The Final Arrangement Read online

  Ugh. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the wall.

  “This is Quincy,” I corrected. “What can I help you with today?”

  “Ms. Swanson, do you know a Derrick Gibbons?”

  “My name is Quincy McKay. Swanson is my ex-husband’s name. And yes, I know Derrick—well I know who he is. I mean was. I guess that should be was, shouldn’t it?” My cheeks started to burn like they always do when I jumble my words.

  “Why would you say was Ms…McKay?”

  A cold burning started to churn deep in my stomach. A three-alarm fire burned across my cheeks. Danny’s admonition not to tell anyone echoed inside my head. His brother could lose his job if they found out he’d leaked the story. I had just broken the unspoken code of the florist.

  If there’s anyone who knows all of the gossip in town, it’s the florist. Any florist knows that when they hear something juicy, they keep it in the vault. Danny was going to kill me.

  “Ms. McKay, I need to speak with you about a few things. How long will you be there today?”

  “I…all day as far as I know. But…”

  “I just need to ask you a few things, so I need you to stay put.

  “I’m sorry, Officer…”

  “It’s Detective.”

  “Detective; I was just wondering why you would need me to stay here. Not that I plan on going anywhere, but can’t we just talk over the phone? I mean, I don’t really know anything about Derrick anyway.”

  “No. Like I said, don’t go anywhere.”

  “Detective, I’m trying to run a business, and I’ve got a lot to worry about right now. It doesn’t really work for me to stay here all day, waiting. Isn’t it possible just to do it over the phone…now?”

  “Somehow I knew you would be a pain.”

  “Excuse me?” He was very unprofessional. “Is there a problem here?”

  “Should there be a problem? Is there something you’re not telling me?” He sounded like a detective on a bad TV show.

  “This conversation is getting weird. I don’t know why you’re talking to me in that tone and I really don’t know what I could tell you about Derrick.” I swiped my hair out of my face and tucked it behind an ear. “If this is about the parking lot thing yesterday…”

  “What parking lot thing?”

  Oh, crud. “Never mind. Nothing. I‘m just flustered by the way you’re talking to me. I don’t like your accusatory tone, Officer. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “It’s Detective Arroyo. And my tone is the least of your worries right now. You were the last person seen with Derrick Gibbons while he was alive."

  “Whoa. Exactly what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying don’t go anywhere.”

  Then, there was nothing but silence.

  ###

  I stood immobile after I hung up the phone. A knot inside my head, consisting of hundreds of thought threads all pulling in their own direction resulted in my inability to do anything but stand there, stunned. Meanwhile the cooler motor clanked on again and the radio blared.

  What a bizarre phone call. And what kind of idiot cop calls ahead, thus tipping off a suspect? Of course, I wasn’t a suspect. Was I? This had to have been a joke. But, I didn’t know anyone that would pull such a mean prank. Wait a second—the ex-husband. His relatives were virtually half the population of Hillside; he probably had connections at the police department.

  I looked down at the caller ID. It said Hillside City Police on the screen. If it was a joke, someone could get in a lot of trouble just for helping my ex get his jollies. There had to be another explanation, but I didn’t have time to think about it. Maybe it involved Danny’s brother. But worrying about the jerk cop and his weird phone call would have to wait. I had things to do and if Detective Arroyo wanted to talk to me about Derrick, or for whatever reason, he would have to do it around my schedule.

  If Arroyo really was a cop, I would probably be regretting the fact that I almost let slip about my little tiff with Derrick. I hated him even more now dead than when he was alive. I thought back to the night before, when I had gone to deliver a puny little planter basket to the mortuary. We bumped into each other and I ended up falling down on the asphalt after he pushed me. Derrick walked away as if nothing ever happened and there were no witnesses to the altercation. Or at least I thought there weren’t any witnesses.

  “Okay,” I said out loud, “Enough time wasting.” The day was melting away as if the heat outside had an effect on the passage of time. I picked up the phone receiver yet again. I called Cindy, my assistant floral designer, who wasn’t scheduled to come in until noon.

  “Hello.” The disdain in Cindy’s hello indicated that she probably saw the shop number pop up on her caller ID.

  “Hi Cindy, I am so sorry to ask this, but can you please come in early?”

  She responded with a long, intentionally drawn out sigh.

  “How early?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Why?” She sounded like a whiny teenager arguing with her mom.

  “Some last minute stuff has come up.” I didn’t want to mention the slim possibility of the police showing up. “The hospital called and we’ve got to get a full load over there soon.”

  “Wuhl, isn’t Nick supposed to be there?”

  Nick was my delivery driver. He’d been working for me for three weeks. So far he’d only been late four times, but he eventually shows up, which is better than the previous two drivers.

  I glanced up at the clock and couldn’t believe what I saw. “It’s past ten already! Cindy, I just need to know if you can come in or not. Nick doesn’t do arrangements, and we’ve got a lot of stuff to get done.” Why should I explain anything to her anyway? I was supposed to be the boss.

  “Hhhhuh,” she exhaled forcefully enough to collapse a lung. “Okay, I’ll guess I’ll come in.”

  “Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

  “Yeah.” The phone went silent.

