Shoots to Kill (7 page)

“The location was purely a business decision, too. My uncle owns the building, and Mummy leased it as a surprise for me. My color scheme, as you can see, is pastel green, ice blue, orange sherbet, and bright yellow, and of those, I thought the yellow would work best on the door. I’m really sorry if you thought I was copying you. I would never purposely offend you.”

Libby’s answers sounded so rational that I began to think maybe I was being overly sensitive. “Well, then, thank you for clearing that up.”

A loud crash from the back room made both of us jump. “Oliver!” Delphi screeched. “That’s not how you carry framed art. Now look what you’ve done!”

“Poor Mummy,” Libby said. “She’s determined to make this shop a success for me.”

Oliver strode out of the back room wearing green and tan camouflage pants, a crisply ironed tan shirt with brown tie, and army boots. He saluted me, then did a neat pivot to face Libby. “Ma’am, you have been summoned to command headquarters, ma’am.”

“Oh, Oliver, honestly,” Libby said, rolling her eyes. “Sorry, Abby. I have to go. We’re opening Friday and there’s a lot to do. You’ll come to our grand opening, won’t you?”

“I, um, well, the thing is . . .” I rubbed my nose, trying to think of a reason to decline.

She gave me a little girl’s pout, with big sad eyes. “Please?”

I hated that look. It reminded me of babysitting for her. “Well . . . I’ll try.”

“Thanks, Abby.” Libby hugged me and sped away. Oliver saluted, then pivoted and marched after her. I glanced up at the painters on their tall ladders, who had paused, paintbrushes in hand, to watch Oliver. As I left the shop, I could hear them snickering.

I was creating a birthday bouquet in the workroom after lunch, and Grace was delivering a cup of tea to me, when Lottie came rushing in with a tabloid journal she’d picked up at the grocery store. Breathlessly, she tapped the front cover. “See why I read these things? This is how I know what’s going on.”

I stopped snipping thorns off a ‘Red France’ rose to glance at the headline: WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO TWO-HEADED CALF. “Wouldn’t it be shocking enough for a woman to give birth to a calf with one head?” I asked.

“Not that. This one—about Delphi.” Lottie tapped a tiny corner photo with a small caption that read: FORMER BELLY MODEL GOES BELLY-UP.

Now,
that
was interesting. I turned to page 14 and read the article to myself while Lottie summarized it for Grace. “Listen to this, Gracie. About four years back one of Delphi’s clients filed a suit against her talent agency. So that she-devil Delphi hired a Chicago lawyer to fight it, but when the jury sided with the client and awarded the girl a huge amount of money, Delphi filed for bankruptcy so she wouldn’t have to pay the poor kid her settlement. Then she opened her agency under a new name.” Lottie pointed to the paper. “It’s all here, the whole sordid story.”

I stopped reading to say to Lottie, “Isn’t this she-devil the woman you were so awed by a few days ago?”

“That was then, this is now. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who cheats a kid can take a long walk off a short pier. Did you get to the part about the surgery yet?”

“I’m trying.”

“What happened was this,” Lottie continued. “The young girl, Kayla Olin, was sixteen years old when she signed up with Delphi’s agency. Delphi told her she had real potential—if she got a nose job and chin augmentation. Well, there was no way Kayla’s folks could pay for that, so Delphi arranged for it to be done by a surgeon she knew—on the cheap, know what I mean? The surgery was botched, the girl’s face is a nightmare, her career is ruined, her dad has died in the meantime, and now, four years later, she can’t even collect on the judgment because that she-devil declared bankruptcy!”

Grace shook her head sadly. “As Shakespeare wrote in
Hamlet
, ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies / But in battalions.’ ”

Lottie pointed to the grainy picture of Kayla at the bottom of page 14. “Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever seen? And she can’t afford the surgery to repair the damage.”

The bell over the door jingled, signaling incoming customers. “I’ll see to them,” Grace offered, and went up front.

“Can’t you just imagine how that young woman feels every time she looks into the mirror?” Lottie asked. “It makes me want to punch that she-devil’s lights out.”

