“Certainly we shipped that order,” the clerk there told me. “Our records indicate it was delivered on January twenty-eighth.”
I glanced at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. That was the day we’d found the anthurium brooch in the box of orchids. But there hadn’t been any other orders delivered that day. “Are you sure of the date?”
“I’m showing that the delivery was accepted by a… Sorry; I can’t read the signature.”
“Lottie Dombowski?”
“It’s hard to make out. All I can say for sure is that the order went out to Bloomers Flower Shop.”
“But I didn’t get the order.”
“You’ll have to check with the delivery company. It must be their mistake.”
Whoever’s mistake it was, I shouldn’t have to pay for it! “Thank you. I’ll follow up on that. In the meantime, I need to reorder.”
I placed the order, then hunted through my file until I found a delivery slip that had the UPS toll-free number on it. I dialed, and an automated voice asked for a tracking number, which I didn’t have. I waded through a long menu, then hit the
“I don’t have a number because I didn’t receive the order. Can’t you search the sender’s name to find out who else in my zip code area received a shipment from that company?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Not without a tracking number.”
“Not even for a beautiful bouquet of flowers for that special lady in your life?”
“That would be my mother,” he said dryly, “and no, not even then. I have no way of getting that information. Maybe you should call the sender.”
“I tried that. Okay, how about this? Can you tell me if anyone in my zip code reported a problem with a delivery on that date?”
“If you want to report a problem, we need a tracking number.”
“I just
“I don’t have any way of checking without a tracking number.”
“Okay, forget it. Thank you for your time.”
“If you have any other problems, please call.”
Not unless I wanted a headache, too. I returned to the workroom just as Marco’s cell phone chirped. He answered crisply, “Salvare.”
As I filled out a delivery tag for the birthday bouquet, Marco held his hand over the phone to whisper, “It’s the antiques dealer.
“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Mr. Oke,” he said. “I’m looking for information on a flower brooch listed on your Web site. It’s a…” He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Red anthurium,” I said. “Possibly made out of ivory.”
Marco repeated it. “Can you give me a price on that? No, I’m not a collector, just an interested party. Sure, I’ll hold.” He swiveled the chair toward me. “Did you get your order straightened out?”
“No. The supplier claims my order was delivered and signed for.”
“Yes, sir,” Marco said into the phone, resuming his conversation.
“What did I sign for?” Lottie asked, coming into the workroom.
“A shipment with our anemone order in it. Supposedly, you signed for it on January twenty-eighth, the same day the orchids arrived with the brooch inside. I called UPS, but they can’t tell me anything without a tracking number-which I don’t have because I never received that delivery. I finally gave up.”
Lottie opened one of the walk-in coolers, pausing to say, “Well, Dwayne Hudge did come here looking for a package he said was delivered to us by mistake. I’ll bet our regular guy, Joe, delivered our order to someone else and gave us the order Hudge was after.”
“It shouldn’t be hard to find out who got our order,” I said.
“Right,” Lottie said. “How many places around here sell flowers?”
She stepped into the cooler just as Marco wrapped up his phone conversation. “Use this number, if you would, Mr. Oke. Thanks for your help.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He has to check the current market value before he gives me a quote. I have a feeling he wants to check me out more than the value of the brooch.” Marco glanced at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. When do you want to go see Morgan?”
“Now, if Lottie doesn’t mind.”
Lottie came out of the cooler carrying an armload of roses. She stopped to glance from me to Marco. “Mind what? How is it I always walk in on the middle of a conversation?”
Greg Morgan lived on the third floor of a new condominium building on the east side of town, a fast-growing area filled with lots of apartments, condos, and starter homes. His building was the typical modern brick box four stories high. It had a small entrance hall containing rows of mailboxes and a list of occupants by last name, with corresponding buzzers.
I pressed the button beside his name and eventually a hoarse voice said, “Who is it?”
“Hey, Greg, it’s Abby. Nikki said you were sick, so we thought you might appreciate some homemade chicken soup.” I didn’t explain who the “we” was so he’d think it was Nikki.
“Are you sure you want to come up? I might be contagious.”
“Not a problem, Greg.”
He buzzed us through the security door, and we headed for the elevator. As I got ready to board, Marco said, “I’ll wait down here.”
“Don’t you want to question him?”
“I’d just be a distraction. You know how to handle Morgan. You don’t need me.”
“Are you afraid of catching the flu?”
“I just think Morgan will be more forthcoming without me there.”
“Sure, you do.” I wiggled my fingers at Marco as the doors began to close. “See you in about ten minutes.”
“You’re being a little overly optimistic, aren’t you?”
“Fifteen, then.”
Marco stopped the doors. “Do you remember what to ask?”
“About the note and the flowers.”
“Get details. And ask if they recovered evidence from Hudge’s van-and have a suspect.”
“I’ve done this before, remember?”
The elevator doors were nearly together when Marco stopped them again. “Remember, you can use the information we have on Charlotte and Honey as a bargaining chip.”
“Why don’t you just come with me?” I asked in exasperation.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No!” I blew him a kiss as the doors glided shut.
I exited on the third floor and found Morgan’s unit. I knocked, announced myself, and heard the shuffle of soft soles against a hard floor. The door opened and there stood the courthouse’s golden boy in a ratty old blue bathrobe tied loosely around the middle, with plaid pajamas beneath it and brown suede slippers on his feet. His nose was red, his eyes were watery and dull, and his face was pasty.
“I come bearing nutritious soup,” I said with a smile, holding up the container.
He peered behind me. “I thought Nikki was with you.”
I stepped inside a foyer and glanced around as I set my purse on the floor. The small front hall had been professionally decorated in shades of beige and brown, with a gorgeous, antique-style hall tree in one corner, a beautiful rosewood console table with a matching mirror on a short wall, and a thick oriental carpet underfoot. Morgan’s cashmere winter coat hung on the tree, his briefcase beside it.
“Nice place, Greg,” I said as he shut the front door. “Love these wood floors.” I hung my peacoat on a hook, saw a kitchen through a doorway across the hall, and headed toward it. “Granite counters. Awesome.”
