Roses Have Thorns, page 3
My father chuckled softly and said, his Scottish burr lending a bit of a growl to his words, “Och, Clem. The lass’s got ye dead to rights. Go and take yer lumps.”
My mother swatted my father’s arm, eliciting a belly laugh from him, but followed me into the kitchen. I paused in the doorway and fixed Hazel with the same look. “You too, Haze.”
Hazel glared at my father and then Mike, daring them to say something, but both men wisely remained silent. She joined our mother and me in the kitchen a moment later. I closed the door between the rooms, shutting out the sound of male laughter, and fixed them both with a glare. “Why is Sawyer here?” I asked.
“Well, we did really run into each other at the college,” my mother said, turning away from me and taking a serving platter out of the cabinet. “And we got to talking a little. He seemed lonely, rattling around that big house all by himself, so I invited him over tonight. I knew Mike and Brad would be here, so maybe he could reconnect with them, too.”
I shook my head a little and set the canvas shopping bag on the counter before pulling out the wine and cider. “I can’t believe you didn’t warn me,” I said, handing the wine to my sister. “A little heads’ up that my ex-boyfriend would be at dinner tonight would have been awesome, Haze.”
“Junie, that’s not fair,” Hazel said, taking the bottle and prying the cork out with a magnetic corkscrew she took off the fridge door. “I didn’t even know he’d be here until he showed up.” She cut a look at my mother. “No one warned me, either.”
“Girls, the boy is lonely,” Mom said, taking a tray covered in what looked like egg rolls out of the oven. “His parents are gone, his sister lives in Boston, and his wife—”
“Ex-wife,” I corrected.
“Right. His ex-wife. Well, who knows what happened to her after the divorce.”
“Last I heard, she was in Milan doing a Prada show,” Hazel said, taking down three wine glasses. “Do you think he’ll want wine?” She held a fourth glass out to me.
I took it with a shrug. “Depends on whether he’s on duty tonight or not.”
“He’s not,” Mom supplied, arranging the egg rolls on the platter before handing it to me. “Take these and the wine glasses out to the boys. The pad Thai will be done in a moment.”
With a last scowl, I headed back into the dining room, setting the platter down in the center of the table before asking about wine. My dad and Steve both wanted some, but Brad, Mike, and Sawyer opted for the cider. Mom and Hazel had herbal tea. Hazel filled glasses and Mom brought out the finished dish of stir-fried rice noodles, chicken thighs, vegetables, and a spicy-savory sauce made with soy sauce, fish sauce, rice vinegar, Sriracha, and creamy peanut butter.
Joss and Noah arrived just as we were sitting down, and my mother immediately nabbed the baby, settling him on her knee and paying more attention to him than to her meal. Joss sat down next to Brad, kissed his cheek, and fell on her plate like a starving hyena.
Since the only remaining open seat was right next to Sawyer—a situation no doubt orchestrated by my mother—I slid into it and perched on the edge as I picked at my food. I’d been hungry when I’d walked in, but the surprise of seeing Sawyer combined with the awkwardness of sitting right next to him had dulled my appetite some. I listened to the conversations around me—my dad and Steve were talking about something that had happened at tonight’s council meeting; Brad and Mike were talking about a turkey hunting trip they were scheduled to take soon; and Hazel, Joss, and my mom were discussing Noah. I could feel Sawyer’s eyes on me occasionally and finally took a deep breath, set down my chopsticks, and turned to face him.
“So,” I said, casting around with desperation to find a topic that wasn’t the weather or sports. “Heard any good village gossip lately?” That was safe, and Sawyer would probably have a wealth of knowledge about the goings-on in Dawn Cove, considering he was with the Wabanaki County Sheriff’s department.
He shrugged a little and gave me that sideways smirk again. “A deputy got called out to the Cove to escort a certain insurance agent home a couple nights ago. He was approximately four sheets to the wind and could neither drive nor stagger home safely. Apparently he’s having marital problems.”
My brows rose in surprise. There was a lot to unpack in that bit of information. The only insurance agent I knew in Dawn Cove was Ernie Deschamps, who was married to the owner of Tout Sweet. I hadn’t heard anything about marital problems, and Fred had been her usual friendly self whenever I’d stopped in to the bakery, which was practically every day. “Really?” I said, turning my body a bit more to face Sawyer. “What kind of problems? Also, what do you mean, ‘a deputy?’ Aren’t you a deputy?”
Sawyer shrugged and deftly picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering me. “I got a promotion. I’m part of the Criminal Investigations unit now.”
“Oh. That’s wonderful. That’s like a detective, right?”
“Yeah. Exactly like a detective.” He fished in the back pocket of his jeans and showed me his badge wallet. Sure enough, his ID said “Detective Sawyer Livingston.” I smiled and squeezed his biceps.
“That’s fantastic,” I said, truly proud of him.
“Yeah. I’m in the violent crimes division. Murders and stuff.”
“Murders and stuff. Sounds...exciting.”
