Hissy Fit (9 page)

He calls himself
Austin LeFleur, and he owns Fleur, the florist shop right next to ours. Nobody knows or cares whether that’s his real name, and he loves being a man of mystery.

Two years ago Austin bought the florist’s business from his eighty-two-year-old second-cousin, Betty Ann, and like me, moved into the apartment above the shop. Of course, when Betty Ann owned it, the shop was called Bouquets by Betty Ann, and it specialized in pretty much what you’d expect from a near-blind eighty-two-year-old who chain-smoked three packs of Camels right up until the day Porter Briggs from the Briggs Mortuary drove his ambulance around the block to pick her up after her third, and fatal, heart attack.

Austin and I clicked the same day we met, and have been friends ever since. He has a key to our shop, and I have the key to Fleur. And although he’d only been living in Madison for two years, he’d already firmly established himself in local social circles. He’s on the Historic Madison Foundation and the Madison Arts Council, and belongs to my daddy’s Rotary Club.

Right now he was fussing with the vase of lilacs on my desk and giving me his famous, all-knowing, once-over.

“You got any food over at your place?” I asked, avoiding his eyes. “It was salmon loaf night at Daddy’s. I’m starved.”

He gave me an enigmatic smile. “I might. I very well might have a little something over there. Something chocolate, perhaps.”

“Good. Let’s go over to your place.” I headed for the front door.

“Not so fast, sister,” he said. “First the dish, and then the dessert.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I protested. “He’s a client. That’s all.”

“Do you play tonsil hockey with all your clients?” he asked, raising
one well-tweezed eyebrow. “Maybe that explains your business success.”

“My business sucks right now and you know it,” I said. “Anyway, you know all the gossip in this town is blown way out of proportion.”

“Are you denying the kiss took place?” he asked. “I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but Mookie claims she has a double source. And you know she’s usually very reliable about these things.”

“Unless she’s fallen facedown into a margarita fountain,” I said. “Who are you going to believe, Mookie or me?”

He shook his finger and tsk-tsked me. “See, you’re still not denying that there was a clinch. Are you?”

“It was nothing,” I said, my face getting hot. “We were just yanking Paige’s chain. And it wasn’t my idea, anyway. I just sort of went along for the ride.”

“You rode him?” Austin shrieked and then dissolved into what can only be called a fit of the giggles.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Look, either feed me some chocolate or go home and let me go to bed.”

“With whom?”

I turned toward the back staircase. “Okay. G’night.”

“All right, all right, all right,” Austin said. He stood up and tightened the belt of the dressing gown.

“I like that,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was Betty Ann’s,” he said. “Frankly forties, don’t you think? There are jammies to match, but the top’s a smidge tight across the chest, and of course, the bottoms don’t
quite
meet a gentleman’s needs, if you know what I mean.”

“I never saw Betty Ann dressed in anything remotely like that dressing gown,” I said. “In fact, I don’t think I ever saw her dressed in anything that wasn’t one hundred percent polyester.”

“It must have been a gift or something,” Austin said. “Never been worn.”

“Well, if you ever get tired of it, throw it my way,” I said, following
him through the studio and out our back door. We stepped into the alley and made a quick left. The screen door to Fleur was propped open with a brick, and the inner door was ajar.

“Don’t you ever lock up?” I scolded.

“I was just over at your place. Anyway, it’s Wednesday night. Nobody’s gonna come around and try to knock over a florist’s shop. What are they gonna do—pluck my pansies?”

“You should be more careful,” I told him. “Don’t you read
The Citizen
? Somebody stole a wheelbarrow and a fertilizer spreader from the hardware store last Sunday morning.”

“Kids,” Austin said airily.

