I regretted my decision to pick up the phone after I heard the automated voice repeat which number had called. It was the home phone number for my mother. Shit. Shit. Double shit.
“Quincy McKay! This is your Mother! Why do I have to hear from Barbara Colgate that my daughter was arrested today? How am I going to be able to show my face at the ward party tonight? Just tell me. First you’re dating some…some…beer drinker, and then you’ve got the fire brigade at your house after you go out with this…this…man, and now you’re in jail. People in jail have tattoos, Quincy. Oh no, did someone make you get a tattoo while you were in jail?” After more gossip enhanced crazy rants, the graces of heaven fell upon me as the voicemail time limit for my mother’s message had been reached. It wasn’t a difficult decision to erase that message and move on.
The next message was either a hang-up or the heavy breather was back. The automated voice said that the phone number was unavailable. I was too tired to be scared or worried, and frankly I was too pissed off at comrade Barbara Colgate to care.
Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t blame the spy network for getting me in this mess. I didn’t know whom I could assign that responsibility to. If anything, I had kept my mouth shut about Derrick and the funeral flower business far too much. Danny was the only floral person to whom I had expressed my true feelings about the Hansen mortuary and Derrick. I had keyed Derrick’s car, but I couldn’t have been the only person to clash with him.
Whatever the reason, I was a suspect in Derrick’s murder and I didn’t know what to do about it. I wanted so badly to call Alex. But there was no way I would. My emotions were all balled up. I was embarrassed for many reasons, including what Alex probably assumed as my stalking him. But then I was angry with him for not trusting me enough to assume I would have called him from the station with legitimate intentions. Maybe he was in trouble for going out with me since he was involved in the hit-and-run case. Still, he could tell me so on the phone. I decided maybe I was getting the cold shoulder and that I was done with Mr. Cooper for a while.
“Never rely on a man for anything, Quincy. The only person in this world you can always count on is you. Never forget it.” That’s what Aunt Rosie had told me when I was ten. I didn’t believe her then, but it turned out she had been right hadn’t it?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saturdays at the shop were usually quiet. With extra time on my hands, I could think of numerous things to do. Acting on those things was the hard part. I sat down at my desk and the computer with the intent of doing some bookkeeping. I drifted into doing
little
bookkeeping and a
lot
of Internet surfing. A few things nagged at me. Derrick's employee had said someone named L.D. Stanwyck signed her checks. I needed to find out who he was. I thought maybe if he signed the paychecks, he would know Derrick and possibly he would know something about Derrick’s shop or his contacts.
I tried typing in the name of Derrick's shop, but just came up with Derrick's name. Then I remembered what had happened when I "Googled" myself. A lot more information appeared on the screen than I ever knew about me. So, I typed in L.D. Stanwyck and eventually found the name of a corporation, L & G Enterprises. A quick search for that name showed a link to a website with business names where Lawson and Sons Mortuary was highlighted. I had never heard of it. I typed in Lawson and Sons and found it was a discount mortuary in Ogden. It was too much of a coincidence that L&G Enterprises was linked to a mortuary.
I found the website for the State of Utah's Division of Corporations, and a page where I could input the name of a business and find the principle officers of the entity. I entered the names of L&G and Lawson’s mortuary. A screen popped up telling me the system was down and it was unknown when the database would be accessible again. That trail had gone cold.
I thought of something else that had been taking up precious space in the back of my mind. I moved aside the piles on my desk and found the pamphlet I had borrowed from Derrick's desk. Another quick Google search netted an abundance of information about switch grass. Just like the pamphlet said, switch grass appeared to be a miracle bio-fuel. Inexpensive to grow and almost impossible to kill.
Not only would a switch grass farm provide the means for yielding five times the energy required to produce it, it would increase the carbon dioxide uptake from the air; just like the houseplants for sale in my shop. It sounded like a pretty good idea to me. Too bad I didn’t have any money to invest in a switch grass farm. Although, if Derrick had had any connection to this particular farm in the pamphlet, I wouldn’t want to touch it with the proverbial ten foot pole.
