FIVE

 

       After a shower Angie stopped at the diner where Judy popped lids on two coffees. “You look tired.”

“Late night.”

“Awful about that guy who died.” Judy slid onto a stool, rubbing the back of one calf. “It was a great performance till then.”

“Thanks. Did you know him?”

“Not sure.” Judy grinned. “Forgot my glasses last night. Couldn’t see details. What’s he look like?”

Angie untied the pile of early edition papers near the front door and handed one to her. Centered on the front page, John’s photo, taken from an ad he’d placed when his Northeast Nursery opened in 1991. Judy pushed a hand through her hair as she gazed first at the picture, then swiveled on the chair to peer toward the back of the long, narrow diner.

“He came here, maybe a week ago. Sat down back,” she gestured to the last table, “with a hunky looking guy.”

“Hunkier than John?”

“Hunky, but opposite from John with reddish blond hair and a beard. And, pale pink skin.”

“Pink?”

Judy laughed. “Pink like he hardly ever went outdoors. The best part was his accent.”

“Accent?” Angie asked, drawing money from her handbag. Her excitement grew like Jack’s Beanstalk.

“It didn’t have the twangy syllables like Australians.” Judy flung both hands to her chest and exaggerated a moony expression. “Ooh, Mel Gibson! I love Australian accents. I even like that Geiko gecko.” They both laughed. “This guy’s accent was smoother, kind of romantic.”

“Danish maybe?” Angie ventured, dropping the bills on the counter.

“You know, that might’ve been it. Danish isn’t one you hear all the time.”

“How were he and John acting?”

Judy shrugged. “At first they were okay, talking kinda low, bending their heads together like some big-time secret. But as the conversation went on, this guy…” She tapped the newspaper. “He got upset, kind of like he wanted something the other guy wasn’t willing to give, you know what I mean? John Bloom acted apologetic. You know what? I’ve seen him before.”

“Which one?”

“This Bloom fellow. He’s been in here.” She rubbed a palm over her face. “With somebody.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t place him.”

The guy with the accent had to be Pedar Sondergaard. What could they have been talking about? Money? Information? A partnership had been mentioned in the letter. But that was three years ago. Maybe they already had a partnership. Maybe Sondergaard disagreed with the terms, maybe he wanted it all. Maybe he wanted the red iris.

“Earth to Angie!” Judy called. Angie snapped her handbag shut. “You’re acting like this pink-skinned guy is important.”

“He might be. Did you happen to see his car?”

The corners of Judy’s lips twitched just before she shook her head. Angie slung the purse strap on her shoulder, picked up the cups and started for the door.

“Hello?”

She turned toward the voice. Carson Dodge sat alone in the first booth. She stepped close. His cheeks were reddened, as though he’d walked a distance in the cold. “Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m wonderful. Do you have time to sit a moment?” He tweaked his narrow mustache with the thumb and index finger of his left hand.

She didn’t really have time, but couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get to know Jarvis’s father. She slipped into the booth and unbuttoned her coat. “You’re up early.”

“I could say the same about you. How goes the murder investigation?”

“I’m not inv—” Angie stopped herself as she realized he’d overheard her talking to Judy. “Going all right, I guess. Have you and Jarvis gotten to spend some time together yet?”

His blue eyes clouded over. “Not yet. I’ve phoned his house several times. He hasn’t returned the messages.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t picked them up yet. He’s very involved in the case.”

Mr. Dodge frowned. “I heard he’d been suspended.”

“When you get to know him, you’ll realize that’s not going to stop him. Besides, he’s sort of personally related to this one.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to clear himself?”

“I believe so. He had no motive to want John dead.” But as Angie said this, she realized that wasn’t true. John’s flirting had caused the ugly head of jealousy to rear up.

“Are you sure about that?”

Angie laughed. “Jarvis always tells me my thoughts are written all over my face. He doesn’t have a motive, really. It’s just that John’s a flirter and Jarvis gets jealous. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not a motive.”

“The police might have other thoughts though, right?”

“You know how they are.”

“Do you think he’s avoiding me?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Even if you knew, you wouldn’t tell me.”

She smiled and popped the lid from her cup. “I might. But I honestly don’t know. With all the stuff going on at the theater—Jarvis is a really open minded guy though. I believe he’ll come around. I personally think he’ll be anxious to talk to you.”

“I have so much to make up for.”

