Roses Have Thorns, page 11
“Warren? That’s the state prison, right?”
“Yep. So when you said you’d seen that silver truck pulling away from Rob’s place, we started running down trucks in the area and found one that belonged to Doug. Only Doug’s not driving it. He loaned it to Russell.”
“So this Russell Scott killed Rob? Why?”
Sawyer shook his head and reached down to stroke Cornbread’s back from the nape of her neck to the base of her tail. She groaned and stretched in pure bliss and I smiled. “I don’t think he did. He’s got a rock-solid alibi,” Sawyer explained, turning his attention to Dundee, scratching the top of his head between his ears. “He had a meeting with his parole officer in the late afternoon and stayed overnight in Warren, since it’s a three-hour drive back here.”
“But I saw his truck outside Rob’s!”
“Yeah, I can’t explain that yet. We’re looking into it though.”
I sat back on the couch, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “Was he following me?”
“He was.” He glanced aside at me and then smirked. “He thinks you’re cute and was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”
“By stalking me?”
“I can’t fault his taste, but yes. He was lightly stalking you.”
“Lightly stalking me? Is that a legal term?”
Sawyer chuckled. “No, it’s a Sawyer term. Despite his violent record and his prison term, I don’t think he’s a threat to you. I did warn him off, though. He agreed to stop following you. If you see him again, be sure to call me immediately. We can easily get an order of protection against him.”
“Well, that’s something at least.” I shook my head, confused and bewildered by this new knowledge. I knew what I saw, and I’d seen a silver Ford truck with a Yankees sticker in the back window pull away from Rob’s house the night he was murdered. There couldn’t possibly be two trucks with the same Yankees sticker and the same license plate number in Maine, could there? That was too much of a coincidence. “What about Doug? Have you cleared him yet?”
“We’re working on it.” Again, I waited for more explanation, but Sawyer remained closed-lipped. I scowled at him with frustration and he gave me a rueful smirk. “You’re still not a deputy, Juniper. I really shouldn’t be talking with you about any of this as it is.”
“I know, I know,” I said grudgingly. “But Rob was a friend. I wouldn’t have Cornbread without him, and I feel like I’m involved. I found him, after all.”
Sawyer reached for my hand and took it between both of his, holding it like it was a bone-china teacup. “I know. And that’s why I’ve told you as much as I have. But I know how you like to gossip and I really can’t let anything get out to the public. You understand, right?”
“I understand.” He scooted closer to me to put his arm around my shoulders and drew me against his body. He was warm and smelled amazing—pine and ozone and leather and something spicy. I closed my eyes and relaxed. “Music?” I said in a soft voice.
“Music,” he said, leaning forward to turn off the TV and turn on the stereo. The sound of an acoustic guitar filled the room, followed by the rich, mellow voice of Damien Rice. Sawyer settled back and pulled me against him once more. I sat quietly as his fingers ran through my hair, as the gentle song and the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath my ear filled my head. The dogs were sleeping on the floor at our feet and the occasional sleepy groan or tiny dreaming bark drifted up to us, punctuating the music and the soft crackle of the fire.
The second time I drifted off to sleep, Sawyer stood up and helped me to my feet. He led me upstairs to Merri’s erstwhile bedroom and left me in the doorway with a kiss that made my toes curl in my fuzzy socks. “Good night, Juniper,” he whispered against my lips. “Sleep well.”
I thought it would be easy to fall asleep again once I was snuggled in bed, but my thoughts kept chasing themselves around and around as I tossed and turned. Sawyer was just next door; was he, too, finding it difficult to fall asleep? Was he thinking about me just as much as I was thinking about him?
