Guy leafed through the book and quickly came to the dog-eared page where coincidentally his wife’s entry was listed.
“Look at this. It’s like she’s always there, watching me. ‘Brooklyn Beach Garden, Connie Anzalone, Brooklyn, New York,’ blah, blah, blah. She changed the name of the garden, but it was too late to fix it in the book. She changed the design, too. I made her add more stone yesterday.” He said it proudly, his contribution to the garden.
“Nice touch,” I lied.
“These things never tell you the real story. Newspapers neither. You gotta read between the lines.” He tossed the book on the table, narrowly missing my plate.
Guy was right. There were six stories on those pages and one of them led to Garland Bleimeister. Someone had to read between the lines. What was Bleimeister’s hurry to get into the show before it opened? Who stole his bag and what was in it? And was that why he—and maybe even Otis Randolph—had died?
I picked up the book and started to leave.
“Is that it? We’re done?”
“We’re done. Go home to your wife, Guy. Her name’s Connie. Thanks for the pizza. You should pick up a couple of calzones for Fat Frank—that man needs to put on some weight.” I pushed my chair back from the table and headed for the door. “My friend will take that order to go.”
Thirty-eight
I made a cup of tea and curled up on Lucy’s sofa with the show directory, which I was sure held some answers. It was packed with ads for everything from Guy’s fake stone products to tours of Irish gardens to the banks and car companies that had sponsored the show.
In fact, the directory could mislead people into thinking the show was larger than it was. That was a testament to Kristi Reynolds, who relentlessly chased down advertisers. Knee-replacement surgeons? Maybe she was a marketing genius—gardeners frequently had knee problems.
It was no secret that Kristi wanted to give the Philadelphia Flower Show a run for its money. Allegra had said as much in a less flattering way in the ladies’ room. But Kristi would have to do better than just a glossy show directory. The Philly event had been around for close to two centuries and was the premier flower show in the country—maybe in the world—with landscape displays, floral designs, exhibits from national plant societies, and individual entries from people all over the East Coast.
The Big Apple had dipped its toes in, but Kristi’s greatest strength was public relations, and that’s what had kept the show afloat for the two years since she’d taken over from the previous director.
I scanned the ads and four-color images, then went back to the dog-eared page. Counting both sides, there were six entries. Six vendors or exhibitors: Bagua Designs; Bambi-no, Inc.; BioSafe Products; Brooklyn Beach Garden; Buzz Word Honeys and Soaps; and Byron Davis High School. One of them was the place Garland Bleimeister was desperate to go last Wednesday. Maybe the last place he’d ever gone—under his own steam. But as Guy Anzalone had said, their brief descriptions were just the beginning, one or two lines that said what they were selling or why they were here, but probably wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know. I’d have to dig deeper if I wanted to get the real stories behind them.
The next morning, a note shoved under my door invited me to breakfast anytime between 6:45 and 9:30 A.M. I didn’t remember telling J. C. Kaufman that Lucy didn’t own a coffeepot or saucepan, but maybe she’d figured it out when she and the cats had been in the nearly empty apartment when the cops had been there. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa and had dragged myself into bed a few hours earlier, so coffee—especially made by someone else— sounded good.
The red dress was draped over a slipper chair. In the movies, the dress, the shoes, and the underwear would leave a trail, like breadcrumbs, to the bedroom, where a handsome stranger would still be sleeping under warm, rumpled sheets. Would that this were the movies.
I showered, dressed, and patted myself down with the old salesman’s mantra “spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch,” a Willy Loman–like routine to make sure you had everything you needed for your day’s sales calls. An old salesman had taught it to me on one of my first business trips and, like a song you can’t get out of your head, I remembered it every time I traveled for work.
In my case, it was backpack, phone, keys, and show badge. I shoved the badge in the back pocket of my jeans and felt it catch on something. Instantly I remembered what it was. I fished out the plastic badge holder and the slip of paper it had gotten caught on:
It was Garland’s note. The show directory was still on the sofa, where I’d fallen asleep on top of it. I retrieved it, refolded the note, and slipped it into the directory next to the dog-eared page. Then I headed downstairs to J. C.’s.
She must have been listening for me, because the door opened even before I knocked. A warm, biscuity aroma met me at the door.
The pet poison list I’d left for J. C. had made me a friend for life. And the best friends were the ones who could cook. Moochie curled himself around my ankles.
I climbed onto a stool at the wheeled cart that defined J. C. Kaufman’s kitchen and sniffed the air as she poured me a large mug of coffee. “Those scones smell heavenly.”
“Sleep okay?” she asked. I had a feeling she already knew the answer, since her hearing bordered on supernatural and I’d gotten in late. She probably also heard me stumbling around at three A.M. when I finally made it into the bedroom.
“Not really. Strange doings at the flower show and some crazy dreams,” I said. “Beekeepers, giant calzones, and frankfurters doing Radio City Music Hall numbers in my head.”
“Drugs?”
“Please. I don’t even take DayQuil.” I told her about the blackout, Nikki’s accident, and the news of Garland Bleimeister’s death. Then I pulled out the show directory and Garland’s note.
“Does this have anything to do with the linebacker I saw you talking to last night?” So she had heard and seen my conversation outside with Guy Anzalone. She tilted her head as an apology. “Bedroom window faces the terrace and Moochie likes to climb in and out, so I leave it open. I didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“You were
“Some days I’m glad I’m not young anymore,” she said. “Have you called the police?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had much time. You know I’ve called the cops twice in four nights. They’re going to think I’m either a cop groupie or a hysteric.” I broke open the still-warm scone and watched the steam escape. I brought J. C. up to speed.
“Now that I’ve found his note, I’ll definitely call today. But I’ll do it from the convention center. No point in waiting around here. I’ve still got work to do.”
“This boy … Garland. He was the one who left his bag with you?”
“Accidentally. But, yes, I did have it briefly. It’s gone now. Either he picked it up himself before he died or someone stole it. The sculptures were slightly out of place the other day.”
She gave me a long look over the top of her glasses.
“What?”
She tilted her head toward the front door. What was she thinking that I hadn’t gotten around to? Was our adventure in Lucy’s building the other night more than a run-in with some overzealous menu deliverymen?
“You think someone was
“Nothing was taken. I’m just saying—