“So, tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“Since I deserted my family?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“I know. Sorry. I am—was—a salesman. I retired eighteen months ago.”

“Excuse me for saying so,” she looked pointedly at his cashmere coat, “but it must’ve been quite lucrative.”

He laughed, a delightful sound, deep and resonant. Judy stopped to smile at them. “I admit, I’ve done well for myself. I—” He looked away. His eyes glazed over a bit and Angie knew he couldn’t help thinking about his demise—someone with sallow skin such as his, had to be in late stages. After a minute, he shook off the emotion and faced her. “I wanted to repair all my bridges. I amended my will and…well, I wanted Colby and his brother to know…”

Angie put her hand on his. The veins stood out so much she could feel them as taut ropes beneath her palm. He picked up his cup and downed the rest, then stood to leave. Angie waited, in case he needed help, but he maneuvered out of the building with her only holding the door for him. They stopped beside a black Cadillac Escalade. She watched till he pulled out and drove the big vehicle away.

In her car, Angie set the cups in the holder and navigated the slick road toward the theater. If Sondergaard visited Alton Bay as recently as a week ago, maybe he came here two days ago. Maybe he was still here. Sondergaard had to be the key to this case. Little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She rubbed them down and parked beside Tyson’s car at the back of the freshly plowed lot. Condensation on the windows said he’d been here a while.

What would happen to the show? She and Tyson spent months writing the play, slaving over every word. She’d spent every last dime of her money on the building, props, costumes and advertising—well…she’d paid for half of everything. Though cash wasn’t an issue for Tyson, he’d placed every ounce of energy into this production. His every dream centered on the success of this business. He stood to lose more than Angie.

Just exactly what did protocol say in cases like this? It’s said the show must go on but Alton, New Hampshire wasn’t Broadway; the actors weren’t professional performers. They were neighbors; they knew and cared for each other. After the death of a friend, there had to be a period of recovery. On the other hand, the patrons had purchased tickets. Schedules set, ads placed.

Early this morning Tyson had phoned with the same concerns: “Not to be disrespectful to John’s memory, but how do we handle this?” They’d decided to broach the idea to the entire cast at rehearsal.

The lobby, done in deep, rich maroon, stretched two-thirds the width of the building. To the far right, rest rooms. Far left housed a space that would someday be a restaurant. Straight ahead, the ticket booth—with its requisite bulletproof glass—had the shade pulled down tight. Book-ending the ticket booth were swinging doors leading into the auditorium. Muffled voices filtered through. Angie crossed the low-pile carpet and pulled open the left hand door. Tyson, Trynne, and her husband Blake were seated on the edge of the stage, sneakered feet dangling. Only the ghost lights were on, casting them in silhouette.

Trynne and Blake slid off the stage and strode toward her. Six feet tall and rail thin, Trynne wore a green silk jumpsuit and a flowered kerchief headband around white-blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders. Her light skin, high cheekbones and angular features spoke of a Slavic background. Her cheeks were flushed and though she wore makeup, it did nothing to disguise her red, puffy eyes.

The years hadn’t been as kind to Blake. He’d gone totally gray; wrinkles decorated his face. Trynne pulled Angie into an embrace that felt awkward because of the difference in their height. At five-seven, Angie only came up to her shoulder. They stood back to look at each other. “You look like shit,” they said at the same time.

“You okay?” Angie asked.

Trynne shrugged. “A little tired.”

Blake wrapped one arm around Trynne and one around Angie. “I’m worried about you both.”

Trynne unwound herself and went back to sit on the stage. “I just want to know who did this awful thing.”

Tyson made a sound as though he tried to clear his throat and failed. “What if…did anybody consider that it wasn’t an, er, accident?”

“What?” Angie asked. “You think Jarvis switched guns on purpose?”

“Why would he do that?” Trynne asked.

Tyson thumped his heels against the stage. “His jealousy of you and John.” He turned palms up. “No secret.”

“How can you even think that way?” Angie said the words but they echoed a thought she’d had after climbing into bed for an hour this morning—after Jarvis’s mysterious disappearance. Though most of the time Colby Jarvis was as even-tempered and in control as a statue, he once showed that awful jealousy in front of the troupe. But he wouldn’t kill. Never.

No. Someone trying to make a point perpetrated this murder. Someone angry with John for more than a little harmless flirting.

