An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries (11 page)

     I immediately regretted taking that liberty. I had no idea if Carter ever thought of me in that light.

     “I appreciate your concern, Sarah, but it’s complicated. Besides, you have your own life to deal with.”

     “My life is as boring as shit. That’s why I’m here with you right now. I really want to understand this business better, so I feel I should try to understand you better, too.”

     Carter finally smiled. Was he letting his defenses down ever so slightly? “It’s my friend, Richard,” he said. We haven’t spoken for a while. Last night I got a call from his wife, Emily.”

     “About what?”

     “She’s worried about him. He left on a business trip yesterday and she hasn’t heard from him since.”

     “What does he do for work?”

     “He’s a financial consultant. Pretty boring job, considering he used to be an investigator, too.”

     “Why did he change careers?”

     “He got married. His wife wanted him to find something more stable.”

     “So he just disappeared? Does she think it could be related to his work?”

     “She has no idea. Nothing seemed odd that morning, according to her.”

     “Let me guess. She asked you to look into it.”

     Carter smiled and nodded. “She did, but they live in Los Angeles.”

     “That makes it a little difficult.”

     Carter took a sip of water and signaled the waitress for a check. “I’m sure the LAPD will do what they can. We need to focus on the case we’re working on.”

     I wasn’t convinced. His voice was edged with concern, and though I didn’t know Carter all that well, I knew when he was being evasive. There was something he was leaving out. But I also knew enough not to push him.

     After paying the check, Carter walked out ahead of me and paused next to my rental car. “Let’s head over to the flower shop together. I’ll do some research on my phone while you drive.”

* * *

     Ambrosia Florists was a specialty shop that dealt in rare tropical flowers and plants, situated in Andover’s arts district. Carter pulled up an article about the shop on his phone.

     “The owners,” Carter read, “Andy and Clair Drummond, are a young couple from Iowa. Their dream of owning a flower shop came to fruition when Clair’s dad passed and left them an inheritance. They bought the store a little over a year ago, but they’re having a hard time, financially. They’re currently looking for investors to help bolster the business. Looks like the recession and some bad business decisions have left them pretty cash-poor.” Carter dropped the phone in his lap just as I pulled up in front of the place. “I have a feeling they’re hanging on to this shop by a thread. I could dig further, but it’s not necessary. We now know their weakness. Keep that in mind when you go in to ask about Harding. I’ll wait here in the car.”

     The interior of Ambrosia Florists seemed like a micro jungle, lush with exotic potted plants and tropical fauna.

     A lanky redhead, with freckles the size of dimes, greeted me. Good afternoon, he said, his friendly smile exposing a huge gap in his front teeth. He reminded me of the cartoon character, Alfred E. Newman, from the cover of Mad Magazine.

     “Your shop is gorgeous,” I gushed, my enthusiasm not an act. “I feel as if I’ve just walked into a tropical oasis. Are you the owner?”

     “Me, and my wife, Clair, own the shop. She’s out back watering some Bird-of-Paradise flowers that just came in this morning. I’m Andy,” he said as he offered his hand.

     “I’m Sarah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

     A petite woman with golden hair emerged carrying a vase of flowers. She stopped when she saw me standing next to her husband. “Oh my, I didn’t hear anyone come in.” She set the vase down on the desk and walked towards us. Andy introduced us.

     “So nice to see an actual customer,” she offered while shaking my hand. “We have to keep checking the door to make sure it’s not locked.” She laughed, but Andy looked down, evidently embarrassed.

     “Clair,” he said, patting his wife on the shoulder, “did you water the baby palms that came in yesterday? They looked a little dry.”

     “Okay, honey.” She waved pleasantly as she slipped behind the desk and back through the door. Andy shook his head.

     “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m a small business owner, so I can empathize. People don’t seem to have extra money these days to splurge on life’s finer pleasures.”

     “That’s true, but we’re determined to make this work. I’m very thankful for our loyal customers.”

     “Well, I’m happy to have found your wonderful little shop.” I looked around, spotted a shelf occupied by several varieties of orchids, and chose one. “This little guy is telling me he wants to come home with me.”

