Roses and Revenge

by London Lovett

  Nevermore was a good ten feet up, and my tree climbing days were behind me. I held up the foil bag of treats and rattled it. Normally, I could shake the treat bag from anywhere in the house, and Nevermore would be instantly at my side, twirling around my ankles. But not this time. His big amber eyes stared longingly at the bag, and he let out a low, mournful meow. He took a small step forward with his front paw but froze when his entire body wriggled precariously on the fragile perch.

  I hadn't heard Dashwood walk up behind me until he was standing next to me. He was wearing a dark blue flannel shirt, my favorite because it contrasted nicely with his dark blond hair. He stared up into the tree and scratched his chin as he seemed to be assessing the situation.

  I stared up with him. "The moment you realize your cat is more couch potato than cat." I held up the treats. "I guess that makes me an enabler with all the goodies I toss his way. And that reality's hitting me extra hard as I stare up at my gray striped pillow from this angle."

  Dash repositioned himself under a thick branch that seemed to be the hub for the myriad of branches Nevermore was standing on. "I could give it a shake. Is it really true that cats always land on their feet?"

  "Possibly, but I think that theory is only true when the cat is lithe, supple and not carrying a large belly of fat."

  Dash looked up at Nevermore. "Those paws do look a little frail for a comfortable landing. And he looks as if he's accepted his fate that he's never going to leave the tree again. There's no way to get a ladder up into all these branches." Without another word, Dash turned to the gnarled trunk of the tree. He grabbed a few sturdy lower branches and hoisted himself effortlessly into the tree.

  "Don't fall," I said quickly.

  "That's my goal," he answered as he lifted his foot to a higher branch and pushed through the thinner branches and debris. "I knew I should have had this tree trimmed last month."

  He stepped with one foot onto a long, outstretched branch that, along with his six foot height would get him close enough to my silly cat. He pushed down on the branch several times, checking to see if it would hold his weight. There was nothing to indicate it wouldn't, no ominous cracking sound or major shift in position.

  Dash reached up to hold some branches above for extra support as he slid his feet sideways along the branch. He had incredible balance. Not to mention he played the hero part extremely well. And he looked exceptionally handsome doing it.

  Nevermore watched the entire scene below with feline indifference until Dash got close enough to reach up and grab the cat. His big hand was just about to wrap around Nevermore's rotund body when my ridiculous tabby shot off his perch and came down the maze of branches like a ball bouncing back and forth through a pinball machine. Nevermore hit the ground and ran toward the front porch.

  The branch beneath Dash's feet proved to be fickle after all. A crackling sound grew louder. It started to give way. My hand flew to my mouth as Dash jumped over to a more secure spot near the trunk and then down to the ground. He glanced down quickly at his hand and then tried, unsuccessfully, to hide it behind him.

  "Did that ungrateful bum scratch you on the way down?"

  Dash shook his head. "It's nothing."

  "Nonsense. I have special antibacterial scrub for cat scratches because my cat is a knucklehead about having his claws out at the wrong time. I think it stems from latent mommy issues or something. They weaned him way too young." I motioned toward my house. "Follow me and I'll fix you up. It's the least I can do after you risked life and limb." I pointed to the tree. "And limb for my cat." I looked back at him as he followed me to the porch. "Thank you, by the way. I think you went way beyond your job description as a helpful neighbor tonight."

  Nevermore shot inside the second I opened the door. (Not out of shame but because he'd been away from his food dish for longer than usual.)

  "Hey, Kingston." Dash walked over to say hello to the crow while I walked into my bathroom for the first aid kit.

  I returned to the living room. Dash was hand feeding Kingston a sunflower seed. My neighbor looked exceptionally tall and broad shouldered in my small front room.

  "You are brave. My cat leaves you bleeding in a tree, and yet, you are fearlessly holding out a tiny seed to my bird's long black beak."

  "Guess those last few seconds in the tree made me feel immortal." Kingston took the seed from his fingers.