I inhaled deeply as I followed him into his workroom, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut flowers. He’d done the whole place over after Betty Ann went to her maker. Betty Ann’s old Pepto-Bismol pink walls had been replaced with a washed green and gold Tuscan villa paint treatment. Austin had installed stainless steel shelves and bins, and painted the old concrete floor to look like aged quarry tiles. Stainless steel buckets of water held bunches of perennials and wildflowers he bought from local gardeners, and a walk-in cooler held the more delicate roses and exotics he imported from around the world. There was nary a gladiolus or a carnation in sight.

He opened the door of the cooler and stepped inside for a moment, coming back out with a white cardboard box. My mouth started to water when I saw the Karen’s Bakery logo on the box.

“Gimme,” I said, reaching for the box, but Austin held it over my head and walked quickly toward the stairs that led to his apartment.

“Not so fast,” he said. “First a little wine, then a little chat, then, maybe, if the dish is high octane, I will share with you.”

“Just tell me what’s in the box,” I asked. “Brownies? Chocolate mousse cake? Espresso bars?”

He turned and waved the box under my nose. “Goo-goo clusters,” he said. “Could you just die?”

I moaned. Karen Culpepper opened her bakery and catering shop
three years ago, and all of her desserts were my downfall, but her version of a goo-goo cluster, which she only makes very occasionally, is my absolute all-time favorite. Big old clusters of peanuts and pecans, drizzled with warm, bourbon-infused caramel, and coated with dense layers of imported milk chocolate. They probably have eleventy billion calories, but I don’t care. Give me a goo-goo any day.

Austin switched on the light in the large airy room that served as his living room/dining room/kitchen.

“You painted again,” I said. “It’s fabulous.”

The last time I’d been up here, Austin had been in his
Miami Vice
mode. The walls had been lime green with tangerine trim on the windows and moldings, and a washed papaya pink on the ceiling. He’d placed huge pots of palms and flowering citrus plants in front of the windows, which he’d swathed in filmy sheers, and all the furniture had been slipcovered with turquoise linen, which he’d sewn himself.

Now it looked like a totally different room. The walls were a glowing, no, make that a
throbbing
red. All the trim had been done up in a sort of baroque old gold treatment, and the pink ceiling had gotten a six-inch border of metallic gold stenciling. Heavy blue velvet drapes were tied back from the windows with thick gold cording, and he’d tossed leopard-print throws over his sofa and loveseat.

“Too slutty, do you think?” he asked, drifting into the tiny kitchenette alcove.

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s absolutely you. Sort of…bad boy bordello?”

“Yes!” he called over his shoulder. “That’s it exactly. So, you really like it?” He came out of the kitchen with Venetian glass goblets of white wine, and handed me mine with a tiny lace cocktail napkin. He disappeared again, and returned with a silver tray piled with the goo-goo clusters.

“You’re the only person on the planet who could pull this off,” I said, taking a sip of the Chardonnay. “Where’d you get all that velvet and leopard print?”

“Promise you won’t hate me?”

I quickly sketched a cross-my-heart with my wineglass, and took a big bite of chocolate-covered peanuts.

“The trash!” he whispered dramatically. “I was coming around the square on Sunday, and I saw Porter Junior hauling a big old box of junk out to the curb in front of the funeral home. As soon as he was gone, I pounced. And I found all these yards and yards of fabric. I think the stuff was actually used for skirting around banquet tables or something, because it was all pleated. I just ripped out all the pleats, gave it a toss in the dryer, and voilà!”

I licked the chocolate off my fingers and walked over and touched the drapes. “Probably not banquet tables,” I said. “I bet this stuff was used on the platforms that hold the caskets for visitation.”

“EEEW,” he screeched.

“Who cares?” I said, patting his hand. “It’s all about the look, right?”

“Welll…”

“And what about the leopard skin stuff? I know Porter Briggs didn’t have leopard casket draping.”

“It was originally just plain old beige,” Austin said, perking up now. “I took some fabric paint and stenciled on the leopard spots.”

“You are the bomb, Austin,” I said, shaking my head. “I hope you don’t decide to quit the florist business, ’cause I’m afraid you’d put me and Gloria straight out of business.” I helped myself to a second goo-goo cluster.

