Roses Have Thorns, page 10
I harnessed the dogs and we took a quick stroll around the neighborhood. I was keeping half an eye out for silver Ford pickups but I didn’t see any, so maybe Sawyer had nabbed the right guy. But had the guy even been following me? If so, why? The only thing I’d done that was even remotely of interest was stumbling across Rob’s body. It wasn’t as if I was actively investigating Rob’s death. As Sawyer was fond of pointing out, I wasn’t a cop. I was a florist who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no reason to follow me around or keep tabs on my whereabouts. Maybe I was just being paranoid, seeing boogeymen where they didn’t exist.
Once home, I made a pot of tea and built up a fire before settling on the couch with a stack of unread celebrity gossip magazines, determined to do nothing more than indulge in my favorite vice until it was time to get ready to go over to Sawyer’s. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Rob’s murder and couldn’t concentrate on the newest scandal. I put aside the magazine and reached for a piece of paper and a pencil stub and started writing down what I knew:
Doug Abbot sent flowers to Dad, Dr. Steve, Rob, Brad, and Julian. First arrangement seemed to indicate Doug was excited about something—potential business deal? Second arrangements were sent two weeks later and seemed to say that Doug was disappointed—business deal didn’t go right? Rob didn’t receive second arrangement—why? Sawyer suspected Julian because of threatening letters. Sawyer also talked with Dad, Dr. Steve, and Brad. All were cleared. Rob had been drinking scotch with someone before his death—who? Who is Sawyer’s person of interest? Is it the guy in the Yankees truck? Was I really being followed today? Why?
I paused for a moment, tapping the end of the pencil against my chin as I thought, then added more notes. Did Sawyer talk with Doug? Had he been cleared like my dad and the others in the investment club? And who was the guy in the truck? Was he Rob’s killer?
There were just too many questions I couldn’t answer. I was frustrated and more than a little scared. Was this how Sawyer felt when he was investigating a crime? Well, he probably wasn’t scared, but I’d bet good money that he was frustrated. Maybe I could get him to talk about the case tonight. He could probably use a sounding board, right?
“Ugh,” I said, realizing that Sawyer expected me to spend the night with him. Maybe it was just because of the expected blizzard. Even though we lived less than half a mile apart, driving or even walking during a snowstorm was dangerous. It had better not be for any other reason. While I thought I might be ready to start seriously dating again, sleeping with a man who was not Joe made me feel faint and slightly sweaty. And not in a good way.
A quick glance at my watch showed that there were still a few hours before I needed to get ready for my date with Sawyer. I tried to get back to reading but again, I couldn’t concentrate. So I decided to do something more active and went to the kitchen to make candy. Maybe I could disengage my worries and anxieties and distract myself.
After an inventory of my cabinets and fridge, I decided on making Scottish tablet, a sweet confectionery a little like fudge, made with butter and condensed milk. My father used to make it every weekend during December when Hazel and I were little. Making it was tricky enough to keep my mind focused on the task at hand and away from trying to solve Rob’s murder. After all, as Sawyer had pointed out, I wasn’t a deputy. I had no reason to try to do his job. He was good at it and didn’t need my interference. It would also keep the topic of Sawyer on the back burner for a bit.
I arranged ingredients—white sugar, whole milk, butter, and a can of sweetened condensed milk—on my counter and started making the tablet. As I worked, I managed to turn off my thoughts about my burgeoning feelings about Sawyer and Rob’s murder. I concentrated on what my hands were doing and enjoyed a moment of quiet peacefulness. When the tablet was finished, I set it aside to further harden while I went and packed an overnight bag.
While standing in front of my open closet, I glanced outside to check the weather. It was overcast and a few fat flakes floated down to land on the roof of the porch. Maybe the forecast was right. Maybe there would be a blizzard tonight, and Sawyer was being practical in wanting me to stay over. I took a deep breath and decided that was the case and opted t0 pack pink flannel menswear pajamas printed with a variety of doughnuts and thick fuzzy socks, instead of a slinky blue satin negligee and matching robe. I added underwear and a bra, plus a t-shirt with a sea turtle printed on it, an Edinburgh University hoodie, and a pair of jeans to the bag, as well as toiletries—my hairbrush, makeup, deodorant, toothpaste, and toothbrush. Dundee and Cornbread were laying side by side on my bed while I packed, watching my every move with interest.
