Chapter 8

“I’m sure everything will be stunning.” I referred to the tropical bouquets and centerpieces as my latest bridal client signed her check for the deposit. I was less sure how a beach-themed wedding with leis and tiki torches and a whole pig roast would go over in Ramble, almost one hundred miles from the nearest beach. Or how trucking in and dumping all that sand would be looked upon by the staff of the couple’s chosen venue, the exclusive Ashbury Inn, where, according to Kathleen Randolph, local historian and owner of the restored historic inn, George Washington once slept. And where his ghost was reported to walk the halls, rattling doors and stealing the pricey hand soap out of the guest rooms.

For a moment, I even pondered how our esteemed first president would view the wedding frenzy created by today’s brides, each demanding her perfect day, regardless of the cost. But I drove that thought from my head. Part of that frenzy would pay my gas bill this winter so I wouldn’t freeze like the revolutionary troops at Valley Forge.

I rose to escort the beach-bunny bride out of the consulting nook when clanking on the iron steps announced another visitor.

“Audrey, I demand to speak with you.” Ellen Whitney, eyes bloodshot and gaze unsteady, stood at the top of the steps. Her color of the day was lime green. Or maybe it was yesterday’s color because Ellen was quite in disarray, clothing wrinkled, makeup nonexistent, and hair, well, her beautician would be mortified. And while I can’t say I’d been in many distilleries to make an accurate comparison, she smelled as if she’d taken the grand tour of one and knocked back a vat or two when the guides weren’t looking.

“Of course. We’ve just finished here.” I turned to the startled bride, smiled, and shook her hand. “Congratulations again.”

“Thanks.” She giggled and tucked her receipt into her purse before squeezing past Ellen.

“Yeah, congratulations.” Ellen’s slurred voice echoed through the store. “Enjoy your little wedding. Maybe I’ll come. You’ll know me. I’ll be sitting in the back wearing black. You know why?”

Ellen waited for an answer, but the bride wisely exited the store. I caught a glimpse of Liv mouthing “Sorry” to me.

“You know why?” Ellen asked me instead. “Because they’re doomed. Doomed, I say, right from the very beginning. And do you know why?” Ellen took a step toward me, but as she did, her foot twisted beneath her and she barely caught herself on the gazebo railing. She turned back and shook her finger at the floor where she’d lost her balance. “You should get that fixed, Audrey. Someone could break a leg or something.”

I glanced at the perfectly flat area of floor and practiced customer service with a smile. “I’ll take care of it. Now, what can I do for you today, Mrs. Whitney?”

She staggered over to the table and collapsed into a chair. “I came to get my money back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitney. If you had called, I could have saved you a trip. You see, I already gave Jenny her money back when she canceled the order.”

It took Ellen at least twenty seconds to process what I’d told her. “All of it?”

“All but the nonrefundable portion.”

“Well, give me that, then.” She pounded her fist on the table for emphasis, then winced. Not a good thing to do on a fieldstone table.

I considered defining “nonrefundable” for her, but since twenty-five dollars wouldn’t send us into bankruptcy, and the family had been through so much . . . Besides, twenty-five bucks was a small price to pay to get a drunken, belligerent Ellen out of the shop. As she staggered behind me to the counter, I insisted she sign a receipt for the money. I doubted she’d remember I gave it to her. Not in this state of mind.

“There you go, Mrs. Whitney.” I counted the bills out for her and watched as she tucked them into her purse, along with her copy of the receipt. “Have a nice day.”

“Serves you right, you know that.”

I smiled and hoped she’d turn and leave. Fat chance.

“And do you know why?”

Here we go again, I thought.

“All that hoopla about those magic bouquets of yours. Well, it didn’t work this time, did it? It didn’t work for my Jenny.” Her voice cracked with pain. “Why, Audrey? Why didn’t it work for Jenny?”

And with that, she crumpled to the floor.