     The smile that blossomed on Andy’s face nearly broke my heart. “You have great taste. That is a Coeliac Bella orchid, native to Mexico. Collectors consider it a semi-rare breed.”

     “Wow,” I said, shifting my arms to cradle it as if it were a priceless antique. The delicate purple, yellow, and white petals looked so fragile a stiff wind might blow them all off.  “You certainly seem to know your orchids.”

     “It’s truly a passion of mine,” he replied.

     I walked to the counter and carefully set the pot down. “I assume you take credit cards.” I suddenly realized I hadn’t bothered to inquire about the cost.

     “Of course,” Andy reassured me as he darted behind the counter. “We take them all. That’s going to be sixty-five dollars.”

     I swallowed hard, the price a lot more than I had expected to pay. I reached into my purse for my wallet, but withdrew the photo of Harding instead. I looked at it and contemplated my story.

     “Is something wrong?” Andy inquired.

     “Well, I wasn’t going to ask, but I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

     “Yes, of course. What is it?”

     “My friend has a secret admirer who sends her lovely gifts purchased from your shop, but never includes a card. She’s dying to find out who he is. Is there any way you could tell me if this individual is one of your customers? His name is Lance Harding. I think he comes in and pays cash for the flowers.” I slid the photo across the counter. He studied it for a moment and slowly shook his head.

     “Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him. What’s your friend’s name?”

     “Stephanie Miller. She lives at 125 Wilson Road.” Andy typed something into the computer, studied the screen, and smiled. I felt my pulse quicken.

     “I thought the name sounded familiar.” Andy chuckled, looking as if he were about to let me in on an inside joke. “Stephanie’s admirer is her father, Ted Wilcox. He’s the gentleman who has been sending the flowers. He comes in several times a month. Nice old man.”

     “Ted Wilcox?” The name sounded eerily familiar. Then I made the connection. “He’s very sick, right?”

     Andy beamed. “Yes, that’s him.”

     My confusion must have shown on my face. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he send a card with the flowers?”

     Andy cleared his throat. “Evidently, they had a falling-out many years ago when Ted’s wife died. I don’t know the particulars, but Ted seems to think sending flowers might help him to get back in her good graces. He told me he doesn’t have much time and wants to reconcile with her.”

     “Wow. How do you know all this?” I reached a hand around to massage my neck.

     “Ted is a lonely guy, and likes to come in and chat. We don’t get that many customers, so I have plenty of time to indulge him.” He hesitated. “Maybe you could encourage your friend to call her dad and patch things up. You know, before it’s too late.”

     “Uh huh,” I said, still kneading my cramped neck. “Anyways, thank you. I really appreciate your help.” I absently handed him my credit card, signed the receipt, and gathered up my very expensive bribe.

     I slid behind the wheel a moment later.

     Carter eyed the strange looking package in my lap. “What’s that?”

     “It’s a very expensive orchid. But more importantly, Harding isn’t the stalker. It’s Tiffany’s father.”

     “What?”

     “And guess who her father is?” I played the drum roll in my head. “Her dad is Marty’s friend, Ted Wilcox.

     I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t getting it.

     You know, the old guy I talked to over at Andover Estates?”

     “Marty was sleeping with Ted’s daughter”— the words were more statement than question—“who just happens to be Tiffany, aka Stephanie Miller. Did she change her last name?”

     I was still trying to put the puzzle together in my own head. “Maybe Tiffany reverted to her mother’s maiden name when she and her father had the falling-out. I don’t know what caused their estrangement, but evidently they haven’t been in contact since. Ted started sending the flowers when he found out he was dying, as an attempt to make amends.”

     “She might have a very good reason for shutting her dad out, but that’s not what concerns me. The bigger question is this: did Ted know Marty was screwing his daughter?”

     “That depends on if Ted Wilcox knew his daughter was using the name, Tiffany? According to what we have so far, Marty always called her by her stage name.”

     Carter’s brow furrowed. “Wilcox knew.”

     “What makes you so sure?”

     He turned and gazed out the side window, his jaw visibly tensed. After a curious pause, Carter said “Fathers know those kinds of things.”