“So far, it’s pretty boring. I’ve been with them for almost a year now and have only been called out to a scene once.”
“Well, that’s good. You cover the entire county?”
“Yes. One murder a year’s a good thing, even if it means I spend a lot of time reading old cases.” We paused our conversation to eat more before Sawyer picked up the previous thread again.
“Anyway. Ernie’s having money issues, from what Ian says. Ernie’s run up a huge tab and Fred won’t pay it. Says he’s doing the drinking, he should do the paying.” Ian Shaughnessy was the Cove Tavern’s owner and primary bartender. He’d definitely be in a position to know what was motivating Ernie’s drinking.
I made an interested sound as I chewed a bite of noodles and bean sprouts. “The bakery seems to be doing well,” I said after swallowing. “And it seems like insurance would be a good, safe way of making money.” I glanced across the table at Brad. After he graduated from Harvard, he’d been a hedge fund manager who was always at risk of losing not only his job but millions of dollars as well. Before she agreed to get married, Joss had insisted Brad find something more stable. He’d been reluctant to at first, but now I thought he was happy he’d changed jobs. He wouldn’t have Joss or Noah otherwise.
“He’s been spending almost every weekend in Oxford for the past couple of months,” Sawyer said before taking a sip of cider.
“At the casino?” Sawyer nodded, and I whistled softly.
“Poker’s his game.” Sawyer drained his glass of cider and wiped his mouth with one my mom’s linen napkins.
I snorted and shook my head. “Not if he’s losing. Poor Fred. Ernie’d better get a grip. She’ll kill him if she loses the bakery.”
“So will everyone else. Where else are we supposed to get coffee at five in the morning?”
Things slowly became less awkward between Sawyer and I as dinner progressed, and I relaxed, helped along by the wonderful food and the delicious cider. By the time dessert rolled around—Hazel had brought a mango custard pie and some apple cider donuts from Tout Sweet for the less adventurous palates—Sawyer and I had tentatively agreed to meet for lunch at some vague, future date. I wasn’t sure I was ready to date again; I’d been involved with a dog trainer about a year after returning to Maine, but the relationship hadn’t lasted. It was probably too soon after Joe’s death. And Sawyer had only been divorced for a year. Maybe it was too soon for him as well.
The party broke up after we finished dessert. Steve headed out at eight-thirty. He was the village’s only doctor and was on-call every night for after-hours emergencies. Mike and Hazel were the next to leave. Mike had to be at the harbor at dawn the next morning, and Hazel complained of not sleeping well the night before. I thought she looked a bit rough around the edges and hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. Joss, Noah, and Brad left shortly after that, and my dad headed off to his study to grade papers, leaving Sawyer and I to help Mom clean up. As a reward, she gave us Tupperware filled with pad Thai, as well as a quarter of the pie and three donuts each.
Since it was dark and cold and I was wearing just my sweater, Sawyer offered to drive me home. After piling into the new black truck at the curb, we drove the two blocks to my house in silence. He walked me to my front door, and for a moment, I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me good night, but we ended up in an awkward hug instead.
“Hey,” I said, my hand sliding down his arm to grab his wrist, trapping him on my front porch. “Something really weird happened this afternoon.”
“Oh?” He turned his hand and grasped mine, our fingers twining together.
I stared down at our conjoined hands for a moment and bit my inner cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. The spark from high school was still there. “I delivered flowers from Doug Abbot to my dad, Steve, Brad, and Julian,” I said once I’d regained my equilibrium. “Well, at least Brad thought they were from Doug. The arrangements were anonymous.”
“From Doug Abbot? Why?”
“No one knew. Julian was kind of cagey about it when I asked, and Brad just said something about some business deal. It was weird.”
“Huh. Well, I hope they know better than to get involved with him. He’s bad news.”
“I think he also had bouquets delivered to them two weeks ago. And get this—I think the bouquets are messages.”
Sawyer stared at me as though I’d just sprouted another head and said in a careful, level voice, “The flowers are messages?”
“Yes. You ever head of floriography?” He shook his head, taking a single step back from me and crossing his arms over his chest. He was either cold—not likely since he was wearing a down-filled coat—or he was trying to put distance between himself and a crazy person. I barely managed to squash the urge to stamp my foot in frustration before saying, “It’s the language of flowers. Like how yellow roses mean you’re jealous of someone, or how daises mean innocence, or pink carnations mean motherly love. The Victorians used to send each other secret messages in flowers.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding slowly and drawing out the word. I could see he clearly didn’t believe me. “And what message do the bouquets contain?”
“Well, the first ones were positive, like he—Doug, I mean, or whoever sent them—was excited about something. Anticipating it, you know. But the ones today were less happy. Something about ingratitude, disappointments, and regrets.” I studied his handsome face and sighed. “You don’t believe me.”
“That someone is sending messages in flowers? No, I believe that. You can’t be the only person who knows this flower language. What I don’t believe is that Doug Abbot is sending messages in flowers. I’m not sure he’s behind the bouquets. I mean, what guy sends other guys flowers? Plus, you know, I’m not certain he’s smart enough to even know this flower language exists.”