The bell jingled again, so Lottie went next. I put down the newspaper, reflecting on the article as I returned to my flowers. Delphi was definitely not a nice person. I hadn’t thought about it before, but after seeing Delphi in action, I could understand why Libby had spent so much time at our crowded and often chaotic house.

“Grace is waiting on customers in the parlor,” Lottie bustled in to say, “so I’m gonna run those three funeral arrangements over to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home.”

Two minutes after Lottie left, the bell jingled again, so I went up front. But when I stepped through the curtain, no one was there. Granted, amid all the bright flowers, centerpieces, and tall green plants, people sometimes blended in. Still, I sure didn’t detect anyone. I looked into the parlor, where Grace was pouring tea for three women seated at the table in front of the window.

“Did someone just come in?” I asked her.

She shook her head. Had I imagined the jingle? I started back for the workroom only to hear a rustle of leaves. I stopped and turned to scan the room, my gaze landing on two seven-foot-tall dieffenbachia plants in the back corner. Also called dumb cane, the big-leaved giants made terrific decorating accents.
Dieffenbachia amoena
had green and white variegated leaves, while the striking leaves of ‘Rudolph Roehrs’ were pale chartreuse with dark green edges and veins.

I saw a dead leaf lying on the ground in front of one plant and bent to pick it up. That’s when I noticed a pair of brown boots behind one of the large pots. The boots came with a pair of green and tan camouflage pants. I jumped back. Someone was crouched behind the plants.

“Is the coast clear?” a voice whispered.

“What?” I asked, backing toward the curtain.

A branch parted and a green face appeared. “Is the man across the street gone?”

“Oliver?”

Moving cautiously, he stepped out from behind the plants, glancing around as though he expected to be attacked by enemy soldiers. Wearing camouflage fatigues and face paint, he held a green-gloved finger to his lips, then jerked his head toward the front door and whispered, “Outside. Sitting on the cement bench directly across the street. Is he still there?”

Keeping one eye on Oliver, I looked out the bay window at the courthouse lawn. “All I see are two elderly women on the bench.”

“He was there a minute ago.”

“Who was?”

“The
man.
The feds. Big gov. Big Bro—they’re always watching, you know. You can’t be too careful.”

I didn’t know what to say. I glanced out again and spotted a policeman checking parking meters along the courthouse side of the street. Was that the
man
he’d seen?

He motioned me away from the window. “I’m on a covert operation”—he glanced over his shoulders—“for bamboo.”

“Bamboo—as in plants?”

“Yes, ma’am. Tools of the trade. The Japanese used bamboo shoots as instruments of torture in World War Two.” He held out his hand to demonstrate, looking particularly gleeful. “You jam those suckers right under the fingernails. The pain is unbearable.”

Well,
that
was creepy. “So . . . why do
you
want the plants?” Did I really want to know?

He straightened with a jerk, clicked his heels together, and saluted. “Ma’am, the commander has requisitioned them, ma’am. Will you comply?”

“If you stop talking to me like I work at the PX.”

Oliver blinked several times. “You know what a PX is?”

“It’s a post exchange, like a general store. I watch
M.A.S.H.
reruns.”

“Cool. So do you have bamboo plants?”

“You’re in luck. We got a new shipment in two days ago. They’re very popular now.”

“The commander always has to be on top of the latest trend, ma’am.”

“Are you talking about your mother? Do you mean that Delphi sent you
here
?”

“She didn’t specify where, ma’am.”

That made more sense. I couldn’t imagine Delphi willingly giving me her business. “Thanks, Oliver.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder and said very solemnly, “You’re O.O.T.T.O.”

I’d never heard that one on
M.A.S.H.
Out-and-out titillating turn-on? Probably not. “What is O.O.T.T.O.?”

He glanced around, then said quietly, “One of the trusted ones. Remember that.”

Time to move on. I pulled a plant from the display in the bay window. “The bamboo plants come in these decorative twelve-inch clay pots. Will that be okay?”

At his single nod, I asked, “How many do you need?”

“Thr—four.”

“I’ll bring out the others. Have a seat.”

Oliver followed me to the workroom instead. As I opened one of the walk-in coolers, he gazed curiously around the busy room. “A person could really hide out in here.”