  “Be happy you have a job, you little troll!” I said to the receiver after I replaced it in its cradle with a little extra force.

  I walked over to the radio and turned off one of the background noises. At least I had control over something. As I picked up my knife, I heard the familiar sound of the phone, and stuck the knife in the pocket of my apron as I reached for the receiver with my other hand.

  For the next twenty minutes I fielded phone calls, which actually consisted of orders for the day. Now the heat was on—both outside with the weather and inside with the sudden onslaught of business. I returned to the design table and worked in between glances at my watch and the front window, worried it might be the police, instead of my helpers who would come through the door first.

  Finally Nick walked in the door. Nick Wilson was twenty-two years old. A good enough looking guy, but he disguised it with a lazy demeanor. His slouch just shouted out, “I dare you to ask me to move any faster.”

  “Hey, Nick.”

  “Hey, Quincy. How’s it goin’?”

  “Well, it’d be goin’ a lot better if my driver had been here at ten.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry.”

  “I’m sure you’re all broken up about it.”

  “Huh?”

  “About being late, I’m sure you just feel terrible about being late.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He had no idea what I was talking about.

  “I was being sarcastic Nick. You need to be on time from now on.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “K.”

  I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one.

  “Since I don’t have time to finish making all of these before you leave, I need you to go to the front display cooler and grab a thirty-five dollar arrangement. Then write the card and take the arrangement to Fairview.”

  Nick stood in place for a few beats while I watched for signs of cogs turning in his head. He looked up at me and I pointed toward the front of the store. His synapses finally fired up and he ambl
ed in the direction of the cooler. While on his way, the front doorbell chimed. Cindy’s blond hair filled the doorway and framed a giant pair of metallic bug eye sunglasses. The glam glasses only distracted me momentarily from the thing that would cause a stress-invoked heart attack before I turned thirty.

  Cindy is what you might call well-endowed. She wore a tight, white, scoop-necked tank top, which was too short to cover her belly button ring. Her cut-off denim short-shorts were too low riding to conceal the jewelry either. As she begrudgingly swanked her way back to the design area, I noticed Nick had a new purpose and pace to his step as he followed her while holding an arrangement.

  As she approached the design table where I stood, I tried to assemble the correct words. I had to say just enough, but not too much. She had to know she couldn’t wear that to work right?

  I must deal with this employee in a firm, but friendly manner. That’s what Aunt Rosie had written in her shop instruction manual. As I tried to come up with something profound, Cindy reached the design table, but made a sharp right turn to the wrapping counter where she liked to stow her purse; she was obviously avoiding speaking to me for as long as possible.

  “Hi,” I said with questioning intonation. I had decided to wait to speak with her privately about the dress code, after Nick left. That was, until I saw the view from behind when she crouched to put her purse under the counter. Not only was her lower back tattoo obscured slightly by the hot pink thong, but the shorts had a three-inch wide hole under her right butt cheek.

  All thoughts of friendly firmness disintegrated.

  “Are—you—kidding—me?” I said.

  “What?” She said innocently as she stood up.

  “You cannot seriously think you can wear that to work in my shop.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with what she’s wearing? It looks pretty hot to me,” said suddenly-not-slouching Nick.

  “Nick! Aren’t you supposed to be doing something? Besides, you can’t talk about how hot your co-worker is.”

  “So you admit I look good.” Cindy said, glowing.

  I thought my head might explode.

  “You know if you had only come in wearing the tank top, which shows the most cleavage as is possible while still maintaining the laws of physics, we might have been able to have a little talk. But the tattoo framing thong and the rip-in-the-ass jeans are just a bit over the top.”

  “Whoa, when did you get a tramp stamp?” Nick said.

  “Nick!”

  “Dude, you probably shouldn’t show your ass though, that’s not proper,” he said, with a straight face.

  “Proper?” I turned my attention to Nick. “Aren’t you the guy that wears his pants so baggy that an old lady called the police and complained about being flashed when a young man matching your description got into a van in front of our store?” Things were totally out of control at this point. “By the way, have you bought a belt yet?”

  “Hey, I was just trying to help.” Nick said, surprised at my lack of appreciation for his words of wisdom.

  “You can help by getting that delivery to Fairview and getting back here to take the hospital cooler stuff.”

  “Okay, I’m going.”

  He picked up the arrangement he’d left on the table and reached for the van keys on the hook on the wall.

  “Nick, the card!” He hadn’t written the card yet.

  “I’ll do it.” Cindy declared, and then walked over to the little rack on the front counter displaying the cards and envelopes that are usually enclosed with a flower delivery. She proceeded to pick up a card and pen, then lean down on the counter to write, causing her butt to protrude behind her and thus be prominently displayed to both Nick and myself so that we had a bird’s eye view of the ensuing rip, which resulted in a now, six-inch tear.

  I glared at Nick, daring him to say a word. A look of fear passed across his face. He walked over next to Cindy, and looked straight up at the ceiling with his hand held out until Cindy placed the card filled envelope in his palm. He then marched with intent toward the back door and the parked delivery van that doubled as my personal vehicle.

