To Catch a Leaf (12 page)

“Mmm,”
he said, hurrying me across the street.

“It's not fair to your mom to keep putting her off if we have no intention of going shopping with her in the first place, wouldn't you agree?”

“Yep.”

We stopped at my car, parked on the diagonal facing the courthouse, across the street from Bloomers. “So will you tell her, please?” I asked, gazing up at him.

“Sure.” Marco put his hands on either side of me, so that my back was against the driver's door, and leaned in for a kiss, his body pressed against mine.

Clearly, his thoughts were on the forthcoming payback, not the situation with his mother. It just showed how single-minded a male could be. Even now, while in the midst of one of his hot kisses, a fraction of my brain was working on other things. For instance, by opening one eye, I could peer over Marco's shoulder and see Bloomer's bay windows across the street. And in the bay window was that ugly bald head . . . with a white fur cap?

Wait. Was that Simon draped over the head? Chewing on Mom's sea glasses?

“Marco,” I said, between kisses, “Simon is destroying Mom's head.”

“Mm-hmm,”
he murmured.

I broke the kiss, ducked beneath his arm, and started running across the street. “I've got to stop him!”

Marco jogged after me. “Did you just say he was destroying your mom's head?”

I stopped in front of the bay window and knocked on the glass. “Simon! Bad boy!”

Simon's mouth opened in a meow of recognition. Then he slid backward off the head and disappeared over the back of the wide ledge. I pulled out my keys, opened the door, disarmed the burglar alarm, and ran to the front window.

The head, made of dense plastic foam, had deep puncture marks in it where Simon had hung on to keep his balance. The pair of sea glasses dangled by one ear pin. The nose was missing, and half the paint was gone from one eye. Miss Sea 3PO looked like she'd been zapped by a Storm Trooper's laser gun.

“Look at this!” I said, shaking the head at Simon, who had returned to his perch on top of the armoire. “How am I supposed to fix it? You are a bad boy!”

Simon gave me a bored look, then began to wash his ear.

Oblivious to the annihilation I held in my hands, Marco slid his arms around my waist and nuzzled my ear. “Did someone call for a bad boy?”

Yep, single-minded.

 

 

 

Tabitha woke me up Wednesday morning by dragging her cast over the kitchen floor to get to her litter box. I was delighted to see that the little tabby was doing so well. She was even starting to look less gaunt, no doubt from Nikki plying her with tempting morsels all day.

I gave her fresh food and water, then showered and got ready for work. When I came out to make breakfast, Tabitha was sitting on the desk in front of our picture window, calmly watching the birds in the trees, whereas Simon would have been hurtling himself at the glass trying to get to them. How the injured cat had managed to jump up there was a wonder.

Lottie was already at Bloomers when I arrived and had not only fed Simon and played with him for a while, but had also made a pot of coffee for us, a task Grace tried to discourage either of us from doing. She was quite territorial when it came to her coffee machines. But since Grace had an early meeting with Dave and Marco before her face-to-face with the detective, the two of us muddled along without her. I wished I could have attended the meeting, too, but Lottie couldn't handle the shop alone.

“Guess who called again this morning,” Lottie said.

“Jillian?”

“Yep. Same message as before.”

“I'd better call her. Something is up.”

Lottie held up her hands. “Proceed at your own risk, sweetie.”

I called Jillian's cell and it went to voice mail, so I left a message. Then I dialed her house phone and the answering machine picked up with Jillian saying:
Jillian and Claymore's residence. If you're calling for Claymore, press one. If you're calling for an expert wardrobe consultation, press two. If you're calling for Jillian before ten a.m., shame on you. Hang up now.

Nothing I could do about Jillian's crazy head, but there had to be a way to salvage the manikin's. I took Miss Sea 3PO to the workroom and placed it on the table, trying to decide on a course of action. The nose had to be in the shop somewhere. The eye . . . well, maybe I could fashion a patch and make her a space pirate. The puncture marks would just have to stay. Battle scars, perhaps.

Simon jumped up on the table to see what I was doing. “See what you did?” I asked.

He sniffed the head, then, apparently having bonded with Miss Sea 3PO, rubbed his nose against the remains of her face.

“Simon, where's Mr. Potato Head's nose? What did you do with it?”

He was biting the push pin in the ear, trying to pull it out. I set him on the floor, took a clear glass marble out of a container, and sent it rolling. Simon pounced and batted it with his paw. It went under the curtain and so did the feline, so I followed him into the shop, hoping that wherever the marble ended up, the missing nose would be there, too.

Simon disappeared behind the big umbrella plant in the back corner, so I got on my hands and knees to look for the nose there. At a rapping on the door, I turned and saw my cousin Jillian motioning for me to open up.

A visit from Sleeping Beauty first thing in the morning? That never bode well.

CHAPTER NINE

“I
need a bouquet of roses,” she announced, sweeping into the shop as I shut the door behind her. “Stat.” And then she headed for the workroom. Simon skittered in the opposite direction. Maniacs made him nervous.

Jillian Knight Osborne is my first cousin not removed even once. She's a year younger, a head taller, and unlike me, will step in front of a mirror without flinching. Her hair is a copper-hued silken waterfall. Mine is a bed of rusty roses with thorns. Her mother had maids to clean their house. My mom had kids.

Despite those differences, Jillian and I grew up practically sisters, which was great considering we each had only brothers. Our families spent every holiday together, many vacations, and plenty of birthday parties. Because Jillian had a severe case of scoliosis as a child, I was always protective of her. She had surgery and was in a body cast when she was twelve, and from that moment on, she believed the world owed her.

