Sleeping with Anemone

acting floor manager at Tom’s Green Thumb, and she said-”

“They have anemones in stock,” I finished, giving Marco a high five.

“In fact,” Grace continued, “Robin received the shipment a few weeks back-around the end of January-even though she hadn’t ordered any. She believed it to be a delivery error, although neither her supplier nor the delivery company would admit to it.”

“Did Robin say anything about Harding’s involvement?” Marco asked Grace.

“According to Robin, Mr. Harding is no longer officially involved in the company, yet she admitted that he keeps his fingers in the business through his lady friend, Honey, who owns controlling shares.”

“How convenient,” I said.

“Robin indicated she hadn’t seen Mr. Harding personally since his release from jail,” Grace said, “but as she was leaving one evening, she saw his black sedan parked behind the greenhouse.”

“Did Robin mention when that was?” Marco asked.

“She did not. Shall I call her back, do you think?” Grace asked.

At that moment, four women came into the parlor and took seats at a table in front of the bay window, so Grace added, “After I see to my customers?”

“Thanks,” Marco said, “but this warrants a trip to Tom’s Green Thumb to talk to Robin in person. I’ll head over there this afternoon.”

“I almost forgot,” Grace said. “Your sister-in-law Portia dropped these by.” She put a stack of magazines in front of me. I read the spines: Elegant Bride; Modern Bride; World Bride; You and Your Wedding; Occasion Weddings; Wedding Cakes; Wedding Bells…

I pushed them aside and laid my head on my arms. “Make them stop!”

Marco’s cell phone chirped, so he got up to take the call. A moment later I heard Lottie say, “This will make it all better, sweetie.”

I raised my head as she placed a pizza box on the table, along with a stack of napkins and paper plates. She lifted the lid, revealing a big, cheesy pie loaded with sausage, mushrooms, black olives, and green peppers. I leaned over to inhale. Yum!

“Lunch is on me today. Dig in.” She took a slice for herself and bustled away.

I was about to place a wedge of pizza on a paper plate when a small hand reached around me and grabbed it.

I turned to see Tara stuff the pointed end in her mouth. “Surprise,” she mumbled through the gooey bite.

“What are you doing here? You should be in school.”

“In-service teachers’ meetings this afternoon,” she announced, taking a seat. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the magazines. “Are you shopping for your wedding gown?”

“No. Does your mom know you’re here? Because she’d probably rather not have you hanging out with me right now.”

Tara pulled a magazine from the stack and began to turn the pages with her greasy fingers. “Nope. But it’s okay. I saw Unky Hunky in the back. Where did you get these magazines?”

I ignored her Marco reference. “Your aunt Portia left them.”

“Cool. Now we can find you a dress.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve decided to wear jeans.”

“Yeah, right.” Snickering, she turned the page. “No way.” She turned another page. “Ug-o!” As she flipped through the magazine, I heard, “They can’t be serious.” “Oh. My. God.” “Is this a joke?” And finally, “Awesome! This is more like it.”

Tara turned the magazine so I could see it. “This gown is totally you, Aunt Abby.”

I glanced at it as I took a big bite of pizza. “Sure it is, if I were a foot taller and weighed less than you.”

Tara stuck her tongue out at me, then turned more pages until she found another that met her standards. “Okay, you can’t say this one isn’t you.”

“That one isn’t me.”

By the time Marco returned, I’d downed one and a half slices and Tara had gone through two magazines. “Have some pizza,” I said. “Lottie ordered it for us.”

“That was nice of her,” Marco said, taking a seat across from me. “Hey, Tara, what’s up?”

“What do you think of this gown?” she asked, swiveling the magazine in his direction.

“Don’t answer,” I said. “It’s a trick question.”

“No, it’s not,” Tara said. “Don’t you think Aunt Abby would look awesome in this?”

Marco helped himself to the pizza. “If I say yes, will I get into trouble?”

“Who was on the phone?” I asked.

“I got two calls,” he said. “The first was from Rafe. He’s got the afternoon shift today, so, besides needing a ride to work, he wanted me to know he won’t be there to meet Mama at the apartment. I’ll have to meet her.”

“Wait. Your mother’s coming in this afternoon? You told me she was coming tomorrow.”

“That’s because Rafe told me she was coming tomorrow. He said his brain froze the moment he heard her voice and everything she said after that was garbled. She’s coming in around three thirty, so I told him to take my car to work. With everything else going on, I don’t have time to drive him out to Maraville. I’ll just use the Vette.”

Nice of him to ask. At least that meant Rafe couldn’t borrow it.

“Can I go with you?” Tara asked, batting her pale eyelashes at him.

“Sorry, Short Stuff. I’ve got too much to do. Some other time, okay?”

“Here’s what you can do for me,” I said to Tara. “Take the magazines to the workroom and tear out pictures of gowns that would look good on me. That’s me, Tara, not your aunt Portia, or Jillian, or Miley Cyrus, or Hannah Montana.”

“Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana are the same person, Aunt Abby.”

“I knew that.”

Rolling her eyes, Tara stood up and started to reach for the magazines, then paused. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” I picked up the stack and held them out. “Here you go.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. What do I get in return?”

I reached under the table and squeezed Marco’s knee so he’d play along. “Should we tell Tara now or wait until she finishes?”

“Tell her now,” Marco said. “No, make her wait.”

Tara narrowed her eyes at me, but she clearly was afraid to call my bluff. She took the magazines and left the room.

Marco reached for another slice of pizza. “What are you going to give her?”

“I’ll have to think of something. Who was the second caller?”

“Mr. Oke, the Hawaiian antiques dealer. He asked me to take a photograph of the brooch and e-mail it to him. He wanted to know how I happened to contact him, so I explained how you found it in your flower shipment. I knew he wasn’t quite buying my story, so I told him to get in touch with Reilly if he wanted to check out my credentials.

“That apparently did the trick because then Mr. Oke explained that a brooch matching that description had been stolen from a museum’s display of antique Hawaiian royal jewelry on January twenty-fourth. He said if your brooch is the one in question, he’ll have to notify the FBI.”

“Holy cow, Marco. We’ve been treating that brooch as a piece of costume jewelry.”

“It might be costume jewelry. We don’t know yet if your brooch is the same one that was stolen, but I’ll admit the timing is interesting.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “isn’t it kind of far-fetched to think a thief would ship a valuable Hawaiian brooch to New Chapel?”

“Not all that far-fetched. Mr. Oke said there are collectors all over the world who pay exorbitant amounts of money for rare pieces, stolen or not. The collectors go through a middleman who connects them with the art or jewelry they’d like to add to their collections. Some of these middlemen are the actual thieves. They can be