I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that I attracted to Sawyer and excited about spending time with him. But I was also still feeling guilty about it. Part of me thought I was being unfaithful to Joe’s memory, but the rest of me also thought that was ridiculous. I was young, only 34, and I had so much life ahead of me to live. Was remaining true to the memory of my late husband really something I wanted—or needed—to do for the next 40 or 50 years? Did I honestly think that Joe would want that? He had been such a kind, sweet, generous man, and I just couldn’t entertain the thought that he’d want me to be alone, even after his death. He’d want me to be happy. That had been all he’d wanted while we were together. Why would that stop after his death?
“Oh, Joe,” I whispered, squeezing shut my eyes against the sudden flood of tears. “I don’t know what to do. I love you still, but I could also just as easily love Sawyer. Send me a sign, would you? Let me know if I’m headed in the right direction.”
I turned onto my side and curled around Cornbread’s warm, sleeping body. I took a deep breath and let it go, releasing all the tension in my body as well. As I relaxed, I felt peace fall over me, covering me like a warm blanket and took it as my sign. Joe was okay with me moving on. I knew he wanted me to be happy and not so torn up with guilt. I let the guilt go and fell asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, after blueberry pancakes and sausage, Sawyer, the dogs, and I ventured out into the post-blizzard morning. There was another six inches of fresh snow covering the ground, and luckily for our snow-sculpting plans, it was wet and heavy. With much giggling and pelting of snowballs, stuffing snow down the back of each other’s coats, and chasing Cornbread around the yard while Dundee watched from the porch, we managed to build a proper snowman, complete with a hat, scarf, and a carrot nose.
After our snowman was built, we went back into the house, where I showered and changed into fresh clothes. Sawyer was waiting in the kitchen when I was done, standing at the stove and stirring a pot that smelled suspiciously like mulled apple cider. “That smells amazing,” I told him as I settled on a stool at the counter.
His hair was wet and he was wearing a t-shirt with a silhouette of Big Foot surrounded by the slogan “Hide and Seek Champion.” He glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled. “When do you want to head down to the shop? Are you hungry at all?”
“No, I’m not going to be hungry until next year.” I glanced at the clock that hung above the Delftware shelves. It was only ten. “I’ll head down around noon. That should give the plows enough time to clear the main roads and highways.”
“I’ll drive you today,” he said, ladling up some cider into mugs that he pulled down from an under-cabinet hook. “Think we can fit the arrangements in my truck?”
“Probably.” He brought the mugs over and slid onto a stool next to me, hooking his feet onto the lowest rung of my stool. “I have to drop the dogs off at home first, then we can head downtown.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go watch another movie.”
We settled on the couch with our cider and Sawyer subjected me to something called The Expendables. It was a ridiculous, overly dramatic, explosion-filled riot that starred Stallone and a bunch of other action stars. Once I got over the fact that it wasn’t meant to be serious cinema and allowed myself to view it as something fun and escapist, I found I liked it.
When the movie was over, I repacked my overnight bag and the dogs’ things and we headed out to Sawyer's truck. Denys hadn’t gotten as far north as Battle Avenue with his plow so it was slow-going until we got to Main Street. Sawyer parked in my driveway and carried my bags up to the kitchen entrance.
I left him sitting at the kitchen counter and went upstairs to empty out my overnight bag into the laundry hamper. The feeling of peace that had accompanied me as I’d drifted off to sleep last night was still with me. I felt no regret for spending the night at Sawyer’s, nor any lingering guilt over wanting to be with him. I knew that I’d made the right decision, a decision that seemed to have Joe’s blessing. A flower of happiness bloomed inside me, and I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I moved into my guest bedroom to get the dogs settled.
Once the dogs were occupied with their favorite toys and I’d returned their blankets to their beds, Sawyer and I went to the shop, where I started up the FTD computer and printed out a handful of orders. While I built arrangements, Sawyer checked in with the deputies who had been tasked with running down alibis and keeping tabs on evidence reports from the state crime lab.