• • •

All I can say is that sometimes it’s nice having a good portion of a college football team on staff—albeit temporarily. I’d been a little concerned about them missing so much class time, but they’d all assured me they could watch their lectures online. It took Darnell and his cohorts, and a cup of Amber Lee’s high-test, to get Ellen on her feet again. And even then she wobbled, supported with a little help on either side by two young football players.

“Can we get her home, do you think?” I couldn’t think of any place to let her sleep it off in our shop—unless we draped her over the fieldstone table in the consulting nook. “What about if we lay her in the back of the delivery van?”

Liv glanced at her watch. “The delivery van is already loaded to take to the Rawlings’. The CR-V, too. And I need the boys to carry for me if we’re going to get those arrangements set up before the afternoon visitation hours.” Liv’s hand flew to her forehead. “I don’t know what to do. Ellen’s timing stinks.”

“Don’t treat me like a baby. I can get home.” Ellen shook off her supporters, then fumbled in her purse and pulled out a set of car keys. “Without any help from you.” She held up the keys and lurched forward. “And do you know why?”

Darnell snatched the keys from her hand and held them high out of her reach.

Ellen made a jump for them, but the sudden motion made her wobble. “Oh, dear. I’m a little dizzy.” Then she passed out, cold. At least the football players used their quick reflexes to catch her before she reached the ground.

At that moment, the bell over the door sounded. What a time for a customer!

I whirled around to see Nick Maxwell. His eyes scanned the situation, Darnell’s two friends struggling to support the dead weight that was Ellen Whitney. I guess it’s safe to say, in the brief time since we’d met, I hadn’t made the best impression on the handsome baker. But then again, what did I care? I wasn’t ready for another relationship anyway. Was I?

“I see Ellen came for her refund,” Nick said.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“She hit the bakery three hours ago and talked me out of the fifty-dollar deposit on the cake. Looks like she drank it.”

“Audrey,” Liv interrupted, “I need to get those flowers delivered now. I should have left ten minutes ago.”

Maybe Ellen would end up draped across the fieldstone table after all.

“Do you need help with her?” Nick asked.

Liv pounced on that simple offer. And I’m not sure how it happened, but soon it was decided that Nick and I would see Ellen home in the back of the bakery truck. If Liv had taken up matchmaking again, I could think of an infinite number of better ways than escorting a belligerent drunk home.

He pulled his truck into the back alley. I recalled seeing the white box truck with the cupcake logo before but wondered how I’d missed the large sliding glass windows on the side.

“I just had those installed last week.” He pointed them out as he rounded to the back and opened the doors. “I’d like to take the cupcakes mobile. Maybe hit some local events this year. Ball games. The summer concerts.”

“Good idea.” I could imagine all the belts in Ramble being loosened a notch just at the prospect.

That also explained the stainless steel counter inside the truck, just below the window. Racks were affixed to the area just behind the driver.

“It looks new back here,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

He shrugged as the football players deposited Ellen onto the carpeted floor. “I was going to replace the factory carpet with a surface that’s nonskid, yet easier to clean, so if . . .” He left the rest unsaid. Better that way.

He drove, gently negotiating the streets and hills of Ramble while I rode in the back with Ellen. I felt a bit like an ambulance attendant. I wondered if maybe I should check her vitals, hook up an IV, or randomly yell “stat” like they did on the TV shows. Yet her steady snore assured me she was alive and breathing. Only when the snore stopped did I lean over.

She mumbled something incoherent, belched, then started snoring again.

Minutes later, the truck stopped, the motor grew silent, and Nick Maxwell opened the back door. He rubbed his hands together. “So, how do you want to do this?”

I jiggled the keys that Darnell had confiscated. “I guess we should open up the house first.”

He offered his hand to help me down from the back of the truck. I surreptitiously wiped my palm on my clothing. I was not going to repeat that potting soil fiasco. I grasped his hand—strong and warm. I guess bakers must develop strong hands, too. Then I tried to climb gracefully from the back of the truck and down the two feet to Ellen’s unkempt stone driveway.