Tyson poured steaming cups of coffee from a Thermos on the stage. He pushed a cup into her hand. “It’ll be all right.”

The thud of many footsteps from out back signaled the arrival of the rest of the cast. Soon almost everyone stood around the front of the auditorium.

“Where’s Jarvis?” Tyson asked.

“He’s sort of working,” Angie said.

“Sort of? I thought he’d been relieved of his duties—”

“Did they arrest him?” somebody asked.

“No,” Angie replied, “it’s standard procedure whenever an officer is involved in a shooting.”

“We won’t wait for him then,” Tyson said. “Angie and I wanted your opinions about whether we should postpone the show.”

“Frankly, Tyson and I don’t know the proper protocol. If we do the show, will the crowd think we’re callous and insensitive? Will nobody come?”

Someone laughed. “People will come—just to see if somebody else gets whacked.”

A terrible thought, but he was probably right. After a lengthy discussion, everyone decided to continue with the scheduled performance, with Blake, John’s understudy, in his place.

“For Blake’s benefit, we’ll do a walk-through,” Tyson said.

Between scenes, Trynne and Angie sat in the front row. “You never told me why you broke your engagement to John,” Angie said.

“Because of Blake.” Trynne smiled. “John and I were taking preparatory classes at the Vo-tech. I met Blake in a horticultural class. I was sixteen. He was twenty-eight, and so handsome. I fell head over heels for him. When I broke my engagement to John—”

“You were engaged so young?”

“Not officially. You have to understand, my parents were from Amsterdam. They lived under traditional Danish ethics. They expected I would marry John to merge the family businesses. When I broke off with him, I practically slapped my parents in the face.” She stopped talking to gaze at the events in the stage living room. “So, Blake and I decided to go to California. We enrolled in technical courses. I majored in genetics, Blake in landscape design and business management.”

“You moved to New Hampshire in ’01. I remember because that’s when we met.”

“At that bo-oring town meeting.”

“Not boring for Blake,” Angie said.

“No. That night they gave him the permit to open Lakes Region Yard Design. All those questions were like an interrogation. I sneaked out for a cigarette. You and Will just sneaked out. I saw the look in your eyes. Naughty naughty.”

Angie didn’t want to talk, or think, about Will. The wound from their breakup still ached. “Does John have any relatives in the area?”

“No. His parents were killed in a head-on crash in Oregon about ten years ago. He had no siblings. I guess Blake and I were all he had.”

“What was he working on?”

“The same as when we were teens. He’s trying to achieve a perfect red iris.”

“What are you doing after rehearsal?”

“Nothing in particular, why?”

“There’s something I want to check out at John’s house.”

When Angie didn’t elaborate, Trynne asked, “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I don’t know how to say it. See, as he…when I…oh damn.” She took a breath. “John asked me to take care of Rhapsody. Jarvis and I went there, but couldn’t find her. I want to go back and look again. She must be hungry by now.”

Trynne laughed. “I doubt it. I suspect Rhapsody is an iris. Each iris, when registered with the Iris Society, is given a name.”

“That explains why he asked me to keep her warm.”

“I’ve never heard of—wait just one second!” Trynne must’ve spoken too loud because everyone on stage turned to look.

“Trynne, you’re on,” Tyson called to her.

“Tell you later.” Trynne scurried to her feet and onto the stage.

Three hours later, Trynne and Angie were walking the newly shoveled path to John’s greenhouse. The police and forensics teams were long gone. Angie stepped under the yellow crime scene tape and held it for Trynne to duck under. Angie watched her blink away some emotion seeing the devastation.

“Last night,” Trynne said, “John invited Blake and me to come here after the performance. He said he had something to show us. Guaranteed it was a flower, probably Rhapsody. It’s the only thing that would have him that excited. He never invites anyone here. We always got together at our place, or a restaurant. If John saw this, it would kill him.”

“That’s what I said to Jarvis last night. All those years of work gone.”

Trynne knelt and picked up a handful of stalks and let them drop. “It would just kill him.”

“Do you know where his lab is?”

“No, but we can probably find it.” Trynne stood, brushed off her hands, gave a heartbroken glance at the mess, then walked to a wood door at the far end of the greenhouse.

Angie stepped into a room done in stainless steel motif. It looked like a lab belonging to any scientist. Well, it would have except that everything was tipped over, broken or otherwise ruined. “Any idea what might be missing?”