As Sawyer and I drove out to Surry to deliver a funeral arrangement and then to Brooklin to drop off a birthday bouquet and to Searsport to give a newlywed couple a basket of roses, he kept glancing sideways at me, his sky-blue eyes seeming to search my face over and over as he drove. Finally, my paranoia and worry grew unbearable and I asked, “What? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some alien life form you’ve just discovered and you don’t quite know what to expect from me.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I am not.” He was silent for a moment, then continued in a far more sober tone, “It’s just that you’re awfully pretty. I like looking at you.”
I felt my cheeks catch flame and my toes curled in my boots. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever known.”
That made me scoff in disbelief. “You were married to a model, Sawyer.”
He shrugged and reached out with his right hand to take mine. “She pales in comparison, Juniper. Trust me.”
“How is that even possible? I mean, she’s on magazine covers and TV ads. She literally makes a living with her looks.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But she’s cold. Everything about her is icy. Her nickname in the industry is Elsa. Did you know that?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before saying, “You’re not cold. You’re warm. And generous. And funny. You live with your whole heart, your whole soul. You make people feel good. You bring them happiness, and I’m not just talking about the fact that you deliver flowers. I mean that when you enter a room, people light up with happiness because you’re there.”
I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle of sunlit honey. “Really?” I asked, my voice small and soft.
He squeezed my hand and nodded. “Absolutely. I always look forward to seeing you at the end of the day because I know that no matter how awful humanity has proven to be, you will make that all disappear. Being with you is like untangling a knot.”
I was stunned into silence by his confession. “Wow,” I breathed, sniffing back tears and biting my lower lip to keep the idiot grin off my face. “So, I guess you like me a little?”
He laughed and put his hand back on the steering wheel. “Yeah, a little.”
While we were having a late lunch at Angler’s Inn—a lobster roll with fries and coleslaw for Sawyer and a bowl of clam chowder for me—Sawyer got a phone call that he excused himself to take. He left the restaurant and went outside, standing at the curb and leaning against the hood of his truck. I watched him as I ate, and he seemed to get irritated at whatever the other person was saying. At one point, I could even hear him yelling through the thick, double-pane glass window I sat beside though I couldn’t make out any words. He was definitely angry when he returned, his motions telegraphing his mood as he chewed his lobster roll like he had a grudge against it.
“Is everything okay?” I asked carefully, not wanting him to turn his ire against me.
“Yeah, but I need to take you back to Dawn Cove as soon as we’re done. I have to get back to work. Might not see you for a couple of days. I’m gonna be busy.”
“Is it about Rob’s case?”
He nodded but remained silent as he finished his lunch. I didn’t want to push the subject so I ate in silence, too. We finished much more quickly than I wanted, and after dropping off the final arrangement in Stockton Springs, we headed back to Dawn Cove. Sawyer left me at my doorstep with a soft kiss and a promise to call.
Over the next few days, I tried to trace the anonymous sender of the threatening bouquets. I had only an email address and credit card information from Durham-Sylvanus AgriCorp, the faceless shell company headquartered in Anguilla. Repeated emails and phone calls both to the email company and the bank in the Caribbean went unanswered, and I was stymied. It was my only real lead and I could do nothing with it.
Deciding to take advantage of my conversation with Ellie Newburgh, I called Doug at his office. After we exchanged greetings, I jumped right in. “Doug, I was talking with Ellie a few days back, and she mentioned having some books still in your library that might interest me. Would it be alright with you if I took a trip out to Beechwood to look through them?”
“What books?” He sounded wary and suspicious.
“Oh, just some gardening books. I’m thinking about joining a CSA with a flower farm out in Sedgwick, and I’d like to know more about what they’re growing and whether it’s worth an investment.”
“A CSA? What’s that?”
“It’s community-supported agriculture. Cropsharing, you know? I’d subscribe to weekly deliveries use his flowers in my shop, and in return, he invests the money from my subscription back into his farm. But I’d like to know more about what he’s growing first.”