“SHUT UP!” he cried, happily fanning himself. “You know I’m just a big ol’ DID.”

“What’s that?”

“Decorator in Denial,” he explained, flopping down on the sofa beside me. “Anyway, you taught me everything I know, sis. Look, now, stop trying to kill me with flattery. Let’s talk.”

I took my goo-goo cluster and dipped it in the wine. Not bad, but a cold glass of two percent milk would have been even better “He’s a
client. His name is Will Mahoney. He just bought the bra plant, and—”

“The new bra boy?” Austin exclaimed. “He’s your client? Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?”

“You wouldn’t let me,” I said. “You just kept on with your smutty assumptions. Anyway, he’s bought Mulberry Hill, and Gloria and I have been hired for the design work. It’s a huge project, and he’s given us an impossible deadline—”

“You’ve got to get me into the house,” Austin said, interrupting. “I would DIE to see that house.”

“There’s not much to see yet,” I started again.

“You’ll give him my number, right?” Austin said, ignoring me. “A house like that should be filled with flowers. Enormous blue and white Chinese jardinières full of exquisite cut flowers. And I see tulipieres on the sideboards, and wonderful old cut-glass vases—full of Stella D’Oro roses—”

“Perfect,” I said, trying to get in a word edgewise. “The thing is, he’s got this loony crush—”

“He’s seen me already?” Austin shrieked. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“On a woman he’s only seen on television.”

“Oh,” Austin said, setting his wineglass down on the coffee table.

“I’m pretty sure he’s straight,” I said gently.

“Aren’t they all?”

“Not from my perspective,” I said. “All the really wonderful men, the ones who like to go dancing, buy good jewelry, and appreciate art and design, are on your team.”

“Boy toys,” Austin said dismissively. “Either that or withered-up old queens.”

I patted his knee. “Don’t fret, hon. Someday your prince will come.”

He sighed. “By that time my moat will have dried up. There are just absolutely no interesting men in this town.”

“Exactly my sentiment,” I said.

“Except for Mr. Loving Cup Intimates,” Austin said. “You say he’s straight. He’s rich, he’s got a fabulous house, so go for it, girlfriend.”

“Not interested,” I said firmly. “Anyway, he’s in love with a woman he’s never met, and I’ve been hired to design a house to make her fall madly, passionately in love with him.”

“You’re making that up,” Austin said. “Trying to put me off track. If he’s so in love with somebody else, why is he necking with you at the Minit Mart?”

“He knows all about the Paige and A.J. incident,” I said. “He was at the rehearsal dinner and witnessed my, uh, hissy pitching.”

“SHUT UP!” Austin cried. “That was the hottest ticket in town. He got invited and I didn’t?”

“The Jernigans did the inviting, not me,” I reminded Austin. “And I think GiGi had roped him into contributing to one of her lame-o charities.”

“But he still kissed you.” Austin can really be annoyingly single-minded at times. He peered at me intently. “How was it? Did he rock your world?”

“No! It was just a kiss. Nothing special,” I lied. “And I did not kiss back.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Austin taunted. “You should have seen your face when he dropped you off. I saw you through the window. Watching him drive off. You want him, Keeley Rae.”

“I want the paycheck we’ll get for this job,” I said, getting up abruptly. “And that’s it. End of story. I am totally over men, as of right this minute. Including you.”

He followed me down the stairs, chanting as he went. “Keeley and Willy sitting in the tree…K-I-S-S-I-
N-G…”

I put my hands over my ears and let myself out the back door.

Thursday morning
I got downstairs early, but my aunt was already at work, as usual.

Gloria had the Benjamin Moore paint deck fanned out on her worktable. She peered down through the tortoiseshell bifocals perched on the end of the nose at the sample cards arrayed before her.

Every now and then, she held a small, clear plastic bottle of sand next to a card, then shook her head sadly.

I tapped my fingernail against the pill bottle. “Just exactly what are you doing?”

