and call him. If I did, I’d have to explain why I’d lied about not intending to visit with Wong myself and, worse, confront the doubts that had crept into my head and heart about John’s innocence in Laura’s murder. And that was something better discussed face-to-face.
It was nearly six P.M. by the time I was able to leave work, but before heading home to place the unavoidable phone call to John, I decided to stop by Paprika’s. I wanted to offer to take Hannah to dinner so that we could chat about Jerry Stone, the activist cum undercover cop. I’d seen for myself that Laura had recognized Stone’s face. Plus, although Hannah wasn’t exactly a friend, she was at least a friendly acquaintance, so talking with her had to be a pleasant change of pace from police officers. Or from George Wong. Not to mention the oblivious, conniving, sour-visaged Steve Sullivan.
I entered the store and quickly spotted Hannah rearranging a display in the flatware section. She had a deep frown on her round face, and she appeared to be lost in thought. As I walked up beside her, I said, “Hi, Hannah.”
She jumped and clenched a butter knife in her fist like a weapon as she whirled to face me. “Erin! You startled me.” She didn’t smile, let alone chuckle at her overreaction; she merely returned the butter knife to its designated slot.
So much for being friendly acquaintances. “Hannah, is everything all right?”
“Oh, sure.”
“You look a little upset.” We designers are trained to notice subtle nuances, I mused to myself.
She pursed her lips and resumed her task of micro-adjusting the alignment of every fork, spoon, and knife on the display table. “The owner’s giving me a hard time about my handling of our little gang of thieves.”
“Pardon?”
“We’ve been having a major problem with shoplifting all of a sudden.”
“That’s too bad. You’ve had one heck of a week . . . shoplifters plus getting berated by that activist. Jerry Stone, you said his name was?”
“Yeah. At least he’s kept a low profile the last couple days. He hasn’t shown his face here since Laura flipped him on his ass. Even so, if my downward spiral continues, I’m going to get fired.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen.”
Hannah frowned and replied, “Just in case, I’d better figure out how to pry more money out of Dave.”
“He’s paying you alimony?”
She shrugged. “It’s chicken feed, compared to what he earns.” She finally turned away from the display, apparently satisfied. “So. What can I do for you?”
Turned off by her unpleasant mood, I had already changed my mind about asking her to dinner. The last thing I needed was to spend time with someone clearly as bitter as Steve Sullivan. “Nothing, really. Just thought I’d stop by before I went home . . . thought maybe Jerry Stone might have been hanging around in the last day or two. I’m hoping the police will be able to locate him and maybe find out how he knew Laura.”
“Well, maybe they’ve already arrested him for loitering, or something. I’m sure they’ll spot him easily enough. He’s hard to miss, what with those dreadlocks and that beard.”
“The dreadlocks were a wig. The beard might have been fake, as well.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Why would anyone go to that kind of trouble . . . disguising himself like that?”
“To prevent Laura from recognizing him, I assume.”
“But, if that was all there was to it, why would he be wearing the getup every day for, like, three or four weeks, and get in my face all that time about Paprika’s merchandise? You’d think that if he was a stalker, he’d want to keep a low profile . . . not make a spectacle of himself. It’s almost like he had a personal vendetta against both me and Laura at . . .”
Her voice faded, and her cheeks grew almost as red as Henry’s new sofa.
Speculating aloud, I said, “Stalking one woman while publicly harassing another doesn’t make much sense, unless it stemmed from the connection between you and Laura. Maybe he’s linked with your ex-husband in some way.”
She looked at me as though I’d just suggested she turn Paprika’s into a bowling alley. “That isn’t possible. Dave would never do anything underhanded like that.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest he had a direct hand in it . . . that he’d hired the guy to harass you, or something.” Although, now that the possibility was out there, maybe that’s exactly what Dave had done. Despite my growing doubts, I continued, “Dave might not even know about Jerry. Dave’s business is obviously doing well. Corporations sometimes hire people to spy on their competitors. Maybe someone’s investigating his personal connections . . . something like that.”
