Yasmine Galenorn - Chintz 'n China 02

by Legend of the Jade Dragon

  I waved at Horvald, who was out misting his roses, and he waved back. The paperboy had tossed the newspaper in the middle of the front yard again, no matter how often I asked him to either stick it in the newspaper tube under the mailbox or to bring it up to the front porch. I dashed down and snatched it up from the dew-laden grass. On my way back, I stopped and stared at the porch swing.

  There, wrapped in a thin tissue paper, sat a gorgeous bouquet of tulips. I picked them up and looked for a card, but there was nothing there. My throat began to close, but a thought hit me and, before I jumped to conclusions, I ran across the street.

  “Horvald, did you put these on my porch this morning?” I asked. “There wasn’t a card.”

  He glanced at the tulips and gave me a wide grin. “Missy, I wanted to brighten your day. You seem to have had a rough time of it lately. Any time you want a bouquet for your table, just ask, and I’ll make you up a pretty one of whatever flowers I happen to have in season.” He went back to his weeding.

  I winked at him. “You’re a sweetie, Horvald. I appreciate it!” I asked him if he would keep an eye on the house while we were gone—just take a peek out his window now and then to make sure everything looked intact. He promised he would and, relieved, I made my way back over to my house and put the flowers in water, setting the vase on the coffee table. Samantha came along and leapt up to examine the new addition to the living room. I could tell she was debating whether or not to chow down on the leaves. “Stop that you twit. Shoo!” She. gave me a snooty look that said I was bright as a dog’s butt and huffed her way into the kitchen, tail and nose twitching in the air, to await her majesty’s breakfast.

  The kids were up; they made a beeline for the fridge, so I grabbed myself a Danish and ate in front of the television, leaving them to breakfast on cereal in the kitchen. The story about Norma Roberts was all over the news. Cathy Sutton was uncharacteristically sober as she reported their findings.

  “Mrs. Roberts told her friends at her church choir practice that she had a stomachache and needed to go home early. She left the church at seven-thirty p.m., and a neighbor spied her car pulling into the driveway at around seven forty-five. When Douglas Roberts arrived home at midnight, he found her unconscious, near the front door. Mrs. Roberts is in serious condition, though expected to make a full recovery. She remembers very little of the incident. Her purse is missing, along with several valuable pieces of jewelry.”

  The camera cut to Tad Bonner, the chief of police. He looked tired. “Norma Roberts surprised the burglar and was struck with a heavy brass candlestick. It appears that the assailant entered the Roberts home through a side window. We are urging all citizens of Chiqetaw to lock their doors and windows and to prune back any shrubbery that obscures windows or entrances to their houses.”

  The camera switched to a picture of Jimbo. I stared at the screen, swallowing the mouthful of pastry that was trying to stick in my throat. Bonner continued. “We’re looking for James Warren in connection with this case. Warren goes by the nickname of Jimbo, and has a large tattoo of a bat with a skull’s head covering his upper left arm. He’s currently wanted on an arrest warrant for property damage, and we’re asking anyone with any information about Mr. Warren’s whereabouts to contact the Chiqetaw Police Department. Do not approach Mr. Warren directly; he may be dangerous. I want to emphasize that Mr. Warren is simply considered a person of interest, and we are not calling him a suspect in this particular case, at this time.”

  At this time. I heard the emphasis in Bonner’s voice.

  James Warren. So that was Jimbo’s name. Nerve-racked and more than a little scared, I flipped the channel to the Cartoon Network and joined the kids in the kitchen.

  “Hey, I’m thinking we should get that home security system we were talking about at dinner last night.” I lightened my voice so they wouldn’t hear my fear, but they sniffed it out anyway.

  Kip eyed me solemnly, spewing Lucky Charms out of his mouth as he asked, “What happened?”

  Miranda gave him a disgusted look. “Quit talking with your mouth full, nozzle face.” He stuck his tongue out at her; it was covered in crushed oats and marshmallows. When I cleared my throat, they quieted down, and Miranda turned back to me and asked, “Mom, did something happen? You look really upset.”

  I debated with myself; how much should I tell them? If Jimbo wasn’t satisfied with smashing my window, then he might come back. And if he was the one who trashed my shop and who assaulted Norma Roberts, then we might all be in danger. I had no choice; they had to be warned.

  “Okay. The manager of the Brown Bear Bar & Grill found his wife unconscious on their floor last night. She was hit over the head when she interrupted a robbery at their home. The police think that the assailant may be a man who has a grudge against me. They think he might be the one who broke our window and that he might also have robbed the shop.”

  Miranda’s terrified deer-mouse look sprang to her face. “You made some guy mad enough that he might want to hurt you?”

  “What did you do?” Kip interrupted. As usual, he seemed too enthusiastic over what was supposed to be bad news. “C’mon, tell!”

  Briefly, I told them about the Jimbo incident. “He wouldn’t leave me alone, so I pushed him into a rack of trays. He was drunk, and furious by the time they managed to throw him out.”

  Randa sniffed. I could tell her sense of outrage was waging war with her fear. “He deserved it. But now you think he might have hurt the manager’s wife?”

