Slugfest

“I had a date once that lasted forty-five minutes,” I said. “And that was with dinner. Big mistake—knew it right from the get-go. But twenty minutes? That’s got to be a new record.”

“If the magic’s not there, the magic’s not there.”

Neither of us really thought Kristi and the man in the polo shirt were on a date.

“That color reminded me of something,” Rolanda said. I’d thought the same thing the minute I’d seen it.

“Ya think? It’s all over the SlugFest booth. I’m guessing that was Scott Reiger.”

Once Kristi and her friend left, I showed Rolanda the literature I had taken from the SlugFest booth. It was long on marketing speak but short on details. The bio pic looked ten years old, but the man Kristi had been duking it out with was definitely Scott Reiger.

“I also made a copy of his meeting schedule.”

“Why?”

“Someone once told me you can’t believe everything you read. You have to read between the lines. Let’s look at that directory again.”

In addition to the brief company description, BioSafe, the company that made SlugFest, had taken a four- color full-page ad on the inside back cover of the book.

“Probably not cheap,” Rolanda said.

“Especially for a brand-new company with no track record and limited distribution. They do say self-promotion is key for start-ups and newbies.”

“More likely Kristi Reynolds threatened to break his kneecaps if he didn’t take it.”

I took my laptop out of my backpack.

“Eighty percent battery. That should last for a few searches.” SlugFest was first. The BioSafe Web site mirrored the booth, the ad, and probably the man—a few catchphrases; not many details on scientific credentials, ingredients in the product, or how it worked but lots of salmon-colored images that someone must have decided were a warm counterpoint to the less attractive but necessary slug pictures.

As the founder, Scott’s bio was the first and the longest. He had an extensive sales and marketing background but not in any gardening-related businesses. Nine months earlier, he’d left an executive position at a well-known pharmaceutical company to start BioSafe. On paper he was the male equivalent of Kristi—aggressive, successful, and single-minded. They’d make a great couple if she didn’t stick a fork in him.

“So what does he need her for?” Rolanda asked. “Entree into the gardening community?”

The way to Kristi’s heart was through her balance sheet. All he had to do was write a check for that to happen. Maybe she’d needed him. I googled Kristi next, and the Big Apple Flower Show popped up. She’d been at the helm for two years, taking over from Allegra Douglas. The jury was still out on her performance.

An article in The Trentonian made it sound as if she was single-handedly bringing the event into the twenty-first century. A less flattering piece in a New York paper cited the exodus of numerous long-term employees, exhibitors, and community supporters. Referred to as “the always outspoken,” Mrs. Jean Moffitt was quoted as saying, “Kristi Reynolds has shaken up our neat little world, but perhaps we were getting too fusty. Too unimaginative. To whom will we pass the torch when all the old-timers like me are planted in the ground if not to the young innovators? Some of her methods may be unorthodox, but if she can sustain us through these few difficult economic times, then I applaud what she’s doing.”

But not everyone felt the same way about Kristi, including her predecessor, the snarky, chain-smoking Allegra Douglas.

Forty-six

By the time I left El Quixote, the streets were slick with the first drops of rain. Traffic had slowed to a sluggish crawl and people with a single arm raised appeared on every corner. I’d never get a cab. I considered the bus but had no change and no idea what the fare was these days, and I knew better than to go into a store or restaurant and ask for change. In New York this is almost as welcome a thing to say as “This is a stickup.”

It’s a fact of life in the city that the four-dollar umbrella man is never there when you need him. I turned my collar up, tucked in my hair, and tried to make a twenty-minute walk take ten. The rain had picked up. I was trapped at a light between two better-prepared pedestrians, the shoulders of my wool blazer catching the runoff from both their umbrellas. When the light changed, I stepped off the curb to the furious honking of someone attempting to make a right. Jeez, give me a break—you’re in a warm, dry car and I’m in a monsoon. Relax yourself.

The honking continued even after I’d crossed the street. What a jerk.

That’s when I noticed the driver had double-parked and his window was sliding down. “Paula! Ms. Holliday, let me give you a ride.”

The rain was coming down pretty hard and I had trouble seeing. I moved closer to the curb and shielded my eyes with my hands. It was John Stancik, looking very inviting. “Have you been following me?”

“That sounds a little paranoid. Of course not.”

I jogged back across the street and opened the passenger’s side door. I checked the backseat.

“All alone. You trust me?”

Why not? Didn’t my mother always tell me to trust a policeman? Stancik moved the cardboard tray that was on the floor of the passenger’s side.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Station house is five minutes from here. I just got off duty and picked up some coffee. I saw you about two blocks ago.”

“But you thought you’d let me get really wet before offering me a lift?” I got in the car and John handed me a stack of paper napkins from the coffee shop.

“I was trying to decide how much I felt like sparring after putting in a long day.” That was fair.

I put on my seat belt, and we pulled away from the curb. “Where’s your friend—out looking for a club that still has a disco ball?”

“Give him a break. He’s a lot older than you think. He’s just very well preserved.”

I never knew any cops when I lived in New York. There were thousands of them, anonymous until one of them did something heroic or illegal, or was accused of the same. Most of time they faded into the mosaic of the city. You didn’t see them until you needed them. Then, unlike the umbrella vendors, they materialized. Which was a good thing.

In Springfield, I knew them all by name. And their wives’ names and their pets’. Some of that had to do with the size of the town; some had to do with my reputation as an amateur sleuth, a fact I kept to myself on the short drive to Lucy’s.

The next block was one-way, heading north. Stancik drove farther west, where he’d be able to make a left and go south. We caught one of the red lights.

“Do you know where I’m staying?” I asked, suspicious.

“Wow, you are paranoid.” Either he had an excellent memory or when we met this morning he’d filed it for future reference. A chill went through my wet clothes.

Without asking he turned the heat on. “Let me know if it’s blowing too much. I got two coffees. You want one?”

I lifted the cardboard tray he’d wedged between a large briefcase and the hump in the back of the car.

“Real or decaf?” I asked.

“I got one of each—take your pick.”

“That’s a strategy,” I said. “One for now and one for later?” I took the cup marked regular and popped off the lid.

The light changed and John took the left. After a block, he pulled into an empty metered spot and put the car in park.

“All right. I saw you in El Quixote and thought I might catch up with you when you left. I got one of each to be on the safe side.”

My heart started to beat faster and it wasn’t from two sips of coffee. Did everyone have that reaction when they talked to cops, or was it only people who worried they’d done something wrong? Had he seen me with