I didn’t know what the connection was between Derrick and switch grass, and whether or not there was a connection between Irwin Shaw and switch grass, or whether it was just a coincidence his phone number ended up on a sticky note inside the pamphlet. But, I had little to go on, so I would have to investigate. And besides, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
After prepping arrangements for our hospital account and watering all of the plants in the shop, I called it a day. As I walked across the parking lot it felt as if the bottoms of my shoes were becoming one with the asphalt. The van provided no refuge from the hot dry air.
I drove home with the windows down; the air conditioning wouldn’t kick on until the end of the short drive. I decided to use the free afternoon to catch up on some yard work even though it would be during the hottest part of the day in the hottest month of the year.
With all the hectic activity during the past week I hadn’t taken any time to take a look at the charred remains of the hydrangea bush. I found some ragged old gardening gloves and took the pruners and the shovel around to the side of the house. Thankfully the bush was on the shaded part of the yard now that the afternoon sun hung in the western part of the sky.
I moved sluggishly, not out of conscious effort but in a conservation of the energy required just to exist. I stumped over to the landscaped berm next to the house prepared to dig out the carcass of my cherished blooming plant. In place of what I expected to be a black charred plant, was a new, billowy hydrangea bush. In July, there was no way a water-loving hydrangea could survive without being watered every day.
I knew immediately whom I should talk to about this new small miracle that appeared to be thriving in my yard.
It must have been my neighbor, Sarah Jones. She was with me the night it burned. She was such a thoughtful sweetheart.
A rumbling sound commenced in the distant sky. A breeze started up and within seconds it had become a gusting wind. It looked like a microburst was brewing.
I turned and jogged toward my house. By the time I reached the back gate the rain was pelting down. Summer microbursts are a common phenomenon in Utah. They're considered a relief from the heat, or a curse from the outdoor wedding gods depending upon the situation you're in. It's impossible to do anything outside during the wind gusts that can take down an entire tent full of wedding guests and send large floral centerpieces aloft within seconds.
I ran inside the house and put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I chose one of my standby movies, “Cyrano de Bergerac,” in French with subtitles. I always dreamed of going to France and speaking French, but for now the subtitles would have to suffice. I went for the tragic romance instead of the happily ever-after love story; since that was the category my romantic life sat in.
Sarah’s gift deserved a thank you and I dreamed up a floral design I would make especially for her the next day. I pulled some thank you cards from a desk. The bouquet Alex had given me on our date sat on the desk in an antique Art Deco vase. The fiery red and yellow gloriosa lilies reminded me of Alex the night of the fire. Alex had been so pushy then. He knew I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, not to mention that no amount of coaxing would ever convince me to let a man stay overnight in my house after knowing him for less than a week. I don’t care if I wasn’t even in the house at the time the man stayed over. My mother would know about the sleepover and my life would be miserable from then on.
It was pretty heroic though, the way he bolted from his Scout and put the fire out. I realized I had been just a tad bit harsh on the guy. Plus I really had a great time romping around the forest with him. And he was a great kisser.
I should at least call him and thank him for helping me out so much during the fire, right?
I picked up the phone and dialed his number. It answered after one ring. I took a deep breath, listened to the greeting, and then hung up. I just didn’t know what to say. He did, after all, ignore any attempts to reach him during my most desperate hour. It didn’t make sense for his phone to be off. I mean, don’t cops have to be available even on their days off in case of mass hysteria or something? I turned my cell phone on. Maybe he had left a message while it was off.
Nope. Not a word.
When someone who you went out with mere hours before, leaves several voice messages in a row, from a phone at the jailhouse, don’t you think a person should at least check to see what all the fuss is about? I thought he should have. And, since he didn’t like to reply to phone messages, I wasn’t going to leave him another.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday morning, as I drove to work just before nine o’clock, the flashing electronic sign on the bank displayed the temperature as eighty-two degrees. It set an ominous tone for the day. The chances for Cindy to impress with her attire were high and likely. She did not disappoint.