Trynne walked carefully amongst the broken test tubes and beakers. She opened a drawer and then another. “His journal.”

“Journal?”

“He kept records of what he did every day. All scientists do.”

“Would they be in his computer?” Angie asked.

“No, they would’ve been handwritten, notes he scribbled while he worked. I don’t see anything.”

“The thief probably got it. Which means we still have no idea who Rhapsody is.”

“He must’ve registered her with the Iris Society. One of the things our families impressed on us—register every single new production, the cost of registration far outweighs the potential loss.”

“So, if someone else tries to register a red, flags will go up all over the place.”

“Not necessarily. There’s nothing to stop the thief from registering her as a pink, or copper.”

Angie’s cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and said, “Hey, Tyson.”

“Are you close by?”

“Yes, what’s up?”

“We can’t find the box of costume jewelry.”

“It’s in the cabinet on—”

“No, it’s not. I’ve torn the place apart.”

“I’ll be right there.” She closed the phone. “I have to go back to the theater. He can’t find the box of jewelry.”

“Can’t find?”

They left through a side door. Neither woman spoke until seated in Angie’s Lexus. She rubbed cold hands together while the heater pumped out tepid air.

“Does Tyson think somebody stole the jewelry?”

“It’s just costume stuff. Nothing of any value, we bought it all at a junk store. Somebody had to have misplaced it.” She backed out of the yard and changed to the original topic. “All I can figure as a motive for the break-in…somebody wanted to steal the red flower—Rhapsody.”

“We have no proof there is a red. But, knowing John as I do, I think it’s safe to assume there was. What I don’t understand is, why kill him too?”

“To keep him from talking?”

“What if he talked? Without a single shred of proof of its existence, he’d be just blowing smoke.”

Across the street, in a farmhouse that had seen better days, a curtain moved. Surely the police already spoke to the residents. She’d ask Jarvis later. “I don’t understand…” Angie maneuvered off John’s small side road and onto Route 28, heading north. “All this commotion over a stupid flower.”

“A stupid flower? Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent so far just trying to produce a red.”

“Hundreds of thousands?”

“Here’s how it works,” Trynne continued. “You breed the flowers.”

“Breed?”

“Yes, but not with penises—oh, never mind. You breed the flower, crossing selected plants together. Eventually you get what you want, longer blooming time, stronger scent, taller stems—whatever. But after that, it might take years to get that particular feature to reproduce successfully.”

“Years?”

“I’m thinking John invited us tonight because he realized it was finally happening; the red had reproduced with the right percentages. Perhaps the newest batch of blossoms opened. The red lived up to all expectations. That’s also why I’m sure he registered it. Let’s go to my house. I know the iris society president. She’ll be shocked to hear about John. I’m sure she’d be happy to do some checking.”

Angie eased back onto the road for the short ride to Trynne’s ranch house. She thought about the letter found in John’s kitchen, from a man named Pedar Sondergaard: “A partnership may be profitable for us both.” The letter was dated three years ago, possibly around the time of John’s initial development of Rhapsody. Did he and Sondergaard have any further contact? If so, how deep did their relationship go?

Angie pushed the questions to the back of her mind, reminding herself not to get involved. Problems closer at hand needed attention. First off, her fledgling theater business. What consequences would a murder at their very first performance produce? It might just be their first, and only, show. Angie didn’t want to think about that. Second, her mother, which she didn’t want to think about either.

“Damn!” Trynne shouted. “I forgot the marker genes!”

“What?”

“Marker genes are deliberately set into the gene ‘mixture’ where they remain forever—through all successive reproductions. Generations later, a DNA sampling can identify that marker gene and trace the plant back to the original plant.”

“Assuming John remembered to put marker genes—”

“Right,” Trynne said, “it could eventually be traced back to him. Trouble is, that might take years too.”

Angie couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. “I think you’ve just stumbled upon the motive for his murder.”

“You might be right. Even if he reported what marker gene he put in, there’d be no proof it was his.”

Tall snowbanks made Trynne’s driveway extremely narrow; somehow Angie wedged the car between Trynne’s blue compact and Blake’s SUV with the logo for Lakes Region Yard Design.

“Man, I’m ready to be done with winter,” Trynne said, getting out of the car.

Angie squeezed out so her door didn’t scrape on the frozen bank. “I thought you loved winter.”