  "Come out here to the living room and have a seat near the light. I promise to be gentle."

  "That's a shame," he retorted with sly smile. There was no denying that Dash and I'd had more than our share of moments of heavy duty flirting. But it had never gone further than that. And I never expected it to go past smiling and playful jokes. I wasn't sure how I'd concluded that. Dash was, technically, the most sought after man in town. Kate Yardley, the gorgeous, stylish and somewhat snooty owner of the Mod Frock Boutique practically fell out onto the sidewalk on her tall, vintage boots every time Dash strolled through town. Even Elsie's head turned when he walked past. And I'd snuck my share of peeks at my neighbor too. But there had always been something in the back of my mind telling me to steer clear of anything more serious with the man. Something told me he would only lead to unnecessary complications in my otherwise smooth sailing life. At least it was smooth sailing until the Georgio's Perfume crew rolled into town.

  Dash had only twice been inside my house for a brief visit. He looked around at my simple decor. Being a flower shop owner I always had at least two vases of flowers, one for the small table in the front window and one for the end table near the sofa. I'd brought home a cluster of pale pink peonies and a bunch of purple lilac that were too past their prime to sell.

  "I guess you can't ever be wooed by a nice bouquet of flowers." Dash relaxed back and held out his hand. Nevermore had left three parallel, inch long scratches just above his knuckles.

  "I could still be wooed, but the bouquet would have to contain some spectacular, rare species, so rare that I can't even name them for you now. However, when it comes to chocolate, I'm easily wooed. Doesn't have to be rare or spectacular. I'm pretty easy when it comes to chocolate."

  "I will have to keep that in mind." I wasn't sure if it was because I was almost holding his hand as I tended to the scratches or if he was just in an extra playful mood, but Dash was giving off some very flirty vibes. I wasn't hating it either. I wondered if I'd formed an opinion of him too early.

  He grew noticeably quiet as I rubbed the antibacterial over the cuts.

  "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

  He laughed quietly. "Not at all. The opposite in fact. You have a nice touch."

  I released his fingers.

  "Sorry, that was too forward," he said.

  "Not at all. I was just done cleaning the scratches. Would you like a bandage?" I held up one of my decorative ones. "I have some with little daisies on them."

  "No, I think I'll survive. Bandages don't really stick around in my line of work. I thank you for your first aid." He stood up, once again filling my small front room with his impressive build. "I'd still love to take you on that plane ride if you have time. Saturday? I've been keeping track of the weather. It's going to be nice."

  I walked him to the door. "I've got to say that invitation sounds just a little too fun to resist."

  "Terrific." He stopped before walking out. "It won't be a long trip. I'll have you back in Port Danby before you get your land legs back." He had an infectious smile.

  I smiled back at him. "Sounds amazing."

  "Great. Dress warm. See you Saturday." He headed down the porch.

  I leaned my face out into the cold night air. "Thanks again for saving my cat."

  "I think he saved himself," he called back. He waved and lumbered on his long legs to his own yard.

  Chapter 27

  A brisk breeze had kicked up bringing a hard chill for the night. I tucked myself into bed with a book, but the day's events, and for that matter, the evening's events, both at the police station
and at home, had given me too much to think about. After reading the same line four times, I decided to close the book and try to work myself into a fretful night's sleep.

  My phone chimed and vibrated on my nightstand. My mom was one of the few people I knew who preferred phone conversations to texts. She insisted it was because she wouldn't know if she was actually talking to me or to 'the lunatic kidnapper who'd wrested the phone from me as he grabbed me kicking and screaming to his car'. She said she had to hear my voice or she would be worried sick. I'd suggested a few security questions, those only a mom could answer. Like the day I bought my first bra, (last day of summer before seventh grade and it was more for self esteem than support), the name of my first crush (Steven Foxworth, the obligatory best friend's big brother crush) or the one food I hated to get in my lunch bag but that she always packed (a hard-boiled egg because of the embarrassing odor that followed a cooked egg). But she insisted she had to intermittently hear my voice or lose sleep.