  “I don’t know, honestly, and neither do the police. They’re looking into it. Until we know the truth, I want you both to be extra careful. When I’m not home, always keep the doors locked. Check who’s outside before you let them in. Under no circumstances, open the door to anybody if I’m gone unless you peek out the peephole and see that it’s Joe or Murray or Harlow.” I sighed. This is what I’d moved to Chiqetaw to avoid. Now the world was slowly but surely catching up.

  “Maybe we should get a dog,” Kip suggested.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” My son could be the king of non sequiturs when he tried.

  “Dogs protect their owners.”

  Aha! Now I understood. The squirt had been trying to get me to agree to a dog for weeks now. To him, this spelled golden opportunity. “Nice try, kiddo,” I said, “but I don’t think so. Samantha and her brood provide enough animal companionship in our home.” I decided to drop them off at school. Jimbo might be hanging around, and I didn’t want him anywhere near them. “Get your stuff together.” I grabbed my purse and keys. With a quick look at Horvald’s bouquet, I thought that at least someone had managed to brighten my day.

  WHEN I G O T to work, Joe had left a message offering to take the kids and me to a movie Friday night. I played phone tag, leaving a message that we’d be gone for the weekend, then turned my attention to the shop. The insurance check hadn’t arrived yet, so I put in a quick call to Applewood to ask what was going on. They said it had been processed and would be on its way to my bank shortly.

  Cinnamon poked her head around the corner. “Lana wants to know if you still want her to come in today, since there isn’t much to do until we get restocked.”

  I squinted, thinking. I’d been wanting to recover the shelves in a different paper; now would be the perfect time, before the new stock arrived. “Tell her to come in now, dressed for grunge work. We’ll spiffy the place up while we’re waiting for the check. I’m going shopping for paper to line the shelves.”

  I grabbed the new credit card that my credit company had FedExed me, and headed for Home Depot.

  As I poked through the sale bins, not seeing anything I liked, a familiar voice caught me by surprise. It was Eunice Addison, Walter Mitchell’s mother and the donor of all the expensive china I’d soon be getting. I had to be nice to her, even though she set my teeth on edge every time we met. “Emerald, what are you doing here today? What a cute dress—a little short, but cute. It sets off your figure so mu
ch better than some of those baggy dresses I’ve seen you wear.”

  Baggy? I didn’t wear baggy dresses. And short was a relative term. My sundress grazed the top of my knees; it wasn’t like I was wearing a minidress. I pressed my lips together and smiled.

  “I’m sorry about how long it’s going to take to get you the china,” she said, then lowered her voice. “We heard about the breakin. Shameful, just shameful. All your pretty china. The Ladies’ Auxiliary Society discussed the situation the other night, and we wondered if you might be able to plan a tea for us next Thursday? We number fourteen, and we’d love to hold our meeting in your shop if you could provide a light luncheon for us. Nothing fancy, of course, I realize that you’ve lost a lot of wares.”

  My jaw dropped. She was actually doing me another favor. “I think we can accommodate your meeting,” I stammered. “I’ll reserve the tearoom from one until four. Will that be long enough?”

  She bobbed her blue-curled head and adjusted her Chanel suit. At least a size too small, the jacket clung to her at an odd angle, but I supposed with the kind of money she had, none of her society friends were going to mention it. “Perfect. Whatever it costs, just have an invoice waiting for me. We’ll see you next Thursday, at one p.m., my dear. And good luck with your shopping!”

  She wended her way through the aisles toward the front of the store. I scribbled a note in my portable Day-Timer about the tea. “Frilly sandwiches. Watercress. Lemon cake. Petit fours.” People never failed to amaze me—and sometimes, it was via a pleasant surprise. Now, back to my hunt. In the last bin of shelf liners, I saw what I wanted: a pale ivory lace pattern dappled with tiny viridian ribbons and plum chiffon flowers. Perfect for the Chintz ‘n China.

  I carried the last seven rolls to the counter, along with several of plain ivory and lavender in case we needed extra. I handed my card to the cashier, and she rang up my purchases. As she swiped my plastic, a beep-beep rang out. Oh great. Now what? “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this isn’t going through. It says your account has been closed.”

  What? Closed? Ridiculous! “That’s not possible. This is a new card; they changed my account number, and it should be open and active. Try again, please.” I held my breath as she tried again, but once more the beeping signaled a rejection. After the third try, I handed her my personal credit card, and she rang them up on that, but she insisted on cutting up the shop card thanks to some damfool message from the authentication bureau or wherever they ran the credit card numbers through. I stomped back to my store, thrust the contact paper into Lana’s arms, and put through the call to the credit card company.

  “I’m so sorry,” the customer rep said after checking out my account information. “It looks like our operator entered the wrong code and closed your business account after ordering the new card. We’ll be happy to reopen it and FedEx you another new card. You’ll receive it within three business days.”

  I sputtered until they gave me an account number to use until I got the new card. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re very sorry.” Dropping the receiver into the cradle, I leaned back in my chair. Yet another lovely mishap in my week-from-hell marathon.

  At least the call to Larry, my sandwich wizard extraordinaire, went okay. “Hey babe, I need a special order next Thursday, a week from today.”