She held up the bottle, shifting the sand backward and forward.

“This, my darlin’ niece, is a teaspoon of sand from Grayton Beach, Florida. My dear, dear client Bizzy Davis wants me to find a paint color that is an exact match to this, so that when she lies in bed at her house down there, she’ll see a seamless stretch of sand, from her bedroom walls, right down to the sparkling turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico.”

I moved the paint chips back and forth, then tapped one. “This. Cameo.”

“Afraid not,” Gloria said. “I had the whole damn room painted in Cameo. Bizzy hated it. Said it’s the color of dirty white sheets in a cheap motel.”

“She’s nuts. It’s an exact match.”

“Of course,” Gloria agreed. “She’s one ant short of a picnic. One brick shy of a load. All that. But she’s the client. And that’s a six-thousand-square-foot house down there. So I’m gonna match the damn sand if it kills me. Which it might.”

I sat down at my own desk. “I told Will Mahoney we’d take the Mulberry Hill job.”

Gloria held up another paint chip. “Albescent. What do you think?”

“Too pinky. Do you think I’m crazy to say yes to this guy?”

Gloria smiled that smile. “Depends on what you’re saying yes to.”

“The job,” I said. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“A woman my age needs to fantasize. All right. If we’re talking about taking on the house project, yes. Absolutely. We need the work. He’s got lots of money apparently. So why wouldn’t we help him spend it?”

“He’s just as whacked as Bizzy Davis,” I said. “He’s fallen in love with some chick he saw once, on a public television pledge drive. Now he wants me to design his house so she’ll fall in love with him. Oh yes. And give up her job at an Atlanta law firm, move to Madison, and become Mrs. Bra Guy.”

Gloria wrinkled her brow. “Really? He really told you all that? He seemed perfectly sane when he was here the other night.”

“I know. It’s impossible.”

“Still,” Gloria said, holding the sand bottle up to the light. “It’s an interesting proposal.”

“It sounds like something from a reality TV show. Design a house. Catch a spouse. It’s warped.”

“But you agreed to do it.”

“Yeah,” I said, sighing. “He took me out to the house last night, damn him. We walked all through it. You know me. How I am about old houses. I was hooked just as soon as I saw the front door. It could be amazing. After all, he’s got the money, and I’ve got the taste. It’s a dream job, in some aspects.”

“Except.”

“For this nightmarish idea of his. This woman. Her name’s Stephanie Scofield. He knows absolutely nothing about her, except that she’s the love of his life.”

“Research,” Gloria said. “Just look at it as a research project.”

“He’s flown off to Sri Lanka. And he wants a proposal by Monday, when he gets back to town.”

Gloria looked over at me. “This is Thursday. Why aren’t you already on your way to Atlanta?”

I called Will and arranged to meet his architect at the house later in the week. An hour later, my Volvo and I were on I-20, headed to Atlanta. I’d done a Google search on Stephanie Scofield. I found a handful of mentions of her, in the Atlanta newspaper’s society column, the
Atlanta Business Chronicle
, and a slick society magazine called
The Season
.

It was enough to get me started. I knew where her law firm was located, where she lived, and the fact that she was a sucker for high-profile charity events like the Atlanta Zoo’s Beastly Feast, the Atlanta History Center’s Swan Ball, and the Humane Society’s annual dinner dance and auction.

I had photos of her too; a grainy black and white head shot from the Atlanta paper showing her with upswept blond hair and a strapless black dress and long dangly earrings, and one of those standard “grip and grin” photos from the
Business Chronicle
showing her standing in a trim business suit with the other partners in the law firm of Tetlow, Beekner, Carrawan, and Sackler.

Even from those characterless shots, it was easy to see why Stephanie Scofield had attracted my client’s attention. She had huge, dinner-plate-sized eyes, an enigmatic, slightly turned-up at the corners smile, and a killer figure.

It was nearly noon by the time I’d navigated through midtown Atlanta to the Wachovia Bank Tower where Tetlow, Beekner had their offices, but by then I’d formed a sort of plan of attack.