Inside the cooler I stepped around deep buckets of blossoms, looking for the bamboo plants. “It’s amazing how quickly Libby’s art shop came together,” I said, making conversation.

“It’s not Libby’s shop,” he said, standing in the cooler behind me.

“Is your mother the owner?”

He bent to examine a rose, pricked himself on a thorn, and immediately sucked the wound. “Part and parcel,” he said. “Overlord and landlord. Business as usual.”

I hated when people talked cryptically. It made me feel dumb. I located the other three plants all the way at the back and had him help me carry them out. “Is it nice to have your little sister back home again?”

Oliver selected a plump yellow daisy from a bucket on the floor and began to pluck the petals. “An ally is always welcome. Two forces are mightier than one. . . . Loves me, loves me not . . . Besides, Libby is way better at playing the obedient child. Takes the heat off me.”

I was beginning to think that his military guise was his way of coping with Delphi. We carried the pots to the cash register, where I wrote out a statement and handed the yellow copy to him. He immediately whipped out his wallet, counted out the money, then laid the bills
and
my statement on the counter.

“This is your copy,” I said, pushing the piece of paper toward him.

“Never leave evidence. Always pay in cash. You never know who’ll be checking your receipts.”

Obviously he didn’t want Delphi to know where he’d purchased the plants. “Are you parked out front?”

“Not for a covert operation. We always use the rear.”

I found boxes to hold the plants and we carried them to the back door. Oliver motioned for me to stand back. Then he opened the heavy fire door and peered cautiously outside. When he was sure the alley was safe, he carried one of the boxes to the pastel green van that said BLUME’S ART SHOP on the side. When the boxes were loaded, he saluted me. “Ma’am, thank you, ma’am. Remember”—he glanced around—“this is a
covert
operation. We must never speak of it again.”

My mother stopped by Bloomers during her lunch break the next day to show us her latest artistic endeavor— a jacket made entirely of beads, but not those pretty little colored beads that were used to make bracelets and necklaces. These were giant wooden beads, like the massaging backrests cabdrivers used for long days behind the wheel. Not an attractive look for a jacket.

“What do you think?” Mom asked eagerly.

“It’s quite unusual,” Grace replied tactfully.

“Really nice,” Lottie said, trying to sound admiring.

Mom took it off a wooden hanger and held it open. “Abigail, will you model it for us?”

I slipped my arms into the sleeves and then couldn’t move. Not only was the jacket so heavy that it flattened my breasts; it was so thick that I couldn’t put my arms against my sides. I rotated like a bird on a spit so they could see.

Grace tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Might be a bit awkward to wear about town.”

“Kind of breezy, too,” Lottie said, pinching her lips to keep from laughing.

“It’s not designed to wear,” Mom said, helping me out of the jacket. “I’m taking it down to Blume’s. Libby invited me to include it in her ‘Fashion as Art’ display.”

I gaped at her. My mom was taking her jacket to
Libby’s
shop? I should have been relieved, but instead I felt betrayed.

“I feel so validated as an artist,” Mom said happily. “To think that my work will be displayed in a real art gallery.”

“How lovely, Maureen,” Grace said. “We’re so proud of you, aren’t we, Abby?”

They both must have noticed my stricken expression, because Lottie immediately threw a meaty arm around my shoulders and gave me a shake, as though to wake me from my shock. “You bet we are.”

“How did this invitation come about?” I asked as Mom placed her jacket on the hanger.

“We discussed it at dinner Friday night. Don’t you remember?”

“I was at the far end of the table, Mom. All I could hear was Portia crunching her beans.”

“Your father was telling Libby about my hobby. Then Libby asked if I had ever considered selling my art, so I explained that I brought them here. She asked to see some of my work, so I invited her over to see my new creations. You should have seen her face, Abigail. She was absolutely amazed. Now I’m going to be one of her featured artists. Can you believe it?”

“That’s great,” was all I could think to say. No way could I tell Mom anything hurtful, but I doubted Libby had been amazed. Appalled was more like it. So what was Libby really after? Did she want Mom’s art to make me jealous? Or did she want my mom?

“I should get this down to Blume’s.” Mom started toward the door, then paused. “Will you come with me?”