Apparently, this morning it was my turn to repay the debt.

“Why haven't you called me back for the past two days?” I asked my cousin, following her into the workroom. “And why do you need roses stat?”

“Answer to question one, I got busy. Answer to question two, I have to drive to Chicago to meet my client at Nordstrom to pick out her summer vacation wardrobe—” Jillian stopped when she saw Miss Sea 3PO, then stood with one hand on her hip. “What on earth is this pathetic wig head for and why is it mangled?”

“Answer to question one,” I said, “it's part of a display for my mom's sea glasses. Answer to question two, Simon got hold of it last night.”

A normal person would have inquired as to what sea glasses were and why Simon was at Bloomers, but Jillian did neither. She was too busy checking her reflection in the shiny surface of one of the walk-in coolers.

“I need to fix this head before my mom sees it, Jill. Any ideas on how to do that?”

Being a wardrobe consultant, Jillian has an eye for design. With an expressive pout and a narrowing of her pretty green eyes, she turned the head to examine it from all angles. “Cover it in flowers.”

I stared at her in amazement. “That's a great idea!”

“
Duh
. Now let's get moving on those roses, 'kay? Do a mix of white and yellow. Chop-chop, Abs.” She made shooing motions with her hands.

Had I not been so pleased about her manikin idea, I would have
chop-chop
ped her out the door.

“That's a great idea about the head, Jill.” And how I wished I'd thought of it. I opened the walk-in cooler to pull rose stems and stepped out again to find her studying the photo of Marco and me in Key West.

She tapped the photo. “Is this where you're honeymooning?”

“We haven't discussed a honeymoon.”

Jillian's mouth fell open. “Well, you'd better discuss it. Do you know Key West is one of
the
hot wedding destinations in this country, ranking number two behind Las Vegas? And do you know how quickly honeymoon spots fill up? Years in advance!”

“Years, Jillian? I don't think so.” I dethorned and trimmed the first stem and set it aside.

“What about a hall for your reception?” she asked, returning the photo to the desk.

“Nope.”

“Abby, I'm serious. If you want to get married in September, you have to take action now.”

“Let me get these wrapped for you and then you can go.”

She clamped her hands on my shoulders and turned me to face her, then leaned down so she could look me in the eye. “You do want to marry Marco, don't you?”

“Of course I do. Marco is the man of my dreams. The only one I want to marry. I love him with my whole heart.”

“Or so you say.”

It was my turn to clamp her shoulders. “Never, never say that to me again.”

“Then why are you dragging your feet?”

“I'm not.”

“Are, too. It's become such a habit, you don't even realize you're doing it.” Jillian brushed a lock of hair away from my eyes, then decided it looked better the first way. “You have to dig way down inside yourself to learn why you're making these excuses, Abs.”

That was pretty deep for Jillian. “Okay, sure. Right after I finish making your bouquet.”

“I'm serious.”

“I'm certain you are.”

She huffed impatiently, then began to pace as I wrapped her flowers. “It appears that I'll have to take matters into my own hands.”

“No, Jillian, no! Marco and I will take care of
matters
ourselves.”

Ignoring me, she muttered something about checking with wedding planners and caterers, then pulled a BlackBerry from her oversized gold tote bag and began to type a note. I tried to read it, but she held the device above my head. It was one of the many disadvantages of being short. “Okay, then,” she said, dropping her phone into the bag, “time to get moving.”

She reached for the bouquet, but I put it behind my back. “You're not getting this until you promise to leave the wedding planning to us.”

It was a standoff, just like when we were kids. “Tell me why you're stalling,” she countered.

“I'm not stalling. I'm just trying to keep control of my wedding. I mean our wedding. It's bad enough that Marco's mom wants to run things. Now you're trying to take over. So if you want your flowers, swear you'll stay out of my business.”

She folded her arms. “You're not fooling me, Abs. This isn't about control. It's about fear. You're afraid of something. Tell me what and then I'll go.”

I held out the flowers. “Take them. Go.”

“Nope. Not until you spill your guts.”

“You're going to be late. Chop-chop, remember?”

“My client will wait. I'm worth it.” Jillian pulled out a stool and sat down. “You know I can outlast you. Remember our staring contests? Or our lemonade-drinking matches?”

My cousin had the bladder of an elephant. “Fine. You want to know the truth? I'm afraid I'll jinx the marriage. Happy?”

Jillian nodded knowingly. “I thought so. It was about this time in your engagement to Pryce that you ordered your gown and reserved the hall. And we know how that ended. Pryce jilted you two months before your wedding day and humiliated you in front of the whole town.”

“Thanks for that special trip down memory lane, Jill.”

She hopped off the stool and enfolded me in a hug that squished my nose against her jacket zipper. “I know you have abandonment issues”—she was speaking into the top of my head—“but he isn't Pryce. Marco's not going to abandon you. He's madly in love with you.”

“I realize that, Jill. That doesn't mean the fear isn't still there.” Why in heaven's name was I confessing to the town crier? “Look, Jill, please don't say anything about this to anyone, especially not to Marco. It might hurt his feelings. I'll work through it, I promise.”

“And I'll be here to help you every step of the way,” she said, leaning back to smile at me. “Every. Step. Of. The. Way. Let's do lunch this week to work out the details. Now I've got to get going.” She held out her hands, and I put the flowers into them.