“You’re writing Artie’s obituary, aren’t you?” He peeked around for evidence. “He was a good man, Arthur was. Aunt Shaylene says that’s why we’ve got to close the books on this case. Bring his killer to justice.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, still averting my eyes from the aggressively pale patch of skin.
“Now personally, I think it was Thad that done it,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thad always did have kind of a serial killer vibe about him, don’t you think?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said, standing up. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter what I think. You’ve made sure of that.”
Toby laughed again and his shirt, which had been struggling to stay on the lower part of his stomach, hit the tipping point and suddenly sprung up like a roller shade, zipping upward so that only the words Beware of My . . . were visible. The effect was: Beware of My Big, Hairy Belly.
“Now would you look at what you did there,” he said, grabbing his shirt by the hem and pulling it back down. “You made my shirt go all haywire!” He laughed some more, but this time had the forethought to hold his shirt down. “All’s I did was bring it to your boss’s attention that you might have a little too much bias in this case.”
I started to spit back a retort but stopped myself before I said anything I’d regret. “See you later, Toby. If you’re looking for Kay, she’s in her office.” I turned and walked toward the door, but the little pest followed me down the corridor.
“Actually, it’s you I came looking for.”
“Oh yeah? What for—you want to get me fired this time?”
“I was . . . I mean, Aunt Shaylene, was wondering if you might like to interview her for the obituary.”
This stopped me. “Mayor Lancett wants to be quoted in Arthur Davenport’s obit?”
“The thing is, those two were close friends growing up, you know. And she’s so broken up about his untimely demise. She thought it might be nice to be recorded in the local newspaper as having attested to his fine character.”
I’ll admit I was surprised. I’d thought Libby Nichols was just spreading rumors when she hinted that Arthur and the mayor had something going on, but now I wondered if she might have been right. “Okay. . .” I said.
“Can you come by first thing tomorrow?” Toby asked. “She’ll save you fifteen minutes.”
I agreed, and Toby and I walked out of the Times office together just as Jared Rayburn, the owner of My Secret Garden flower shop, was walking in carrying a huge arrangement of orange roses with fiery red tips.
We said hello and I held the door open for him. Jared was a member of my father’s poetry group and although he was a sweet guy, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call talkative. Jared was in many ways a study in contradictions: He was five-foot eight, built like a ballet dancer, a card-carrying member of the NRA, owned a flower shop, wrote poetry, and founded the local chapter of the Brigade of the American Revolution reenactment society. Oh, and rumor had it that he used to work in the CIA. I don’t know if that was true or not, but I’d often thought Jared would make a fascinating subject of a biography.
“Who’s the lucky duck?” Toby said, eyeing the flowers.
Jared glanced down and squinted as he read the name on the envelope. “Looks like it’s you, Riley.”
“Those are for me?”
“A rose by any other name. . .” He shrugged, and handed me the low, square vase containing the gorgeous arrangement.
It may not have been my most feminist moment, but I’ll admit there was something of an inner-swoon at the thought of Jay sending flowers to make up for acting like an overprotective goon the other day. It wasn’t like roses changed anything exactly, but between the apology and the flowers, I was feeling pretty good about him. Plus, they were soooo pretty!
“Thanks!” I squealed.
“Sheesh, what’d your man do?” Toby asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe I should ask what’d you do?” He snorted out a salacious laugh.
“Shut up, Toby,” I said, irritated he was sullying my moment. “Some men are just romantic.”
“Whatevs,” he said. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning!”
With Toby gone, I dipped my head to inhale the flowers’ sweet scent. Heavenly. I plucked the card from the little pitchfork and gently opened it, my belly swirling with anticipation. It wasn’t every day a girl got roses! At least not this girl. Ryan would bring me a rose once a year on our anniversary—but it was usually the gas station variety inside one of those green plastic tubes, not a professionally delivered arrangement like this one. This looked like something out of a movie. With what was surely a goofy smile plastered on my face, I pulled out the card and read the note contained within:
Meeting you brightened my day, hope these brighten yours . . . xo, Brandon Laytner
What. The. Hell. I looked at the back of the envelope and sure enough, in tiny slanted letters it said: Ridley. A rose by any other name indeed.
CHAPTER 29
I stuffed the card back into the envelope and tried not to bite Mr. Gradin’s head off when he passed me on the way to my car and said, “Isn’t someone a lucky lady?”
I gritted my teeth and faked a cheerful tone. “She sure is!”
She sure is. Fricking Ridley. Again. Did that woman’s allure know no bounds? I made the quick drive home and then, as if the universe was testing how much it would take to get a good Southern girl to lose her shit, I pulled up to my house to find none other than the Fantastic Miss Ridley sitting on my porch swing.
“Ryan and I had a big fight,” she said as I walked up
