Courting Trouble

“Really?” Judy asked. “Plenty of lawyers would.”

“Not him,” Anne said, but everybody was too kind to question her. She had a feeling she would be questioning herself anyway. And she was still wondering why Matt had brought the Dietzes to her service.

Mary nodded. “I’m sure you’re right, Anne. But another issue is why Beth Dietz filed the suit.”

“The affair was over and she was pissed,” Anne answered. “Revenge. That’s what Gil thinks anyway. He said so.”

Bennie stood up and stretched. “Okay, kids, we have a lot going on. The key thing right now is for us to keep Anne safe until the cops pick up Satorno. Here’s what we do—”

“I’d love to get showered, changed, and get back to work on Chipster,” Anne interrupted. She was thinking of the secret in her bra, and she still had no panties. She was having definite lingerie issues. “Can I go back to your house and get cleaned up, Bennie?”

“No. I don’t want you out of my sight. You can use the office shower, like you did before, and we have plenty of clothes here.”

Damn. Anne had to execute her new Plan B and she couldn’t let Bennie in on it. The boss would never agree, after that meeting with the cops. “Please, the clothes here scream fashion mistake. I’ll be safe. Mary and Judy can come with me. They’ll be my bodyguards.”

“You can use my apartment, if you want,” Mary said. “I can lend you some clothes. We’re about the same size.”

Judy finished her coffee. “I’ll watch them both, Bennie,” she offered.

“So can we go, Mom?” Anne asked.

Bennie looked dubious, but this time it was Anne who already knew the answer, and they left the office, sailed down the elevator and out the back entrance, sweltering in black. Anne waited until they had all squeezed into the sweaty backseat of a cab and were five blocks from the office before she reached into her bra.

And the three girls went after Kevin Satorno.

20

SCHWARTZ’S FLOWERS, read the sign outside, and the dark-haired sales clerk was so harried that she barely looked up when the empty shop was invaded by three lawyers in black. She had a cordless phone crooked under one ear and was tapping away on an old keyboard at the computer/cash register. “We’re closed,” she said, hitting the Enter key. “I didn’t have a chance to turn the sign over yet, but we’re totally closed.”

“I just have a question or two,” Mary replied, planting herself at the counter. The girls had agreed by process of elimination that she’d do the questioning; Anne couldn’t draw further attention to herself, Judy was already in the news, and Mary needed assertiveness training.

The clerk only grunted in response, taking an order over the telephone, and Anne took the opportunity to glance around. The store was a single room, square like a corsage box, and the air smelled floral and vaguely refrigerated. The floor was of green indoor-outdoor carpeting, and potted plants ringed the room. Against the walls sat stainless-steel display cases of Gerber daisies in orange and gold, tall iris in characteristic blue, white gladioli, carnations sprayed pink, and long-stemmed white roses. Despite their beauty, Anne felt a dark shiver.

Kevin had been here.

Her eyes fell to the counter cluttered with ribbon snippings, a leftover clump of baby’s breath, and a stray fern. Next to the cash register sat a rack of small gift cards, many of which bore preprinted messages: With Sympathy, Thinking of You, For a Speedy Recovery. Anne’s spotted a plain white card like the one she’d recovered from the floor at the Chestnut Club and had tucked in her underwire. She plucked the new card from the rack and turned it over in her hand while the sales clerk, behind the counter, hung up the phone.

“We’re closed, honest,” the sales clerk repeated. Her eyes were a hazel brown, catching the light that streamed in the storefront window facing her, and her makeup had worn off. She wore a white T-shirt and jeans under a tall, white apron with a green FTD logo on it. Her nameplate read rachel, in kelly green. “I’m already cashed out for the day. I can’t sell you anything.”

“I don’t want to buy anything,” Mary said. “I’m looking for a man named Kevin Satorno, who brought or delivered red roses to a memorial service today. You either employ him or he picked them up here and brought them himself. Can you help? I won’t take up much of your time.”

“His name is Satorno? I can tell you he doesn’t work here.” Rachel smiled. “You gotta be family to work here. If he’s not a Schwartz, he’s not an employee.”

“So you know all the delivery people?”

“They’re all family.”

“No temps?”

“You can’t be a temporary Schwartz.”

Mary smiled. “Okay, that’s a great help. So, that means he bought roses here and delivered them himself.”

“Whatever.” The cordless phone rang, and Rachel picked it up. “No, Twenty-second Street! Twenty-second Street! Not Twenty-third!” She hung up. “My brother is a complete idiot. This is the bad thing about a family business. Your family.”

“Were you working here earlier today and yesterday?”

“Yes. I’m the Schwartz who can count. My brother hates math.”

“This man bought a dozen red roses here, today or yesterday. He delivered them with a card from this shop. He looks like this.” Mary pulled half of the red flyer from her purse and showed it to Rachel. They had decided it was almost as good as Kevin’s mug shot and didn’t tip off that he was wanted by the cops, thus avoiding any pesky questions. “He’s white, tall, young, and good-looking. He has blue eyes, and his hair used to be pale blond, but he’s since dyed it black. It was either blond or black when he came here. I know it’s not overly helpful, but it’s all I’m sure of.”

“Either way, his face doesn’t look familiar.” Rachel handed the flyer back.

“You don’t remember him?”

“No way. Do you have any idea how many people have been in this store over the past two days, buying red roses? Everybody orders red for July Fourth, for entertaining and such. It’s red-white-and-blue time. I can’t keep anything red in stock.” Rachel gestured at the display case. “See that iris? It’s gorgeous but it’ll rot there. July Fourth is almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.”

“I see. Do you keep records of what people order, when they buy?”

“Sure. I fill out an order for the sale, even walk-ins, if that’s what you mean.”

“Does it contain any personal information, like name or address?”

“Sure, I ask everybody for name, address, and phone number, but not everybody wants to give it. They don’t have to legally, but we ask anyway, for the mailing list.” Rachel looked defensive. “If it’s really busy though, I don’t always get a chance to write out the order. I just fill it and give ’em the flowers. Drives my dad nuts.”

Anne was already eyeing the counter for the order forms.

“This Satorno,” Mary continued, “may not have used his real name and he may have even used a fake address, but he bought a dozen red roses here either yesterday or this morning. Do you have any way of looking him up, seeing if he had an order? We need to find him. It’s really important.”

“Find his order?” Rachel wiped a dark strand of hair from her damp brow. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to close and I have a shitload to do before I leave. You know how long it would take to go through the orders for red roses? They’re not even sorted and they’re all mixed in. I wasn’t going to deal with it until Tuesday.”

Anne kept looking for the order forms. Behind the counter, next to a multicolored ribbon rack, sat a series of gray loose-leaf notebooks that contained catalogs, then she struck gold. Order slips. Some were stacked on an old- fashioned spike, but most were in disarray. She nudged Mary, whose gaze had already located them.

“Rachel, I know you’re busy, but we can help. If you’d let us look through the order forms, maybe we could find him. With the three of us, we could look through them in no time, and we’d leave the orders sorted for you. You wouldn’t have to do it on Tuesday. We could do it while you closed up and we’d be finished right away. Your dad would think you’re a star.”

“No, sorry.” Rachel shifted her weight behind the counter. “I’d like to, but I can’t.”

“A woman’s life depends on it. She’s about your age, and but for the grace of God—”