“Huh,” he said. The suspicion in his voice had been replaced with interest and thoughtfulness. “But why do you need Ellie’s books? I mean, wouldn’t the farmer be a better place for information? And besides, I’m not sure I have any of her things. I’m sure I threw most of it away.”
“Oh. Well, if you don’t have them, then that’s that, I guess.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” he said, sounding anything but.
“It’s no problem. It was a long shot. Thanks, though. I’ll talk to you again soon, I’m sure.” I hung up before he could say anything else. The door on snooping through the library at Beechwood to see if Doug still had any of Ellie’s books on floriography had just slammed shut in my face. There was nothing else I could do to help Sawyer with his investigation. Everything I’d tried had led only to a dead end. How did Sawyer and his deputies handle this? I was so frustrated that I wanted to scream.
I didn’t see Sawyer again until Saturday night, when we went to a production of Noises Off, starring my mother as Dotty Otley, a role famously brought to the screen by Carol Burnett. It was a hilarious production and my mother got a standing ovation at the end. After the play, we met up with Hazel, Mike, and my mum and dad and headed across the street to Aubergine for a late-night chocolate fondue and a round of Irish coffees. A handful of people stopped by to congratulate Hazel and Mike on the baby while we ate, thus proving that gossip flew through the village at the speed of light.
The next day, after church in the morning and brunch with my parents in Brooklin at the Moon Café—my father adored their Belgian waffles, something we couldn’t get in Dawn Cove—I returned home to find a beautiful floral arrangement sitting on my front porch. I picked through the orange Asiatic lilies, red tulips, orange butterfly weed, and yellow marigolds with filler of baby’s breath and myrtle, but couldn’t find a card from the sender. There was, however, a business card from a florist in Belfast, a small town directly across Penobscot Bay from Dawn Cove.
I set the arrangement down on my kitchen island and frowned in thought. Were the flowers from Sawyer? I smiled and reached for my phone to text him.
Did you send me flowers?
His response came in almost immediately. No. Should I? I figured you’d be sick of them since you have to work with them every day.
No, I love getting flowers. Someone sent me an arrangement. I just wondered if it was you.
I was starting to get a weird feeling. If Sawyer hadn’t sent them, then who did? And why send them anonymously?
It wasn’t. Are they at least pretty?
Yeah, they are.
I took my phone upstairs to my computer and sat down to Google floriography. All my books were at the shop, so I’d have to rely on the internet. A few moments later, I had my answer and with it, a spike of fear had lodged firmly in my lower spine.
I called Sawyer and when he picked up, I said, “It’s a threat. The flowers are a threat.”
There was a pause and then Sawyer said, “What?”
“The flowers. It’s a message: Anger, hatred, revenge, pain. Grief. It’s a warning.”
There was another longer pause before he said, “That floriography thing again? Who sent them? Where did they come from?”
“There’s no card, so I have no idea who sent them, but they’re from a florist in Belfast.”
“Give me the contact information. When were they delivered?” His voice was muffled for a moment as he called out to someone with him.
“This morning. I went to church and then to brunch with my parents, and they were waiting for me when I came home.” I read the florist’s name and phone number off the card and listened while Sawyer conveyed it to whoever was with him.
“I’m going to find out who sent those flowers. Stay inside and make sure all your doors and windows are locked. Don't answer the door unless it’s your family or Joss, okay?”
“Yes, okay.” I paused and said in a tiny voice, “Sawyer, I’m scared.” I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and gasped, whipping around to confront my attacker, which turned out to be a bird landing on the bare branches of the tree in my backyard.
“What was that?” Sawyer sounded concerned.
“Just a bird outside,” I said, standing up. My heart was racing now, and the bitter, metallic taste of adrenaline flooded my mouth. I leaned forward to make sure the window was locked and drew the curtain across it, shutting out the bright winter sunlight. Even though it was on the second floor, I couldn’t be sure someone wouldn’t climb up the side of the house and break in.