A heavy sigh followed the ringing of the front door bell, announcing Cindy's arrival. She wore a mini skirt, giant hoop earrings, thigh-high black vinyl boots and a tight, fuchsia tank shirt with the words “Hot Slut” written across the front.
“No, Cindy. No, no, nooo." I said calmly, trying to remain friendly. "Just go home and change, come back, and we’ll both pretend this never happened. Okay? Please?" I forced my face into a sweet expression, hoping she didn't take personal offense this time.
“What? What’s wrong with this?”
“Seriously?”
“Fine.” She huffed and walked out.
After her departure, a FedEx carrier arrived with a special order of David Austen garden roses I had special ordered from a farm in California. After signing for the box, I removed the cool packs, newspaper and wooden blocking to reveal the most beautiful bunches of watermelon-pink roses I had ever seen. Then I went into the back room to fill buckets with water and floral food. The aroma of the garden roses—which has been lost in commonly used hybrid tea varieties—filled the entire shop all the way to the back room.
Perhaps it was due to the euphoria caused by the rose scent, but as I lifted the first bucket full of water out of the sink, I was inspired by what seemed—at the time— to be a brilliant idea. While waiting for more buckets to fill, I could get in some weight lifting reps without having to go to the gym, or even leave the store. Talk about multi-tasking.
I started with bicep curls, twelve reps on each side.
Not too difficult.
Let’s take this up a notch.
I needed to work on leg strength and balance, so I placed the palms of my hands on either side of the bottom of a bucket and pushed it above my head. I took a big step forward with my right leg, brought it back to the starting position, and then I lunged with the left leg. My upper body strength was surprising—not too shabby for a skinny girl, I thought.
The next step was to test my balance. While holding the bucket above my head, arms fully extended, I carefully lifted one leg and straightened it out to the side in the air. I was shaky, but I held on. I began to visualize a new business idea as I balanced—I would inspire a new fitness craze—dry land water aerobics. I would make exercise videos and sell empty buckets as equipment. I would become the next world famous fitness guru.
“Hello!” A male voice yelled from just outside the doorway.
I shrieked. Balance was lost and limbs flailed. Water flew everywhere, mostly on me, and the overturned bucket landed on my head.
I ripped it off and peered between chunks of wet, dripping bangs to see a couple in their sixties staring at me from the middle design room. They looked frightened.
“I’m so sorry,” the man said. “We didn’t know if anyone was here.”
“Yes—I’m here,” I replied feebly. I wasn’t embarrassed by my appearance so much as wondering how much of my routine they had seen.
“Are you okay?” The woman asked.
“Oh, I’m fine, just fine.” I grabbed a work towel and ushered them up to the front counter. “What can I help you folks with?” I said in the lightest, happiest voice I could draw out. Pools of water collected on the counter top.
The woman said, “We didn’t actually come in to order flowers; we just wanted to know if you’d heard anything from the police lately?”
Police?
I got a lump in my throat and felt tears working their way to the ducts—far too easily.
Dear Lord, what now?
The man took over the talking. “Oh, my. We’ve really caused a mess for you today.”
“I’m okay, really…” My voice cracked and the tears came.
“What my wife meant to say is that we saw a hit-and-run the other day involving your delivery van. We saw it happen as we were driving past on our way to the airport. We would have stopped, but we were late for our flight as it was. So we called the police on the cell phone and told them about it. We just got back into town today, and my wife was just worried sick about it. We haven’t even been home yet.”
“You saw the hit-and-run?” Things were suddenly sunnier.
“My wife saw the lettering on the back doors of your van, and recognized the name of your shop and.…”
The wife interrupted, "We were in line to turn left you know, and a little red pick-up truck come around our left side. After switching back and forth through the story, they came to describe the accident just as Nick had done, with the same details.