  "Hey, Mom, it's later than usual. Everything all right?"

  I could hear the television blasting in the next room where Dad had most likely fallen asleep watching sports.

  "I should say not," she huffed. "And to think you nearly married a cold-blooded murderer. I knew Jacob was no good. It was a lucky day when your wedding was called off."

  I pulled the phone away for a second to stifle the sound, then returned it to my ear. Mom was still ranting on about how she'd never trusted Jacob Georgio and that rich people were always bad.

  "Mom. Mom. Mom." I used my calm voice three times, but she continued to talk over me. I switched to something altogether more shrill. "Mom!"

  "What!" she shrilled back.

  "You need to slow down. First, remember that you were extremely despondent when I broke up with Jacob. I believe the words 'making the worst mistake of your life' were being bandied about for a few weeks."

  "Not true. Right from the start I told you he wasn't trustworthy."

  "See, this is why I wish you would text, Mom. Then I'd have proof. Anyhow, that doesn't matter. I don't know what they're saying in the newspapers, but Jacob hasn't been charged with murder yet."

  "Yet. That word just says it all. So you think he will be? Oh, wait until I tell your dad. He thought I was jumping the gun on declaring him a murderer."

  "Yeah, you are. You're jumping a big gun, a canon-sized gun. So stop."

  "And did you have any part in the investigation with that handsome Detective Briggs? It seems you have a bit of a thing for the detective."

  "Jumping yet another gun, Mom. I don't even know where you're coming up with this stuff."

  "You said as much when you and Aunt Sheila were playing cards and sipping those rum drinks." A beeping sound echoed in the background. "I've got to get tomorrow morning's muffins out of the oven. I'm putting you on speaker phone."

  "Wait. No." It was too late. She spent the next minute trying to figure out how to put the phone on speaker. In the meantime, the oven was beeping like a backward driving garbage truck. During the interim, I chastised myself for drinking too much rum. It always made me loose lipped. I quickly tried to remember just what I'd said to Aunt Sheila that made my mom think there was something going on between Detective Briggs and me. I drew a blank. Those darn rum drinks.

  Mom came back to the phone. "I gave up on the speaker phone and just pulled the muffins out of the oven. Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was about to recite that wise old saying reminding you that 'you think you know someone until you realize you don't'."

  "I don't think there's any such saying, and if there is, I'm sure it's not quite so convoluted. And I know Jacob. I broke up with him because of it. But I don't think he's capable of murder, and you shouldn't either until we know for certain. Here's my wise old saying, 'innocent until proven guilty'."

  "Hmm, best banana nut muffins I've ever made," Mom mumbled over a mouthful.

  "I thought those were for morning."

  "Yes, they are. But they are so delicious fresh out of the oven. You never answered my question about working with that nice detective. Is he single?"

  I laughed. Even when she was in full mom mode, it was hard not to laugh.

  "What? Perfectly logical question," she insisted.

  "Yes, I suppose. For a mom. I just love the way you jump from topic to topic without even the hint of a transition. I've helped Detective Briggs on a few cases, and yes, I helped out on this one. But since I know the main person of interest, I've been taken off the case. And yes he's single. Not that that has any bearing on this conversation."

  "It's probably better that you're not involved. I don't want you anywhere near that monster Jacob if he's killing people left and right."

  A long, audible sigh was my way of letting her know it was about time to end the call. "I should get to sleep, Mom. I've got a busy work day tomorrow."

  "Oh? Anything special happening in your little flower shop?" She had yet to call my shop by its name, Pink's Flowers, and it was never 'your flower shop' but always 'your little flower shop' as if I was running some Barbie sized flower stand outside of the Barbie Dream House.

  "It's a little holiday event that's rather important in the florist world. You might have heard of it. In fact, I know you've heard of it because you used to leave sticky notes all over Dad's side of the mirror reminding him about your favorite flowers and chocolates."