“Oh, no,” I said, sitting down between them and fondling their ears. “What about you two? I can’t leave you alone all night. I wonder if Sawyer will let you come?”
Grabbing my phone off my nightstand, I sent him a quick text: Can the dogs come over tonight too? If he said no, then I’d have to stay home. A little part of me almost hoped he said no.
His reply came a few minutes later: Of course. I’ve already bought them some food and a bed. Bring toys and treats though. What kind of pie did you get?
The tiny part of me that was afraid of spending the night made a sad sound, but mostly I was touched by his thoughtfulness regarding the dogs. I responded: Saskatoon berry. It’s delicious. You really got dog stuff?
Absolutely. I knew you wouldn’t want them to be alone all night. Saskatoon Berry sounds like the name of an Old West gunslinger.
I grinned and sent back: Saskatoon berry pie is delicious. Trust me. I’ll see you at 7.
Now that I was packed, I felt better about tonight. I carried my bag downstairs and left it on the hall tree’s bench, then gathered up dog things—their blankets, favorite treats, and two of their favorite Nylabones—and added them to a canvas shopping bag, which I left with my own in the entryway. Then I sat down on my couch with the gossip magazines and settled in for a read, finally free of distractions.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sawyer’s family home was located on the outskirts of Dawn Cove, where Greene Street dead-ended at Battle Avenue. It was huge, a Georgian monstrosity with five bays, a widow’s walk, a deep porch that wrapped around both sides and the back, pilasters and pediments and dormers, and two towering chimneys on either side of the building. It sat on a parcel of heavily forested land on the east side of Windmill Hill from Awen Kennels. The house had been built by Sawyer’s ancestor, William Livingston, in 1820, shortly after he helped ratify Maine’s new state constitution.
It was snowing steadily as Sawyer, the dogs, and I pulled up into the circular drive in front of the stately home. We climbed out of the heated truck and crossed the drive to go up two landscaped terraces before ascending the steps to the black front door. The house’s exterior color scheme was similar to Brad and Joss’s house—yellow clapboard with white trim and black shutters and front door—but the yellow on Sawyer’s house was more buttery and less sunny.
Once inside, I was confronted with Miranda’s opulent taste in furnishing. Sawyer’s mother had chosen a Rococo console table and two matching slipper chairs upholstered in fuchsia crushed velvet that dominated the entryway. Everywhere I looked, gilded edges and sparkling crystal and a hundred shades of pink fought for my attention. It was busy, it was cluttered, and it was more like a museum than a home. Sawyer hadn’t bothered putting his own stamp on the place; he’d left everything as it had been when his parents died.
“Oh, Sawyer,” I said, turning and giving him a sympathetic look.
“I know. It’s a museum,” he said, eerily echoing my own thoughts. He set my overnight bag and the dog’s things down on the honey heartwood parquet floor. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all their stuff, you know? I don’t even want the house, but I can’t sell it either. It’s been in the family for 200 years.”
I went over to the console, dragging my finger along the marble surface. “Is it real? Eighteenth century, I mean?”
He took off the dogs’ harnesses and hung them from a simple brass hook that looked out of place amongst the lavishness that surrounded it. “Probably. Knowing Mom anyway. Why?”
“Mum could help you sell it. If you wanted. You could probably make a mint. And what about giving the house to your sister and her husband? Or keeping it for a summer home or something? You could buy something smaller in the village proper. An apartment above one of the stores on Main Street, maybe.”
He pushed a hand through his hair and cupped the back of his neck as he looked around the room. “Maybe.” He glanced back at me and gave me a little smile. “Think you could talk with your mom about it? Maybe she could come out here and pick a handful of pieces to start with?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure she’d love to take a wander through here. This is one of her favorite styles, the Rococo stuff.”
He nodded and picked up my bag before heading for the sweetheart staircase. “C’mon. I’ll show you and the dogs to your room for the night. It’s Merri’s old room, so it’s not...so much.” He vaguely gestured around the entrance and went up the stairs.