Yeah, that bad.

I guess I should explain that I still wore my dress and heels because of my scheduled bridal appointment. And high heels and stone driveways just don’t mix. My left foot landed squarely enough, but my right heel sliced against a large stone, leaving me toppling, just as badly as Ellen had. If it weren’t for Nick, who caught me.

Okay, maybe escorting a drunk woman home is good matchmaking. Score one for Liv. Because—cue the violins—we had a moment. One of those corny movie moments where I look up at him, and the entire world melts away except the warmth of his body next to mine as I stare into his limpid eyes. Whatever “limpid” means. But all the world was suspended and empty and faded into the background. Nothing mattered that moment but Nick and me.

Until Ellen belched loudly, then vomited all over Nick’s truck.

Cut the violins.

• • •

Quite a bit of time had passed since I’d been in the Whitney home. After Jenny’s dad died, Ellen and her daughter had moved into the nondescript ranch home just outside Ramble, one of a dozen identical affordable homes built on postage-stamp lots, manufactured with the lowest-end material possible. Bottom-of-the-line carpets, discounted linoleum, particleboard. And tiny.

The nice thing about Ellen’s vomiting episode was that it meant she was conscious—or, rather, semiconscious—when we got her into the house. We each took an arm and were able to direct her up the steps.

While I got Ellen undressed and settled in bed, Nick took a roll of paper towels we found in her kitchen and headed out to his truck.

By this time, Ellen had transitioned from angry to weepy.

“You’re a good girl, Audrey,” she told me, squeezing my chin. “Your mama must be proud.”

I inhaled sharply. “Let’s not go there right now. You should be proud, too. Jenny is a sweet girl. The chief will figure out she didn’t do this thing.”

“She is. She’s a good girl.” Ellen curled into a ball. “I know she’s a good girl.”

I sat at the edge of her bed. “Then why won’t you go see her?” I asked. Now might be the time to ask the questions—when Ellen was less likely to keep her guard up and might not even recollect what I asked.

“She won’t want to see me. I messed it all up.”

“Messed what up?”

“Messed it all up,” she insisted.

This was not working. “What did you do to mess it all up?” Surely she couldn’t mean she’d killed Derek.

“I encouraged her. Encouraged her, that’s what I did.”

“Encouraged her to do what?”

“To set her cap for Derek. She never would have . . .” Ellen trailed off into a round of bawling.

I waited, making soothing sounds and rubbing her arm.

“She liked him. She didn’t know that like sometimes just needs a little push to become love. So I pushed her—just a little bit. It’s like that sometimes, isn’t it, Audrey?”

“I guess it is.”

“And Derek wasn’t so bad. He’d settle down like his father, with the help of the right woman—at least that’s what Jonathan Rawling told me. Told me that’s what happened to him. And he could provide a good life for Jenny, too. That’s why I did it. Do you believe me, Audrey?”

“Of course.”

“And gambling’s not so terrible. Most people gamble a little, don’t they? The lottery. Bingo. Why, even a lot of churches sponsor raffles. There are worse habits for a man to have, aren’t there?”

“I suppose.” It wasn’t much of a segue, but I thought I’d give it a try. “Speaking of habits, Ellen”—I winced—“was Jenny taking any kind of drugs that you know of? Prescription, I mean, or . . .”

She seemed not to hear me as she snuggled under her covers and spoke to her pillow. “She’d settle him down, and he’d give her a good life. That’s all I wanted. All those plans, all that work to get them together. And now he blames me.”

“Who?”

“Jonathan. That man was sweet as pie just a week ago. He and his wife even invited me to tea. Tea. We had scones. Have you ever eaten a scone, Audrey? I mean a real scone.”

I shushed her and pulled her shades to cut out the afternoon sunlight.

“With clotted cream,” she mumbled as I closed her door, leaving her to sleep it off.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, I found Nick was in the kitchen, stripping off a pair of loose-fitting food service gloves. He tossed them in the kitchen trash can, then washed his hands in the sink. “How’d it go?”

