“Honey B. Haven,” Grace said, shaking her head. “What parents in their right mind would burden a child with such a name?”
“If I remember what came out during Harding’s trial,” I said, “Honey worked at a strip club before she met Harding. Maybe that was her stage name.”
Grace cleared her throat and took hold of the edges of her cardigan.
Here it came, her quote for the day.
“As Logan Pearsall Smith once said,” Grace began, “ ‘Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.’ Now,
Lottie snorted. “Maybe she should’ve called herself Honey
“Did she recognize you, Abby?” Grace asked.
“I think so,” I said. “She did a double take.”
“You know,” Lottie said, “now that you mention her, I could swear I saw a woman who looked like Honey in the shop last week.”
“That’s weird, because I thought I caught a glimpse of her, too,” I said.
“I can’t imagine Tom Harding’s girlfriend setting foot in Bloomers,” Grace said. “Not after Abby was instrumental in sending her man to prison. Don’t you remember the hateful looks that dreadful creature was giving Abby during the trial?”
That was a memory to treasure.
“Maybe Honey was buying flowers to take to her jack-ass boyfriend,” Lottie said.
“Here?” I asked. “Why not at Harding’s former business, Tom’s Green Thumb? Or even the grocery store?”
“ ’Tis indeed a puzzler,” Grace said.
“Here’s a thought,” I said. “What if Harding was behind the kidnappings, and Honey stole the brooches?”
“But why single out the brooches?” Grace asked.
Marco walked up behind us. “Can I guess what this conversation is about?”
The shoppers brought a silk flower arrangement to the counter, so Grace, Marco, and I stepped away while Lottie rang them up.
“Since we have a bit of a lull,” Grace said, “shall we repair to the parlor for some tea?”
“That was Reilly on the phone,” Marco said as we gathered at a table with a fresh pot of tea. “He told me that after Harding was sent downstate to a prison facility, they had so much overcrowding, he was returned to our county jail to wait for an opening. While he was at the jail, he was diagnosed with lymphoma, but because the sheriff’s budget can’t afford long-term treatment for prisoners, he was quietly OR’d and transferred to the hospital.”
“What’s OR’d?” Lottie asked.
“Released on his own recognizance,” Marco explained, “making Harding responsible for the cost of his medical care. In between treatments, he’s allowed to recuperate at home. If and when he recovers from his illness, he’ll go back to prison.”
“All those bandages on his head are from his cancer treatments?” I asked.
Marco shrugged. “I don’t know anything about lymphoma.”
“Well, I don’t care how sick he is,” I said. “It doesn’t seem fair to let him out of jail on his own recognizance. He should have guards.”
“Marco, love,” Grace said, “would you explain how it’s possible for a man serving a twenty-year prison sentence to be released after a mere six months? Even an ill man? As Abby pointed out, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“Here’s how the system works in Indiana,” Marco said. “Every person sentenced to prison goes first to a central reception center to be evaluated for assignment to the appropriate facility. In Tom’s case, the facility where he was assigned was severely overcrowded. Since this was Harding’s first offense, someone decided he’d be a good candidate to return to the county jail to wait there.
“And by the way, most of the prisons in this state are overcrowded and getting worse by the day, but the cost of building new facilities is more than our current economy can handle, so there are a lot of inmates being OR’d.”
“Is Harding being monitored at least?” Grace asked. “An ankle bracelet, perhaps?”
“I’m certain he’s being monitored,” Marco said. “He’s just not in jail.”
“So it’s all about dollars and cents,” Lottie said with a disgusted shake of her head. She started to sip her tea, then cocked an ear toward the doorway. “Was that the bell over the door?”
We stopped talking to listen. Lottie got up, walked to the doorway to glance around the shop, and came back. “Nobody there. I must be hearing things.”
Grace clucked her tongue. “OR’d. I never knew such a thing was possible.”
“I wish I didn’t know,” Lottie added. “It doesn’t give me a warm, fuzzy feeling… Okay, now, did anyone hear
“Would anyone care for more tea?” Grace asked, rising.
At that moment, the bell jingled with gusto, but Lottie kept sipping her tea.
“I’ll get it,” I said, and stood up, causing Lottie to glance at me in surprise.
“Was that for real?”
“Yes, Lottie, dear, that was real,” Grace said.
Lottie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I thought I was losing it.”
Three of our regular coffee customers peeked into the parlor. “You’re still open, aren’t you?” one asked.
“Yes, we are,” Grace said, going into action. “Do come in and sit down. We have lovely pecan scones today.”
Break time over, Lottie stayed up front to man the shop while Marco returned to my computer, and I gathered supplies for the next order.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I glanced at the shiny, credit card-sized object in his hand. It was pale green with the image of a pink hibiscus on the front. “Where did you find it?”
“On your desk.” He turned it over, revealing printing on the bottom.
“Aloha Florals, Limited, Maui,” Marco read. “Keahi Kana, sales associate, with a telephone number.”
“Must be his business card.”
“Kind of thick for a business card.” Marco examined it, then pressed a button on one edge and a beam of light came from the other. “It’s a pocket flashlight.”
He handed it to me, and I switched it off and on again. “Perfect for my purse. It feels good, too, silky smooth. Looks like it’s made from crushed seashells.”
Lottie came through the curtain and saw us playing with it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that salesman I mentioned yesterday-the one offering those great bargain prices on exotics-left that for you. He said to give him a call if you’re interested in placing an order.”
“Determined, isn’t he?” Marco said, returning to the computer screen.
“That’s a salesman for you,” Lottie said. “Always trying to push something, always with an agenda, always schmoozing with clients, yakkity-yakkity-yak all the time. I can’t imagine living like that.”
The bell over the door jingled, prompting Lottie to grab the basket she had come for and return to the front, still grumbling to herself.
“I can imagine it,” Marco muttered.
I stowed the flashlight in my purse, then studied the next order. Okay, here we go. An anniversary bouquet for delivery tomorrow morning. I glanced at the clock on the wall. One hour before closing. Plenty of time for me to do the bouquet.
Or…
I could try to find out why Harding was in the hospital.