I followed him down a hallway covered with a thick deep burgundy carpet, past a couple of closed doors to one that stood open. The room inside was frozen in 2009, the year Merri had graduated from high school and gone off to college in Boston. While there were pop idol posters on the walls, there wasn’t a single gilded surface in sight. I was grateful for that. I snickered at the Jonas Brothers posters that hung above a delicate white-painted wooden desk and set my bag down on the floor next to it.
“Goofy, huh?” Sawyer said as he put the bag with the dogs’ things in it next to the door. “But it’s better than the guest rooms, which is more of what’s downstairs, only darker and with more velvet. Anyway, I changed the sheets this morning and there’s extra blankets and stuff in the closet. Um,” he turned and pointed to one of the two doors in the room. “That’s the bathroom. Fresh towels in there. And that works.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the small fireplace across from the bed. A stack of split wood sat neatly on the tiled hearth. “Checked the flue myself.”
“Ooh,” I said, going to the dogs’ bag and digging through it to drag out their blankets, spreading them over the oversized dog bed that sat on the floor between the two doors. “I haven’t had a fireplace in my bedroom since I lived in Glasgow. How fancy.”
“So you think you and the dogs will be okay here?”
“Yeah,” I said, standing up and smiling at him. “We’ll be fine.”
“Good. Well. Let’s go have dinner.” He headed out into the hallway, and the dogs and I followed him downstairs, through the entryway and back towards the kitchen.
It was just as I remembered it—New England farmhouse chic—and completely at odds with the rest of the public rooms in the house. White shiplap covered the walls, and rough-hewn open cabinetry displayed Miranda’s prized Delftware. There were exposed ceiling beams and bright white subway tiles on the back splash behind the navy blue-painted Aga cooker. The chairs and the bench that surrounded the reclaimed barn wood table beneath the bow window were upholstered in blue gingham canvas, and the butcher block counters were well-worn. It was the first room I’d seen that actually looked as though someone lived in it.
“Have a seat,” Sawyer said as he passed by the breakfast bar, patting a stool. I slid onto it and propped my chin in my hands, watching him as he went to the fridge and opened it to root around in it.
“Did your dad decorate this room?” Bill Livingston had been a state-fair champion blue-ribbon baker, famous for his cakes and cookies, as well as his Christmas trifle. And perhaps unfairly, he was also one heck of a chef. Summer barbecues at the Livingston house were legendary, as Bill churned out amazing steaks, burgers, and all the sides—baked beans, potato and macaroni salads, grilled fruit, and fresh corn and tomato salad.
“He did,” Sawyer said from the depths of the freezer. “It was his domain and he insisted Mom let him do whatever he wanted with it. It was always my favorite room in the house.”
“I can see why.” I paused for a moment, watching him dig through something unidentifiable, then asked, “Do you want some help? What are you making?”
He closed the freezer door and turned to face me, a sheepish smile on his face. “I have no idea. I didn’t inherit my dad’s cooking ability, I’m afraid. Merri got that.”
I chuckled and slid off the stool, going to stand next to him so I could poke through his fridge. It was filled with sliced deli meats and cheese, a collection of interesting condiments—spicy ketchup, English spicy brown mustard, horseradish sauce, Kewpie mayo—and a variety of pickled vegetables. One of the vegetable crisper drawers held a head of butter lettuce, a plastic container of sprouts, and some decent-looking tomatoes. There was also a container of macaroni salad from Last Magnolia.
I turned and went through the pantry, discovering a loaf of sourdough from Tout Sweet, as well as a bag of kettle-style potato chips and a six-pack of Maine blueberry soda. I glanced up at him, one of my brows winged up in suspicion. “You planned on sandwiches, didn’t you?”
“I did. I figured that’s the one thing I’m really good at. Plus I know you love Jessica’s macaroni salad, so I kind of centered the entire menu around that.” He looked embarrassed. “But when you got here, I got all stupid and nervous and worried that what I had planned wasn’t good enough. I mean, you made bread for us the other night. I can barely slap a sandwich together.”