“When I can get out to enjoy it. I’ve been cooped up in my lab since September. If you hadn’t coerced me into doing the play, I might never have seen the light of day. Poor Blake’s been doing housework and shopping.”

“So, what’s got you so cooped up?”

Trynne pushed open the front door. “Monsanto has me researching color genetics in sheep. They want to isolate new genes so they can produce more natural colored wools.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Genetics is never boring.”

Angie followed Trynne through a small hallway lined with brick on the left—the back of their fireplace. The small kitchen seemed even smaller because of the wrought iron pot rack hanging from the ceiling. The wall clock chimed three times.

“I’ll get you that phone number.” Trynne went to a sideboard at the end of the long living/dining area—one of the only pieces of furniture that hadn’t been moved to the theater—and began rummaging in a drawer. “Mention my name to the president. She’ll be happy to help out. Ah, here it is.” Trynne copied the information and handed it to Angie who pocketed the slip of paper, drove back to the theater and stopped beside Trynne’s car. They hugged. Trynne headed home. Angie went in to look for jewelry.

Tyson stood in the foyer with his arms crossed. She felt like a teenager coming in past curfew.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“Calling you before exhausting all possibilities. Well, I thought I had but—”

“You’re saying you found it.”

“Somebody put it in the wrong cabinet.”

Together they went through the left hand door into the auditorium. Angie stopped at the top of the aisle and breathed in the scent of furniture polish. Tyson put an arm around her shoulders. “I love this place.”

“Yeah partner, so do I.” She stepped away and walked down the sloping walkway. The stage floor had been cleaned, the blood-stained rug heaved in the dumpster. The hardwood floor shone with new-wood brilliance.

“I really hope people show up tonight.”

“And that everything goes smoothly.”

They left some words unsaid—that nobody else dies.

“What were you and Trynne up to anyway?”

“We went back to John’s place, looking for…oh, I don’t know what we were looking for. Something to take the heat off Jarvis, I guess.”

“You are going to stay out of the investigation, right?”

He was the second person to warn her of this. She gave a tired nod.

* * * *

 

Gloria wasn’t at the condo. Angie would be glad for some private time. She’d been running on high for several weeks. She toed off her boots on the plastic tray and threw her jacket on the arm of the sofa.

The telephone rang. Angie answered it. “Hello Ms. Deacon, this is Rachel Spofford of the Concord Monitor. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about John Bloom’s death.”

“I don’t think so,” Angie said.

“Wouldn’t you like to see the story reported correctly?”

“I’m hanging up now.” And she did, then sighed, and went to the kitchen.

As tea brewed, the air filled with the soothing aroma of orange blossoms and springtime, fresh air and happy times. Two hands wrapped around the big, heavy mug and soothing sniffs of the sensations evoked by the steeping tea leaves, almost relaxed her to sleep on the stool.

She dialed the number Trynne had provided. A woman answered on the third ring. “Mary Grayson here.”

“Hello, my name is Angie Deacon. Trynne McCoy gave me your name.”

“My goodness, how is Trynne? I haven’t heard from her in ages.”

“She lives—we live in New Hampshire, but I’m afraid I have bad news.” Angie told of John’s death and the theft at the nursery.

Mary Grayson said, “What an awful thing to happen. I knew John well. He’s scheduled to speak at the conference at the end of this week.”

“Do you know anything about him having developed a red iris?”

“He developed a red?” Real interest crept into her voice now.

“We think it might be the reason for his murder. Does the name Rhapsody mean anything to you?”

“There’s a Rhapsody in Bloom. Developed by the Ernsts, I think in ’93, though I’d have to look it up to be sure.”

“What color is it?”

“Pink. And then there’s Rhapsody in Peach—I’m into the computer now. Hold on while I bring it up…Yes, this one was developed in 2000. I don’t see anything else by that name.”

“So, that means John didn’t register it.”

“Not under the name Rhapsody. If it would be any help, I could search all his registrations over the past…what do you think, year?”

“Could you go back to January of ’02?”

“All right, though it’ll take some time. While I do that, why don’t you contact the registrar? Maybe something in red has come in the past month or so—something not yet entered into the system.” Ms. Grayson recited the number for Angie. Then she took Angie’s contact information. “I’ll email you whatever I come up with. Will you let me know when funeral arrangements are made? I’d like to be there.”

“I will do that. By the way, do you know anyone named Pedar Sondergaard?”

“Pedar?” Her tone softened. “He’s the keynote speaker at the conference this weekend.”

