Pushing Up Daisies

century church in Lugano, Switzerland. No charges were ever filed against her, and the Bulletin never retracted its original report that the baby I'd found 'almost certainly belonged to one of the Peacock sisters.'

On the strength of the Rivera articles, Jon Chappell received a job offer from the National Enquirer, but declined, in favor of more serious journalistic pursuits at the New York Post.

Babe Chinnery and Neil MacLeod opened a small herb and tea kiosk in the parking lot of the Paradise Diner. Honeybush tea is now on the menu at both places.

Gerald Fraser and Hillary Gibson are living together. She's arranging for an exhibit of his sculpture in a tony Bedford gallery. He's hand-carving a new sign for her home's entrance but no one's seen the name yet.

Felix Ontivares returned and was my date for Hugo and Anna's wedding. His involvement in the Rivera case further burnished the family name at home and he is currently entering local politics in Mexico.

Win Fifield's aide released a statement that the congressman 'hadn't rested a day since the disappearance of that poor girl' and 'his mother was proud to be instrumental in the resolution of this long, local tragedy.' Win's approval rating shot up ten points, due to support from Springfield's Hispanic community, which he had largely ignored in the past.

Lucy Cavanaugh didn't get nominated for a Peabody, but she did make a deal with a cable network for a thirteen-part series tentatively titled Sin in Suburbia, which she is actively researching in Main Line Pennsylvania.

Anna Pena and Hugo Jurado were married, not on Halcyon's terrace, which was still surrounded by crime scene tape, but on Dina Fifield's new dining pavilion, under a borrowed arbor, facing the sea. Pete's buttercream cake was a huge hit.

Mike O'Malley and I are now sparring partners at the local gym. He is still smoke-free and has lost twelve pounds due to his new modified Zone diet, which I am advising him on. He has yet to play the accordion for me.

And the white garden at Halcyon is in full bloom, currently with masses of gypsophila, baby's breath.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Rosemary Harris's next

Dirty Business mystery

THE BIG DIRT NAP

Available soon in hardcover from Minotaur Books

CHAPTER 1

Maybe I'd have had a drink with the guy if I had known the next time I saw him he'd be sprawled out in a Dumpster enclosure, with a greasy newspaper tented over his face. Then again, maybe not.

Nick Vigoriti had unsuccessfully hit on me as I sipped club soda at the bar. There were two or three likelier candidates in skimpier outfits who weren't working on a laptop, but he zeroed in on me.

I knew him, sort of. Earlier in the day, Vigoriti had been on line behind me checking into the Titans Hotel in Connecticut's wine country. We'd spent what seemed like twenty minutes listening to a statuesque redhead spitting out demands and fidgeting almost as much as the white Maltese she carried in her plastic designer bag.

'That is not friendly.'

The pimply kid behind the reception desk nodded furiously. That, combined with the oversized jacket that hopefully fit his night-shift counterpart better, gave him the appearance of a life-size bobble-head doll.

'April does not need a sitter. I only came to this establishment because it's supposed to be pet-friendly. I could have gotten comped at Hunting Ridge.' She towered over the poor kid, the pile of hair on her head giving her an extra four inches, as if she needed it.

Vigoriti and I exchanged brief 'whaddya gonna do' glances, until the dog's own er finished tormenting the desk clerk, then teetered off accompanied by a full luggage cart and the only bellman in sight.

When it was my turn, I set my backpack on the counter, leaned over, and told the clerk my name.

'I don't see you,' he said, scrolling down the computer screen. He forced himself to say the words, anticipating another pain-in-the-neck customer. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like condensation on a glass. I felt for the guy; he was getting a crash course in Difficult Guests 101 on what I was guessing was his first week on the job. 'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice cracking. 'Did you make the reservation online, by any chance?'

Great. I'd sat through rush-hour traffic on the highway and now there was no room at the inn. 'It has to be there,' I said, trying not to betray my real feelings. 'Will you please look again?'

He continued to scan the screen; then it occurred to me that my friend Lucy had made the reservation. Maybe it was under her name or her company's.

'Can you check under KCPS-TV? Or Cavanaugh. Check Cavanaugh,' I repeated, louder, in that stupid way people do when they're talking to foreigners, as if saying something louder is going to make it easier to understand.

'Okay, okay, I got it. Here it is. 'Two adults, two doubles, no pets,' ' he read off the screen. Relief washed over the kid's face; he didn't need another guest with problems. This job was already an interruption of his real life— which was probably football, getting good grades, and procuring the perfect fake ID, not standing in a gold- braided uniform two sizes too big and catching verbal abuse. I didn't blame him; I was in a service business myself and sometimes it wore thin.

I gave him my credit card for the 'incidentals' and watched as he mindlessly swiped it and handed it back without even checking my name or the photo on the front.

'I'll just need one key. My friend will be joining me later.' I plucked the paper folder from the counter and slid one plastic key back to him.

'Thank you, Ms. Cavanaugh.'

I started to correct him, then thought, What's the point?

'You're welcome.' I snatched my bag from the counter and turned to leave. Asking him where the elevators were would only have extended the experience, so I went off in the same direction as the woman with the dog. I was hardly going to get lost in a suburban Connecticut hotel.

On the way, smack in the middle of the lobby, was an octagonal enclosure about twenty feet wide. Inside it, in a huge terra-cotta pot, was the reason I was there. Well, one of them anyway. Inside the glass enclosure was a corpse flower. I moved in for a closer look, setting my things down briefly on one of the laminated benches that circled the glass gazebo.

The pot itself was about four feet in diameter, and shooting straight up from the center was a light green veined shaft tinged with purplish pink. I hadn't seen one in a few years and there was no getting around it— with that color and that shape . . .

'Pretty sexy if you ask me,' Vigoriti had said, over my shoulder.

'I didn't ask you,' I said, firmly enough to let him know I wasn't about to engage in a junior-high-school-level