I stood up and hugged him, laughing softly as I kissed his cheek and said, “Silly boy. Of course whatever you have planned is good enough. Sometimes a good sandwich makes the most perfect meal, you know?” I went back to the fridge and began pulling things out, setting them on the kitchen island.
He breathed a sigh of relief and began slicing the sourdough. We assembled sandwiches—roast beef with horseradish, lettuce, dill pickles, and tomato for him, sliced rotisserie chicken with spicy brown mustard, sprouts, lettuce, and tomato for me—and arranged handfuls of chips and spooned salad onto plates before taking everything over to the table beneath the window and settling in with the bottles of soda.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before he asked, “Are you going to open the shop in the morning?”
“Probably not. I’ll stop in sometime after Denys has plowed to check on deliveries and get those out if there are any, but there’s no reason to open the shop itself. No one’s going to be downtown.”
“Good. Wanna build a snowman in the morning?”
I laughed and glanced at him. He had a little smile and his eyes were sparkling with mischief. This was the Sawyer that had caught and held my attention when we were 15. This mischievous, fun-loving man who had been my first love and my best friend during the difficult years of my late teens. “Yeah,” I said with a grin. “A snowman sounds amazing.”
After we finished eating and cleaned up, Sawyer cut large slices of the Saskatoon berry pie and we carried them into the family room. Finally I saw Sawyer’s taste reflected in the overstuffed, leather-covered couches and chairs, sturdy pine furniture, and the a large flat-screen TV that sat on an entertainment center that also had stereo equipment, a DVD player, and what I assumed were gaming consoles—an Xbox or a Playstation, maybe. A rack of DVDs sat next to it, and from a quick glance at the titles, I decided that Sawyer was quite limited in his selection. His tastes ran toward action-adventure and sci-fi movies. There was not a single chick flick in evidence, though there sure was a lot of Stallone and Van Damme and Jet Li.
“Pick something,” he said, setting the pie plates down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I’m not sure I have a lot that you’ll like, but I have subscriptions to Netflix and Hulu if you can’t find anything.” He went to a neatly kept hearth and laid a fire, which soon filled the room with heat and a soft light.
After a brief search, I finally settled on the sci-fi masterpiece The Fifth Element. “This is one of my favorite movies,” I said, handing it to him.
“Really?” he said as he loaded the disc into the player. “I’m surprised by that.”
We sat down and he started up the movie. “Why? Because I’m a girl?” I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
“No, because you’re very down to earth. I didn’t think that sci-fi would be of interest to you.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling somewhat mollified. “It’s Hazel’s fault. She watched it every day for two months when she was 13. I thought it was stupid at first, but then I actually sat down with her and watched it. It was really good. It’s the kind of film I can watch over and over without it getting boring. Plus Ruby Rhod is just so ridiculous, you can’t help but love him.”
Sawyer nodded in agreement and took a small taste of the pie. I settled down next to him and watched for his reaction. He smiled and made a happy noise before taking a larger bite. “This is good,” he said. “Good choice.”
“Be sure to tell Fred next time you stop in. She’ll appreciate hearing it.”
He started up the film and we watched Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich save the universe from Gary Oldman and an evil, sentient cloud. After the film, we stayed in our spots on the couch, idly scratching a dog or two and listening to the soft sounds of the fire and the house settling around us as the silencing blanket of a heavy snowfall fell outside.
“About today,” I said.
Sawyer turned to face me, his eyes moving over my face before he arched a blond brow. “What about it?”
“Was that your suspect in the truck? Was he really following me? Did he kill Rob?”
“Yes. Yes. No.”
I waited for him to elaborate, and when no further explanation seemed forthcoming, I poked him in the ribs. “Explain!”
He chuckled and squirmed away from my finger, holding his hands up in front of him to ward off more poking. “His name is Russell Scott, and he’s the nephew of Doug Abbot’s college roommate. Russell did 12 years at Warren for aggravated assault. When he got out, he was pretty much unemployable, so Doug ended up hiring him to be like an assistant-slash-gopher. He’s living with Doug in the carriage house out at Beechwood.”