Again, she shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.” Without so much as glancing at her watch or noting that there were other customers in the store besides me, she snapped, “It’s closing time. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Erin.”
“Of course. Sorry to have bothered you . . .”
She gave me a tight smile. “You didn’t. And I’m sorry to be so abrupt. Just not having the best of days today, that’s all.” She took a few steps toward the door, in a not-subtle effort to usher me out of the store. “Stop in again sometime, and we’ll talk.”
“I’ll do that. Good night, Hannah.”
“Yes. Goodbye.” She pivoted and walked toward the sales counter.
I stepped outside, into the brisk evening air. The darkening sky was a lovely indigo, but I was too puzzled by Hannah’s behavior to admire my surroundings. Hannah had crossed the line from curtness into downright hostility. Why? And it was one thing to be “startled” and quite another to instantly be at the ready to physically defend yourself. Something had her spooked that went beyond apprehension regarding her job security. What? Or who?
I hesitated before returning to my office and my car. A man was skulking near Paprika’s main entrance. He was wearing blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and was hugging himself to stay warm. He seemed to be hiding his face from me; he was turned toward the brick wall of a shop next door—not exactly the most natural-looking pose. I stared at his feet. He had on Birkenstock sandals and white socks. Jerry Stone, sans the wig. I promptly looked for any suspicious bulges in the small of his back. I didn’t see any, so maybe this time he was unarmed.
What’s he doing here? With my pulse racing, I strode purposefully around the corner, grabbed my cell phone, and called Linda Delgardio. She answered, and I said quickly in a hushed voice, “I found Jerry Stone, the guy Laura claimed was stalking her. He’s on the downtown mall in front of Paprika’s . . . Opal and Fourteenth. Can you get out here right away?”
“That’s not far from where I am. I’ll be right out. Describe him.”
I described his clothing and basic body type, but his features had been hidden behind hair the only time I’d seen him face-to-face. Assuring Linda that I was going to “chat with the guy” and stall him until she could arrive in her squad car, I hung up and doubled back. Jerry had turned around and was shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to stay warm as he avidly watched Paprika’s door.
The staff was leaving. Hannah lingered by the door as she let everyone and
then herself out. Jerry made a show of hunkering over his cell phone, pretending to talk while he waited for Hannah. Could he be stalking Hannah now? I hesitated, hoping that Linda would arrive in time so that I wouldn’t have to risk scaring him off by trying to stall him. Hannah began her usual brisk, choppy walk down the brown-brick pedestrian mall, and when she passed him, Jerry took off after her.
Keeping an eye out for a patrol car, I raced up to him before he could drift too far from Fourteenth Street for Linda to spot us both. “Jerry? Jerry Stone?”
He turned and gaped at me. Hannah kept walking. She rounded the next corner.
Jerry took a step backward as though weighing the notion of running. Instead, however, he held his ground. “How’d you know my name?” His voice was—
“Hannah Garrison told me.”
“Hannah Garrison?” Without his wig and beard, he was nondescript—neither handsome nor ugly, brown eyes, thin lips, a slightly bulbous nose that reminded me of Hildi’s squeeze-toy mouse. He was clean-shaven, and roughly my age, with a deeply receding hairline that made him look older. “You mean the manager of that loathsome store?”
“Who you were following just now. Yes.”
He at least had the decency to avert his eyes and show a little embarrassment at being caught. “Just trying to get through to the woman to mend her ways,” he mumbled.
“By stalking her?”
He shrugged and took another step away. I had to soften my tone or he was sure to run off before Linda could arrive to question him about Laura. Casually, I said, “I was at Paprika’s the other night, when you claimed to be there as an undercover cop.”
“I remember. You were sitting in the front row.”
“That’s right. I’m curious, Jerry: Why did you claim to be a police officer?”