There was a florist’s shop in the lobby of the bank building. I winced as I shelled out fifty bucks for a vase of deep blue and purple hydrangeas, but I kept the receipt. Will Mahoney would be paying for this little excursion. I scrawled a deliberately illegible message on the accompanying card.

According to the lobby directory, Tetlow, Beekner’s offices were on the eighth floor. In the elevator I removed my pearl earrings and
necklace, and deliberately ruffled my hair. I shucked my beige linen jacket and tied it by the sleeves around my waist and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my silk blouse. The impromptu changes didn’t make me look too much like a real delivery girl, but then again I now didn’t look that much like a successful interior designer.

The law firm’s receptionist looked up from the magazine she was reading when I cleared my throat a couple times.

“Flowers for Stephanie Scofield,” I said.

“Just leave them here,” she said, going back to her magazine. Clearly it was no big deal for Stephanie to receive flowers from admirers.

“Can’t,” I said.

She looked up, raised one eyebrow.

“Delivery to Miss Scofield. Personally. That’s what my instructions say. The customer paid extra.”

The receptionist looked down at a clipboard on the desk. “Well, she’s at lunch right now. So I guess you’ll just have to leave them with me. I’ll never tell,” she added, giving me a conspiratorial grin.

“Can’t,” I said again. “How ’bout if I just take them back to her office and leave them? That ought to be good enough.”

Her switchboard buzzed softly, and she picked up the phone. “Tetlow, Beekner. Oh hi! I was wondering when you’d call. What have you been up to?”

I cleared my throat again. “Just tell me which office,” I said. “I’ll drop ’em off and get out of your hair.”

She frowned. “Down the hall, right at the water cooler, third door on the left. Her assistant’s at lunch too. Ms. Scofield is very particular about her office. Don’t touch anything in there. Just leave the flowers and go. All right?”

“Sure,” I said, hastening down the hall before she could change her mind.

I found her office with no trouble, ducked inside, and closed the door behind me.

I set the flowers on a mahogany credenza behind her desk, then stood there for a few minutes, just taking it all in.

The office itself was what I’d expected. Expensive mahogany desk and credenza, generic reproduction Oriental rug over institutional gray carpet. A separate computer table, expensive leather desk chair and matching burgundy leather wing chair facing the desk. Her desktop was neat, with only one file folder in the out basket, and a bud vase holding a single long-stemmed red rose.

Her credenza was crowded with sterling silver–framed photographs. I studied them carefully. Stephanie in the strapless black cocktail dress, one arm around another woman in a black cocktail dress. Stephanie and a handsome, silver-haired older man, both of them dressed in tennis whites. Was he her father? Senior law partner? Sugar daddy? Stephanie laughing into the face of a towheaded little girl she held in her arms, both of them wearing pink fur bunny ears. Stephanie dressed in red running shorts, a white singlet, and a Peachtree Road Race number pinned to her shirt, her hair wet and her face red. There were three more photos, all featuring Stephanie smooching a tiny black and brown dachshund. So she was a dog lover.

With one finger I slid open the bottom drawer of the credenza. Inside was a black gym bag with a plastic ID card dangling from the handle, reading BodyTeck. Feeling only slightly guilty, I unzipped the gym bag. Sitting on top of neatly folded workout clothes was a clear plastic makeup bag. She apparently liked La Prairie skin products and cosmetics. And didn’t mind spending twenty-six dollars for a tube of lipstick. And even though she was clearly a girly-girl, she also played tennis, ran, and worked out at a trendy Buckhead gym. Good to know.

There were gilt-framed oil paintings on the wall opposite her desk. Generic Parisian street scenes, they were reproductions, the kind clueless beginners often chose to lend “elegance and sophistication” to their homes or offices. But they told me something about her; she liked Paris. Or the idea of it, anyway.

