A Deadly Bouquet (12 page)

“But I didn't plan to do any major plastering. The contractor had spotted the crack and said he'd take care of it.”

“You didn't mention that.”

“I didn't know you were going to poke it.”

“True. True. We're both at fault.”

I nearly choked. “Let's not talk. Breathing this dust can't be healthy.”

My father gestured to the cloth that covered his face. “Shall I find you a mask?” Using the toe of his shoe, he rooted in the debris. “Seems like I saw another one of these doohickeys on a table.”

“Here comes DeeDee with the boxes.” She handed me a large carton, and I picked up pieces of plaster. My father continued a running review on his afternoon. I let his words flow around me, but I didn't pay any particular attention.

I filled one box, left it sitting where it was, and then filled another and another. We were making headway, but the bulging cartons were in the way. I bent to heft one and groaned. I couldn't budge it. DeeDee was trying to drag a box across the carpet.

I straightened, rubbing my back. “We've done all we can. I'll have to call in a cleaning company. Even if we got these cartons downstairs, I don't know what I'd do with them.” I waved a hand. “Let's call it quits. I need to shower and change. I have a dinner date at six thirty.”

“You do?” said Dad. “I thought we'd spend the evening together.”

It wasn't an unreasonable idea, but I wanted to wail like a banshee at the added pressure. He expected me to conform to his agenda, and I had my own. Even when Carl was alive I was free to come and go as I pleased. If I needed a break from the frantic pace of the flower shop, I could buzz off to Springfield without any pangs of guilt. If Carl's schedule let him, he'd go with me. If it didn't, I went on my own.

I liked that freedom, and I realized I'd been guarding it zealously. I'd made it clear to DeeDee, when she took the job of housekeeper, that I might be home or I might not, depending on my mood.

Maybe the curtailing of my freedom was another reason why I'd put off renovating these rooms. People in the house could tie me down. Make me feel that I had to put in an appearance. Having my father here was even more complicating. With strangers, I could be the eccentric landlady. My father expected to be included in my life, and with each passing hour I felt the pinch of responsibility in a relationship.

“I've g-got to stir the b-bouillab-baisse,” said DeeDee. “The ingredients are too exp-pensive to let scorch. I'll b-be r-right b-back.” She dashed out of the room.

“Who are you having dinner with?” asked Dad.

“Bailey.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really. I didn't get the impression the two of you were friends.”

“We have a few things to straighten out.” I looked at the antique clock on a dust-shrouded table. We hadn't been cleaning as long as I thought. There was still plenty of time to get ready. Then I remembered the fireworks. “How long was the electricity off?”

Dad glanced at the clock, compared it to his wristwatch. “Looks like about thirty minutes. What time is Monroe picking you up?”

“He's not picking me up. I'm walking over to the cottage.”

“Hmm. A private dinner party. Monroe's a good-looking man, and his former life could be viewed as glamorous—righting wrongs, rubbing out drug deals. I could see where a woman would be attracted to him, but discretion might be the better part of valor. Don't you think it would be more sensible to go to a restaurant or come here? DeeDee has that pot of fish soup simmering on the stove.”

“No thanks. I can take care of myself.”

“Carl's been dead, how long?”

I was rapidly losing my cool. “It's been two years, but I don't see—”

“I
do
see. You're lonely. You'd like to find someone to … uh … spend time with.” He tugged off the mask to expose a crimson face. “Are you ready to take this step?”

With a studied effort, I kept my tone even. “What step? I'm having dinner with him. I'm not promiscuous, Dad. I never was, and you'd know that if you'd been around. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to wash away this dust.”

Alone in my room, I forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths, then I treated myself to a hot bubble bath. I shaved my legs, plucked a stray hair or two from my eyebrows, and did the things women do when they want to impress a man. I added a lavish spray of cologne, and I was ready. The black slacks were snug in all the right places. The blue vest brought out the color of my eyes.

“This is as good as it gets,” I said as I turned away from the mirror. I opened my bedroom door and hurried down the front staircase.

DeeDee stepped out of the kitchen. “You l-look nice,” she said. “Have a g-good time.”