     I remained silent, not quite sure what to make of it.

     Carter stared blankly at the dashboard. “Well, we know Ted may have had motive for wanting Marty dead. Now we just need to find out if he hired Harding to do his dirty work. I need to get into Harding’s house and take a look around.”

     I bit my lower lip. “What about Harding’s mother? You’ll give her a heart attack if she’s there when you break in.”

     “I’ll figure something out.”

     “How can I help?”

     Carter’s demeanor changed. He was suddenly all business. “It’s no longer safe for you to be involved. I’ve asked too much of you already.”

     “I could keep watch while you’re inside Harding’s house.”

     He shook his head. “You didn’t bargain for this, Sarah. When I included you in this job, I thought it was going to be an open and shut case. I never really believed Marty had been murdered.”

     “You took Janet’s money.”

     “Damn right I did. What? You think that’s the reason I took the job? You were there. You heard me tell her what I thought. I even told her to hire someone else, but she persisted.”

     “What about the objectivity you preached to me before? Was that just for show?”

     “I’ve treated this case the same as all the others.”

     “Are you sure about that?” I said, staring into my lap.

     Carter’s silence was disconcerting. When I looked up, his lips were pursed. I’d gone too far, and wasn’t quite sure how to fix it.

     “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

     Carter took a deep breath and exhaled. “I should have realized it before.”

     “Realized what?”

     “You want this too much.” Carter got out of my car, closed the door, and walked off without looking back.

     I sat with my hands in my lap wondering what he’d meant. He was right, of course. I did want it too much. The stimulation and renewed sense of purpose I felt was everything to me. But reality always seemed to rear its ugly head just when I thought life was improving.

     I didn’t want to go home to face my husband. He probably didn’t want to see me at the moment, either. I could go to my office and prepare for tomorrow’s clients, but the thought of that depressed me even more.

     Then there was always that emergency, go-to response in times of dire need: shopping. The sixty-five dollar orchid sitting on the console next to me mocked my impulse to go spend money.

     “To hell with you,” I said to the hapless plant, and headed straight for the mall.

     I parked and made my way to the food court via Nordstrom’s premium-priced clothing and cosmetics section. I purchased a curried chicken salad plate and a cappuccino at an agreeable-looking deli then located an empty table.

     As I sat alone picking at my food, I wondered if the shoppers who strolled in and out of the seemingly endless line of shops felt as lost as I did.

     I took a few bites of salad then a long sip of cappuccino when a familiar figure caused me to choke. Max, clad in khaki slacks and white button down shirt, stood no more than a dozen feet away from my table.

     He looked stunning. Unfortunately, so did the blond whose exquisitely manicured nails gently scratched at the back of his neck.

     The blood drained from my head as I watched, filling me with a dreadful, gut-wrenching grief. Max had wasted no time moving on. As much as I wanted to be happy for him, I wasn’t, because deep down inside I wanted him. I wanted him to be happy with me, not the bombshell with the impossibly slender waistline.

     I covered my eyes with my hands and chastised myself. I’d turned Max away; now I was furious that he’d had the audacity to respect my wishes. Unable to take another moment of the pain, I gathered my belongings and bolted from the table, intending to leave the salad and cappuccino on the table.

     It wasn’t to be.

     The strap of my purse inadvertently caught my abandoned lunch. Cappuccino splashed all over me while platter, utensils, and tray all clattered to the floor.

     You could have heard a pin drop, save my sudden intake of air. My mind made a valiant, yet futile attempt at a personal disappearing act. I looked down at the muddy liquid dripping from my sweater and down my jeans. I prayed Max wouldn’t recognize me, but when I looked up, it was directly into his wide eyes. His look of confusion turned to concern, and he slowly approached. Too embarrassed to face him, I swallowed my pride and ran.

     Back inside my car, I fought the urge to scream. Instead, I broke down and cried. A torrent of tears flowed while an accompaniment of freezing rain pounded on the windshield. My tears subsided after a few moments of self-pity. Exhausted, I wiped my eyes and resolved to return home to face my family, even if they didn’t appreciate me.