  “Whaddaya want, hot stuff?*’ Larry always flirted with me, but I didn’t mind. I knew he was joking, and he knew he was joking. It was just his way of being friendly.

  “Oh God, I have fourteen society matrons coming in expecting something in the range of a high tea. Better give me an assortment of finger sandwiches… cucumber, watercress, tomato, maybe roast beef—the fancy, frilly stuff. I also need cakes and scones. These women are Anglophiles. Petit fours would be great if you have them. For soup, can you give me a light chicken consomme and a shrimp bisque? I can’t serve wine here, but maybe you can come up with a trifle? And a veggie-dip platter? That should fill them up.” And it would take a hefty bite out of my budget, too. Eunice would be receiving her invoice, all right.

  He whistled. “Pricey, but sounds great. Okay. Can do. What time do you want them delivered?”

  “Make it noon, since we have to set up by one.” I thanked him and signed off, wandering out of my office into the main store. Lana was making headway with the shelf paper. “That’s nice, very nice. A good change,” I said. “Subtle but pretty.” I looked around for something to do, but they had everything under control. I started back toward my office when the phone rang. Cinnamon motioned me over.

  “Emerald? It’s Lincoln Elementary.”

  Kip’s school? Oh God, now what? I grabbed the phone. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

  Vonda, the school nurse, answered. “I don’t want you to worry, but I’m at the hospital with your son.”

  “Hospital!” I yelled so loud I’m sure I broke her eardrum.

  “Please don’t be upset. Kip sliced his thumb open. The cut needs stitches, but it isn’t serious.”

  “Isn’t serious? If he needs stitches, it’s serious!” Why

  did everyone insist on telling me not to worry when I had every reason to panic? “What happened? How?”

  “A freak accident. It was Kip’s turn to feed the class hamster, and when he finished and headed back to his seat, he tripped over a backpack that had fallen off one of the kid’s chairs. He landed on the craft table and sliced his thumb on the paper cutter. We had your permission slip, so I brought him right to the hospital.”

  I inhaled deeply and let my breath out in a slow stream. “How many stitches are we talking about?”

  “Not many. Fifteen.”

  “That’s the whole side of his thumb! I’ll be there as soon as I can. Let me speak to the ER nurse.”

  Vonda put the nurse on.

  “Mrs. O’Brien, don’t worry. Your son will be fine. The doctor is getting ready to stitch the injury now. Children get hurt like this every day.”

  “Don’t tell me not to worry.” I lost it and started yelling into the phone. “I have two children; I know what trouble they can get into. If the cut needs fifteen stitches, it’s not a minor cut!” I stopped short. Why was I wasting my time on the phone? “You’re sure he’s going to be okay?”

  She patiently explained once again that Kip was going to be fine, and I forced myself to calm down. She wasn’t an idiot, and this wasn’t her fault. She was just following procedure. I stammered out a brief apology and said I’d be there in ten minutes. As I hung up, a wave of dizziness swept over me, and I grabbed the counter. Cinnamon raced around to help me to a chair and brought me some water. After a moment, my sense of equilibrium returned.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just stress. This past week has been hell.” I sipped the water and asked her to get me an ibuprofen, then told her that I was taking the rest of the day off, along with Friday and Saturday. Since we had no new inventory as of yet, I’d be back on Monday, and she and Lana were to run the shop as usual, finish repapering the shelves, and make the deposits every night. If there was an emergency, she had my cell number, and I authorized her to do whatever she felt best should I be out of contact.

  Cinnamon reassured me everything would be fine, and I gave her a quick hug and took off for the hospital. I drove carefully. So many things had happened that I wasn’t about to chance anything more.

  Eight

  VONDA AND THE ER nurse were telling the truth. Kip was going to be fine, and the cut would heal, though he’d probably have a scar. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. By the tune I got there, the doctor was bandaging the cut, but not before I managed to get a peek at the line of sutures holding the edges of the wound together.

  “What on earth were you doing, honey? What happened?”

  Kip told me the whole story again, embellishing it as only a nine-year-old can who has the full attention of an adult. He ducked his head, pain still etched on his face. “I got dizzy and tripped, I guess. I didn’t see the backpack.”

  Vonda chimed in. “Mr
s. Weaver feels terrible. She keeps the paper cutter closed, but somehow, today it was open, and when Kip reached out to catch himself, his hand went sliding along the edge. It was a freak accident.”

  Freak accident. There had been a lot of freak accidents lately. I thanked Vonda and then gave the school nurse Roy’s insurance information. The court ensured he still paid the premiums for the kids. I gathered Kip up, and we headed out to the parking lot, where I made sure he was comfortably settled in the back of the Cherokee. On the way home, we stopped at QFC to pick up the ingredients for fettuccine Alfredo, one of his favorite dishes. I added a peach pie to the basket, greens for a salad, paper towels, and children’s aspirin.

  As we pulled into the driveway, he touched my arm. “Mom, I know I’m clumsy, but I’m not blind. Mrs. Weaver closed the paper cutter when we were done with our art projects, and that was right before I went over to feed Skippy.” His eyes were round, and he looked confused.