I grabbed a jacket out of the front hall closet. “Gotta rush. I don't want to be late.”

DeeDee glanced over her shoulder. “It's not quite s-seven-th-thirty.”

I froze in the act of slinging the jacket over my shoulders. Slowly, I turned. “What did you say?” When she opened her mouth to repeat it, I said, “Never mind. Where's my father?”

“He t-took a cab into t-town. He's th-thinking about b-buying a car.”

My expression must have been frightening, because DeeDee's stuttering intensified. “W-what's w-wrong? He's t-trying to f-fit in. H-he s-said if h-he h-has h-his own v-vehicle he w-won't be a b-burden to y-you.”

I opened the front door and stepped out on the veranda. I could see the cottage driveway if I went to the farthest end of the porch. By stretching my neck and peering around a grouping of pine trees I saw Bailey's black-and-silver truck was gone.

“I'm only an hour late,” I said, going back into the house. “Doesn't the man have patience? Doesn't he know that stuff happens?” Stuff like an interfering father. But maybe Dad hadn't done it on purpose. Yeah, right. He knew he was giving me the wrong time, and then to make matters worse, he skipped out so he wouldn't have to take the heat when I discovered what he'd done.

I draped my jacket over the stair railing. In the library, I plopped down in a chair and folded my arms across my chest. After a few minutes, DeeDee peeked around the doorway.

“I'll be eating here tonight,” I said. “Bring me whatever is left of that key lime pie, and you might as well haul out the crème brûlée. It's going to be a long, long evening.”

DeeDee has a stubborn streak that often flares up when I try to eat something that I shouldn't. I didn't get the pie until after I'd eaten a bowl of the low-cal bouillabaisse. The fish was succulent, the shrimp plump and pink.

At regular intervals, I called the cottage armed with an explanation. Over and over, I rehearsed what I was going to say. Sometimes I thought I should be formal, not give a specific reason, but an ambiguous “I lost track of the time.” In the next instant, I decided to tell the truth: I had an overprotective father who was proving to be a pain in the tushie.

At a quarter after ten, my father still hadn't returned, but Bailey finally answered his phone. When I heard his voice, I blurted, “I would've figured a drug agent had a world of patience. I was only an hour late.”

For a minute all I could hear was his breathing, then he said, “Ex-agent. I'm retired, remember? So what happened? An emergency call for flowers?”

“No, it's a bit more complicated than that. The electricity went off, and the clocks weren't set with the right time.”

“I didn't lose power over here.”

“This was an in-house catastrophe.” I sighed. “You wouldn't believe me even if I told you.”

“Try me.”

So I gave him a spirited account of what I'd found when I came home. His laughter put the irritating event into a different perspective. “It wasn't funny at the time,” I finished with a smile. “If you aren't doing anything, you can come see for yourself.”

I'd thrown out the invitation with no real hope of his accepting. When he replied “I'll be right there,” I was surprised. As good as his word, he rang the doorbell in less than three minutes. I was ready. I opened the door and we stared, looking quietly into each other's eyes. Not once did he make a move to touch me, but his expression told me he was thinking about it.

Suddenly shy and unsure of what I wanted, I broke eye contact and moved toward the staircase. “I'll give you a quick tour, then we'll go to the kitchen. DeeDee always keeps the cookie jar full for guests.”

As I led the way up the stairs I could feel Bailey's eyes on my backside. I fought the urge to tug at my slacks. Perhaps they were too tight in the derriere department. I glanced back at him, and he winked. This was no playful eye maneuver. It was stimulating and damned sexy. I gulped and scampered up the remaining steps, talking a mile a minute.

“I'll have to call in a cleaning company to get rid of the mess. In fact, I'm wondering if they'll need to clean the entire house. The dust was unbelievable. I'm sure it's penetrated every nook and cranny.” I opened the Mistress Suite door, thinking that in my irritated state I might have overplayed the details. Nope. It was bad.

Bailey's whistle was low and sharp. “And your father did this with only a walking stick and a chest of drawers? I'm impressed.”