“How well do he and John know each other?”

“I couldn’t say. The iris world is a close knit group, though.”

Angie said good-bye then dialed the registrar. He expressed as much surprise as Mary Grayson to hear about John.

“You know,” he told Angie, “if I were John—or even the person who stole the red—I’d be less interested in registering its pedigree than I would be in patenting the actual process I used to produce it. You don’t know how important the discovery is to the world of genetics. It could open doors in a hundred other fields.”

“Would the marker genes be recorded along with it?”

“You know about marker genes? Yes, they’d be included too.”

Excitement roiling through her veins, Angie phoned Jarvis.

“Hello.” He sounded tired.

“Did I wake you? You sound tired.”

“I have company.”

“I see. Well, call me later then.”

“I will.” And he hung up.

Was there a full moon? She’d heard rumors that it made people act weird. First her mother, now Jarvis. Angie gave up thinking about everything. She reheated the tea, took it to the living room and settled on the couch. Her eyes closed.

The front door opened. Plastic rustled. Something thumped on the hall floor. Footsteps clicked on the tile. Gloria appeared bubbling with bright chatter. The chatter ceased when she saw Angie lying there.

“Are you sick?”

She sat up. “I haven’t been to bed in two nights. I’m tired.”

“Well, wake up. Look at what I bought.” Gloria dragged in the bags and displayed the contents of each one. Still holding a white leather purse, she dropped into the chair next to the sofa. “I’ll have a cup of that tea, it smells wonderful.”

“Teabags are in the cabinet, cups next to it. The water’s probably still hot.”

Gloria made a face but left, hauling her packages behind her. Angie lay back down. This time she actually fell asleep. When Angie next looked up, Gloria sat in the chair three feet away, and in the middle of a sentence. “…so handsome. He took me to lunch at Double D’s. Then he drove me to Meredith so I could do some shopping.”

Angie shook the fuzzies out of her head. “Who? Who took you to lunch?”

Gloria frowned. “Why, Carson Dodge, of course.”

She came alert. “You had lunch with Jarvis’s father?”

“He’s Jarvis’s father? Well, isn’t that interesting. He said he was here visiting his son.”

“You didn’t ask about this son?”

“Why would I? I don’t know anybody around here.”

“How come he hung around you instead of Jarvis?”

“Carson figured, with the murder and everything, he would be busy all day, so he took me shopping. He was going to see him after dropping me off.”

Angie stood and took her cup to the kitchen. “I’m going to do some research on the computer.”

“What sort of research?”

“I want to check to see if John recorded a patent for his flower.”

Angie went into her office/den and shut the door. Soon the Iris Society web site blinked onto the monitor. She learned nothing new. Angie Googled red iris and found two articles published in old issues of the iris society newsletter. The first featured a nursery in Oregon that predicted they’d unveil a red the following May. The date of the paper was two years ago. That meant the red should’ve been announced more than ten months ago. Angie dialed the phone number at the end of the article and was put through to the nursery owner. He showed concern about John’s plight but had no suggestions different from Mary Grayson’s.

A Jan Van Blozend Bloem wrote the second article, dated six years ago. It was filled with Latin words, but basically the color red could not be attained and people were wasting their time and money trying.

Angie brought up the US patent office site. It didn’t take long to learn that patent registrations were public information after all.

“I once knew somebody who invented something.”

Gloria’s voice over her shoulder nearly made Angie fall out of the chair. Gloria pulled up a chair and sat with her elbow touching Angie’s.

“They said it took three months just to fill out the application.”

Angie sat up straight and kneaded the kinks from her back. “Good point.”

“Besides that, it’s only been a day.” Gloria counted on her fingers. “Sunday evening they steal the stuff. They spend most of the night and today boxing and shipping to wherever it’s going. Then, when the stuff finally gets there, they have to unpack it, sort it, and read everything.”

“There has to be a ton of information. Trynne said he’s been working toward this his whole life.” Angie found the phone number for some low person on the patent office totem pole, and dialed.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find out if John filed a patent for the flower.”

No answer. That’s when Angie realized it was after four o’clock. She shut down the computer.

“You’re done?” Gloria asked.

“I’m going to take a bath and get ready for tonight’s performance.”

“So, we aren’t spending time together again tonight?”

“You were the one gone all day.” Gloria didn’t have to know Angie had been away too.