I heard voices in the hall outside and froze, for just a moment. Then I opened the door a crack and peeked out. I recognized her immediately, from the photos. Her blond hair was in a ponytail today, and she was wearing well-tailored black slacks and a crisp white shirt under a beautifully tailored jacket. The suit was Escada. The black pumps were Prada. I’d seen them in the latest issue of
Vogue
, and they’d cost four hundred dollars. Bitch. She was down the hall, bent over the water cooler, laughing at something a woman with her was saying.

I ducked out of the office and walked rapidly down the hall. Stephanie Scofield straightened up, looked directly at me, a question in her huge brown eyes. But I walked right past her, gaze straight ahead, around the corner, past the receptionist, and over to the elevator, which thankfully opened its doors just then.

The doors slid shut and I exhaled loudly with genuine relief. I’d boldly gone where others dared not follow. And most importantly, I hadn’t gotten caught.

Sitting in my Volvo, in the baking heat of the parking deck, I made some quick notes for myself. Stephanie Scofield liked red. Clothes and flowers. She was something of a Francophile. She liked expensive stuff. Sterling silver, La Prairie, Prada. The art and office furnishings were kind of a puzzle. Maybe her taste wasn’t so hot. Or maybe she just hadn’t had the time or inclination yet to personalize her office space.

Clearly, there was more work to be done. Clearly, I needed to see where and how she lived. I looked down at my notes. Her address was on a street I wasn’t familiar with, named Lombardy Way. I’d looked it up on an Atlanta map, it was a small side street in Ansley Park, a quiet but ritzy midtown neighborhood only a few blocks away.

I passed the High Museum of Art, the Alliance Theatre, and the Fourteenth Street Playhouse on the way to Stephanie’s address. Was she a bona-fide culture nut, or was she just interested in a prestige address? I wondered.

The Lombardy Way address proved to be across the street from a
back entrance to the Piedmont Driving Club, Atlanta’s best-known and most exclusive country club. Number 86, Stephanie’s, was the third townhouse in a row of six dark gray stucco townhouses with a vague Spanish Colonial influence. Black wrought-iron grillwork covered the arched front windows, and a black and cream striped awning covered each arched doorway. They’d been built in the 1920s or 1930s, I thought. Each unit was fronted with a little patch of emerald green grass and vividly colored impatiens.

I sat in the Volvo and stared at Stephanie Scofield’s front door for a long time, trying to gather the nerve to do something outrageous. In a neighborhood like this, there would be people at home during the day. There would be burglar alarms. Barking dogs.

There would be…police.

Somebody tapped on my window. I must have jumped six inches in my seat.

Stephanie Scofield stood in the street, bent down, staring in at me, those saucer-sized eyes shooting sparks, her hands on her hips.

“Hey! Do I know you?”

“Uh.” It sounded dumb to me too.

“What are you doing hanging around here? What were you doing in my office earlier? Who the hell are you?”

“I, uh…”

She held out a tiny black cell phone, the receiver flipped up. “I’m about to call the cops if you don’t tell me what you’re up to.”

I swallowed hard, tried to think of a logical explanation of what I’d been trying to do. The trouble was, there wasn’t any logical way to explain my mission.

“It’s about a man,” I started. “He’s my client. And he thinks he’s fallen in love with you. So he’s hired me to find out what you like. So you’ll fall in love with him.”

“Really?” She frowned, twirling the ends of her ponytail absentmindedly between her fingertips. “Is this guy some kind of freak or something? Did he just get out of prison, anything like that?”

“Nothing like that,” I assured her. “He’s a successful businessman.”

“What’s he want with me? Do I know him?”

Sweat beaded on my upper lip. It must have been closing in on ninety, and I’d been sitting in my parked car for at least ten minutes. My blouse was drenched with perspiration.

“Could we talk about this inside?” I asked. “I think I’m about to have heat stroke.”

“Okay,” she said, looking me over carefully. “You don’t have a gun or anything, do you?”

“I’m an interior designer, not a private eye.”