His quirky comment made me giggle. Before long I was doubled over with laughter. When I could speak, I said, “Thanks. I needed that.”

Bailey took my hand and kissed it. Goose bumps the size of ostrich eggs puckered my flesh. “I aim to please,” he said.

Oh, yes, I breathed to myself. Please … please me.

Out loud I gasped. “Cookies.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

I eased my hand out of his and hurried toward the stairs. “I offered you cookies and here I am going on and on about—”

Bailey had caught up with my mad dash. He put a hand on my arm and turned me on the stairs to face him. “Cookies are fine—if that's all I'm being offered. But if I had my druthers”—he bent toward me, his eyes steady on mine, his lips a scant inch away—“I'd rather have a kiss.”

“Oh,” I squeaked. “Well … uh…”

I closed my eyes. Every sensory organ in my body was primed for his touch. My nose was filled with his scent—something woodsy and clean. His hand on my arm was warm and provocative. His breath was sweet and smelled of peppermint. His lips—

Where the hell were his lips?

I moved my head to the left and then to the right. Nothing. Opening my eyes, I found Bailey's attention had wandered. Not a good sign.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Changed your mind?”

He brushed a quick kiss to my cheek, then galloped down the stairs. “Can't you hear it?” he called over his shoulder. “Something's going on outside.”

I couldn't hear anything over the rapid beat of my heart. But now that he mentioned it, there was a hullabaloo out on my drive. Horns were blaring.

Horns? Car horns?

It had to be my father.

Trying not to whimper, I shuffled down the stairs and out on the veranda. Parked in the driveway were five vehicles with their headlights aimed at the house. Nearly blinded by the glare, I brought my hand up to shield my eyes. Bailey stood on the porch. I yelled, “What's going on?”

“Looks like a car show. Damned fine assortment, too. That's a Dodge Viper on the end. I've always wanted to see one up close.” He leaped the steps and made for the yellow car on the far left.

“Viper?” I shivered. Sounded too much like a snake to me.

The horns stopped and peace reigned. Four men, whom I took to be salesmen, stepped from their vehicles. My father climbed out of a silver something or other. I didn't have a clue what make or model it might be, and frankly, I didn't care.

“Well, Bretta,” said Dad, coming up on the porch. He waved his arm expansively. “What do you think?”

“Nice,” I murmured, my eyes on Bailey. I was envious of that yellow car. He caressed the upholstery with a slow, lingering touch. I watched his chest rise and fall as he sighed wistfully.

“Take your pick, daughter. You can have whichever one you want.”

Being called “daughter” was wearing on my nerves. It implied a closeness that just wasn't there. And being offered a car only agitated me more. I didn't want a car. I didn't need one. But I had been gypped out of Bailey's kiss.

Resentment and disappointment bubbled in me like Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water. Before I got carried away on an effervescent tide, I turned on my heel and went into the house.

Chapter Ten

I arrived at the flower shop Monday morning with the feeling I was running fast and furious from home. Turning down Dad's offer of a new car hadn't been as difficult for me as it had been for him. He couldn't accept the fact that I didn't want expensive gifts.

When I repeated my previous request for a heart-to-heart conversation about the past, he'd stalked into the library. I'd followed, but only to suggest that he take my room for the night. He'd replied that the sofa was good enough for him. He didn't mind living out of a suitcase.

This morning I found his signed blank check on the carpet outside my bedroom door. A notation stated that the money was to be used for cleanup. Since he was still asleep on the sofa, I'd placed the check on the end table next to him and left for work.

I took a swig of coffee. He wasn't getting it, and I didn't know how to be more explicit. Fancy cars or money wasn't going to buy my love—or my benevolence.

Footsteps coming from the alley entrance interrupted my thoughts. I turned, expecting to see Lois or Lew. But it was Evelyn who marched toward me. Frowning, I asked, “What are you doing coming in the back door?”

“You haven't unlocked the front, and I don't have time to wait.”

Her attitude—that what concerned her had to be of utmost importance to me—really bruised my petals. I said, “We've been over each and every detail of your daughter's wedding until they're ingrained on my brain.”