“She’ll sleep it off now,” I said. “I hope.”

“Do we dare leave her keys?” Nick asked.

“I don’t see why not. Her car must still be parked somewhere in town, and that’s a long walk from here. She can pick it up later when she’s sober.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear what she said.” Nick held the door open for me. “Sad.”

“You know, Ellen hasn’t been to see Jenny. I thought she was mad at her. But it sounds more like she’s blaming herself for trying to get Derek and Jenny together.”

“I heard that part—something about gambling.” He held the passenger-side door open for me. No riding in the back this time. The smell had crept into the cab of the truck, so I rolled down my window.

When Nick climbed in, he did the same. “It’s not true, though.”

“Derek didn’t gamble? Or was he involved in more than gambling?”

Nick laughed as he backed out of the driveway and turned onto the road. “I’m afraid I didn’t know Derek well enough to answer that. I just meant that sometimes a little gambling isn’t a little thing—and it takes more than the right woman to make it all work.”

I’d been thinking the same thing, so I just nodded.

“My uncle, he started out with just lottery tickets. He’d blow twenty a week on them. And then something awful happened. He won. Won a million-dollar instant prize.”

“Awful because . . .”

“At first it didn’t seem so bad. He paid off his house, bought new cars for himself and his wife. Sent his kids to college. Did all those things people say they’ll do if they win it big. Except he kept buying lottery tickets. Then a trip to Atlantic City. Then Vegas, with enough little wins to keep him coming back. In just a few years, the money had all trickled through his fingers. He took out a mortgage on his house, trying to win the money back, then got involved in a number of get-rich schemes—some of them on the shady side. Soon my aunt left him. Now he has nothing. So it kind of fits.”

“Fits?”

“If Derek had a gambling problem, then he likely had a money-acquisition problem. Who knows what he was involved in, what kinds of shady deals he might have been part of?”

“So you’re thinking one of his shady gambling connections might have killed him.” I stared out the window, watching the green hills and white-fenced farms of Virginia streak by the passenger window. It made sense—at least more sense than Jenny killing Derek.

But with the chief investigating Jenny, someone needed to investigate Derek. I contemplated how to do this. Derek’s parents. Derek’s business associates. Derek’s well-heeled friends.

Before long, Nick pulled into the alley behind the Rose in Bloom.

“Thanks so much for helping me.” I reached for the door handle.

“No problem,” he said.

“Except for the carpet.”

“I’ll just rip it out a little earlier than I planned. Nothing to worry about—and certainly not your fault.”

I smiled at him.

“Audrey?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been meaning . . . well, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

I turned toward him and pulled a strand of hair behind my ear. This might be it. Did he feel that moment, too, the electrical charge between us? And more important, was I ready to date again? And was he even free to date? After all, he must have given all those flowers to somebody.

“I was thinking that . . . well, when you mentioned the bridal magazines, I thought that maybe . . .”

He turned forward, staring straight ahead, and tapped the steering wheel. He bit his lower lip before continuing. “Well, since you do flowers and I do cake, I thought that maybe we could collaborate . . .”

“Collaborate?”

“Yeah. Like decorating cakes and cupcakes with fresh flowers. So they match the bouquets and centerpieces. It could be a great service for both of us to add.”

He turned back to me, his eyes pleading. It was my turn to stare out the front window. I’d have to call an electrician about my faulty romantic electricity meter. I’d been certain that he felt a spark, too.

“Sure. We could do that.” I reached out to open my door, and he switched off the engine. When he climbed out of the cab, I turned back.

“You don’t need to walk me in. I’m fine from here.”

“I just remembered what I came here for in the first place. I was hoping you might have some small bouquets ready.”

Oh, yes, the mysterious recipient of Nick’s flowers. What a nice guy, coming in to buy flowers but still taking time out to help me carry Ellen Whitney home.

Whoever this mystery lady was, I hoped she appreciated him.