  “Cindy,” I said wearily, “if it were just the cleavage-fest tank top, you could cover up with an apron. But you can’t wear those shorts. At the rate they’re ripping you’ll have a fully exposed cheek in about thirty seconds.”

  “Well you’re the one that called and asked me to come in early. I’m doing you a favor by being here,” she said indignantly.

  “Exactly what kind of favor is it that you’re doing for me? Doubling as an on-staff barfly? And what does coming in a few minutes early have to do with what you’re wearing?”

  “I didn’t have any other clean clothes.”

  “Well next time do me a favor and wear something with stains all over them will ya? It’d be a lot better than this.”

  “Maybe there won’t be a next time. There are other jobs out there you know.”

  “You’re right, Cindy. There are a lot of jobs out there. But the only ones where you’re allowed or encouraged to dress like that have descriptions including words like, johns, pimps, street, and walking.”

  My sarcasm seemed to break the tension and Cindy looked up at me trying to suppress a smile.

  “Okay, I shouldn’t have worn this to work. But you don’t have to be such a bitch, Quincy. You could have just told me to go change.” She turned her head away, embarrassed to show the emotion beginning to well up in her face.

  Employees aren’t supposed to talk to their bosses like that. But, a boss probably shouldn’t tell their employee they are dressed like a prostitute. I’d let the stress get to me and snapped. It hurt to have Cindy call me a name like that, though. But, I couldn’t let her know it. I turned my heated face away from her.

  The two of us stood there, three feet apart looking in opposite directions, both knowing we had breached employee/employer etiquette but not wanting to admit it.

  “Cindy, you just caught me off guard. It’s been a stressful morning.” I felt very un-confident and none of the usual snappy comebacks came to mind.

  “Not everyone is as perfect as you, Quincy.” She said calmly without sarcasm.

  I heard a sniffle, and turned my head toward her. She carefully wiped away tears so as not to smear her eyeliner. The sniffles kept coming as she maneuvered around the store. So maybe I really was a bitch. But I was a bitch who had orders to get out the door. I needed Cindy’s help.

  “I’m not perfect, Cindy. Far from it. I’m sorry I didn’t handle this well.” I really did feel guilty for talking to her in the way I had, especially in front of someone else. “Well, we don’t have time to send you home, but I have my gym bag in the car. You can wear my warm-up pants and a t-shirt.” I tried to think of a compliment to help smooth things over. “You know, you really are lucky. If I had a figure like yours I’d want to show it off too.”

  “Thanks.” Cindy replied. “I’m sure your pants will be a little long,” she said with a make-lemonade-out-of-lemons voice, “but they’ll fit. I feel bad though—I’m definitely going to stretch the chest out in your t-shirt. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” muttered the B-cup.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We survived the morning madness and the early afternoon ran smoothly. No sign of the unprofessional detective—he sure seemed in a hurry on the phone earlier. Nick returned and left again with a full vanload. Cindy and I made several bouquets to fill our orders, and we even had time to make speculation arrangements to put in the front cooler for sale.

  As we placed the last mono-botanical arrangement of fuchsia gerbera daisies in the cooler, I heard the back door slam against drywall, and then the pounding of feet.

  “Quincy!” Nick was almost breathless after blasting through the store.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was just in a hit-and-run.” He sounded genuinely upset. But in the short time Nick had been employed by me, he had already p
roven to be quite a storyteller. Coupled with that, my sister Sandy’s husband grew up in the same neighborhood as Nick, and Sandy knew all of the dirt about Nick and his infamous reputation. Her “helpful” warnings about Nick were reminders of my inferior abilities to run the business, thus keeping her superiority intact. This of course only made me want to believe in Nick all the more now, despite my better judgment, if only to prove my sister wrong.

  “A hit-and-run?”

  “Yeah!”

  My shoulders dropped and I looked for the nearest seat when I realized Nick was serious. I reached to my forehead and drew my hand down my face as if it might help swipe the stress and frustration of the day out of my head. I took a deep breath and sighed. “Tell me what happened.”

  He pointed as he said, “I was at the intersection right there. I was turning left onto Main Street, and just as I went to get into the left turn lane, this truck hit me on my side and then passed me on the left and turned left in front of the cars coming straight and took off onto the freeway.” He said it all without stopping for a breath.

  “Where did it hit on the van?” I asked as I started toward the back of the shop.

  “On my side in the back.”

  We arrived at the van. A small dent dug into the rear panel and poppy-red paint streaks overlaid the dent like brush strokes, just behind the rear wheel.

  “Nick! It looks to me as if you just didn’t look in the mirrors and ran into someone.”

  “Quincy, I swear I looked. It was a red pick-up truck. I saw them in the rear view mirror when they were behind me.”

  I looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Far behind me, Quincy. There is no way I would have hit them if they hadn’t sped up. I swear.”

  “You said them. There was more than one person?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure, ‘cause when I looked over after the truck hit me, I saw them passing me. It was two guys. They were looking at me, shaking their fists and yelling.”

  “What did you do after they passed you?”

  “I waited until it was my turn to go through the intersection, and then I tried to follow them, but I was too far behind. I saw them get onto the freeway.”