  "Of course, Valentine's Day. That reminds me, I'm behind on those sticky notes. Well, I will let you get your beauty sleep, my darling. And remember stay clear of—"

  "Yes, yes, I will try to avoid direct paths with mass murderers, crazy kidnappers and marauding pirates. Actually, scratch that last one. You know how I love pirates, especially the marauding kind."

  "Now I really will let you go because you are sounding silly, and you always get silly when you're tired. Good night, sweetums."

  "Good night, Mom. Kiss Dad for me."

  Chapter 28

  The last person I expected to see out on Lester's fancy tables was Detective Briggs. He was preoccupied with his notebook while the steam curled up from his coffee cup, taking all the heat with it.

  In the early morning, the sunlight fell mostly on the opposite side of the street, so the tables were bathed in the cold shadow of morning.

  Briggs looked up from his notes as I approached. "Miss Pinkerton, how are you?" He closed the notebook quickly.

  I looked pointedly at it. "I wasn't trying to look at your notes. Besides, I've seen your handwriting, and it takes more than a quick glance to decipher it."

  He looked properly embarrassed. "Yes, I agree, but I wasn't actually hiding it from you. What brings you over to the coffee shop?"

  I decided not to tell him that I'd seen him when I walked to my door and decided to stop by for a chat. "I was out of coffee. I'm just stopping in to fuel up. I've got a long work day ahead. You do too, I imagine. What with the murder case and all. Not that I'm bringing it up—not to pry but I was just wondering if you had a chance to talk to anyone." I waved my hand. "Probably not. I did just show you the rainbow picture last night."

  As I spoke, he had to work harder and harder to suppress a smile. I did like his smile. Is that what I mentioned to my mom and Aunt Sheila? What on earth could I have blurted in my rum-soaked haze that made my mom think there was something going on between Briggs and me? And why was I talking about him while sitting in my mom's living room next to the artificial Christmas tree playing cards with my Aunt Sheila, who had never married but always seemed to have copious amounts of advice about men?

  "As a matter of fact, I did get a chance to talk to several people. I went up to Maple Hill last night just to have a look around and check out travel paths and time myself walking between trailers. Autumn, Lydia and Alexander were at the site, bundled up in winter gear, sipping beers and sharing stories about Jasper. A sort of make-shift memorial, I suppose."

  "Only those three?" I asked. "My friend Hazel wasn't there? The petite woman with big glasse
s and bigger blue eyes who moves sort of fast, like a hummingbird?"

  "Yes, I know who Miss Bancroft is, but I didn't see her. Just the three I mentioned. They were surprised to see me and probably not too thrilled that I'd interrupted their memorial. I told them I had a few questions for each of them but that it could wait. But as I turned to leave, Miss Harris, the photographer called me back. She then nudged Miss Nola forward. Miss Nola looked reluctant to speak, and I soon found out why. She had extremely important information to add."

  "Autumn? What information and why would she keep it to herself?"

  Briggs looked down at the coffee cup in his hand. He always shifted his gaze away from mine when there was something he didn't want to tell me. "Briggs?"

  "I believe she kept it to herself because, if true, it's very incriminating for Mr. Georgio."

  I shrank down in my coat and scarf at his disappointing words. Briggs always caught any change in my mood. He'd obviously noticed me getting swallowed up by my winter gear.

  "I'm sorry to have to tell you that, Lacey." Lately, he dropped the formality in addressing me as Miss Pinkerton, but it always seemed to be when he was apologizing for something. I rarely called him James, and stuck only with Detective Briggs. Mostly because it was his request I did so. Although, I was very fond of the name James, and it suited him well.

  I gathered my composure and straightened enough to fill out my puffy winter coat again. "I don't understand. What could Autumn have said? Was it a different motive than jealousy because I would hardly think anything she said on that matter would . . . uh, matter." It seemed I was back in defense mode for Jacob.

  "It had nothing to do with motive and more to do with circumstantial evidence, evidence that helps our case against him."