I smirked at his comment then took a deep breath and sighed again. “You’re probably right. It is pretty unusual for men to send other men flowers. I mean, Nate and Greg send each other flowers all the time, but then, they’re married.” Nathan Miller was the village’s postman and Greg Simmons taught at the Adams School. An icy gust of wind blew through the trees, knocking more leaves off, and I shivered in the cold.
Sawyer gave me a small, empathetic smile and dug his phone out of his back pocket. “Yeah. Listen, I’m exhausted and you’re freezing. Give me your cell phone number.” He held out his phone and I took it from him. We exchanged numbers and made vague promises of meeting up again soon. Once we had our phones back, he said, “Good night, Juniper. It was really nice to see you again.”
“Yeah. You, too,” I said, turning to watch him walk back to his truck. When he’d driven off towards the enormous house he’d inherited when his parents had died in a boating accident several years ago, I went inside and greeted the dogs, who were more interested in the Tupperware than they were in me being home.
There was a message from Rob Baker, owner of Awen Kennels, on my machine. Rob was a champion corgi breeder and had given me Cornbread after I moved back home. He promised that she would help me heal, and he’d been absolutely right. The message said that he had a new litter of puppies that were four weeks old, and if I wanted to come see them, I was welcome to any time. I called him back and left my own message saying that I’d come see the puppies soon. Then I headed off to bed, climbing under the flannel sheets and down comforter, Dundee laying at my feet and Cornbread curled up against my stomach.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sunday evening, after church and another family dinner, I headed over to Rob and Teresa Baker’s house to visit the puppies. When I arrived, however, the house was dark and the dogs were quiet. It was only about eight o’clock, but maybe the Bakers had gone to bed early. With a litter of active corgi babies, I was pretty certain the humans must be exhausted helping Mama Dog care for them.
As I turned and headed home, I noticed a silver Ford pickup parked at the curb opposite the house. It started up suddenly, causing me to gasp and startle a little, and I turned to watch it drive away. There was a New York Yankees sticker in the back window of the cab. I chuckled to myself and shook my head. The truck’s owner must be brave to have a Yankees sticker so prominently displayed in a state that was thoroughly in the Boston Red Sox camp. I looked at the truck again and saw that it had Maine plates. Yep. Definitely brave.
The next Monday, Sara was in New York to deliver the $15,000 ring, leaving me solo in the shop until she returned. So I left the dogs at home and walked into work alone. There was a new FTD order, and as I waited for it to print out, I wondered if I could get Hazel to send one of her girls over to keep an eye on the shop while I made my delivery.
The bouquet was for Denys and Cheryl Barre’s teenage daughter from a boy in Bar Harbor—white roses mixed with red carnations, which meant sweet, innocent love. It was the perfect arrangement for a sixteen-year-old girl. The boy was using the flowers to ask her to go to his school’s winter formal, and he wanted them delivered to her at school. It gave me a warm, happy feeling. It was such a romantic gesture, especially for a teenage boy, and I was pretty certain that Emily was going to say yes. I would. Most women would, I thought.
After making the bouquet, I called Hazel’s Salon to see if I could borrow someone for a bit. Hazel was alone in her shop too, so I turned the open sign to closed, locked the front door, and carried the bouquet out to the shop’s van. I drove over to the village commons, where the school was located. It was tiny; there were only three classrooms in the building—one for kindergarten through fifth grade, one that held sixth through eighth grades, and the other for ninth through twelfth—plus an office for administrators, a small library, and a large lunch room that doubled as a gymnasium and auditorium. It was packed with little kids noshing on what looked like chicken tacos when I walked past.
The door to the high school classroom was closed, and when I peeked through the glass panel in it, I could see Greg Simmons reading from an open book. It sounded a bit like A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown/An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds/Is, as in mockery, set.”
I knocked on the door and stepped inside when Greg waved me in, holding up the bouquet of roses and carnations. “Delivery,” I said, scanning the small class of just nine students.
“Oh, my,” Greg said. “Someone’s got an admirer. Who are they for?”
“Emily Barre,” I said, glancing at the printed order sheet. “From Ethan Daniels.”
The girls in the classroom—all four of them—swooned, while the boys rolled their eyes and laughed. Emily stood up and shyly took the flowers from me. I gave her a huge smile and nodded to Greg before slipping out and closing the door behind me. The kids’ voices followed me down the hall, a mixture of envy and excitement. Sawyer had done something similar when we’d been in high school. He’d sent me a bouquet of violets for my sixteenth birthday. I wondered if Sawyer had known that violets meant that the sender would always be true to the receiver.
Since I was alone and there had been only two customers in the shop and just one delivery all day, I decided to go out to Awen Kennels to see the new puppies instead of going back to the shop. As I drove the short distance to the kennels, which were located at the corner of Battle Avenue and State Street, at the foot of Windmill Hill, I planned ahead to that night. I pictured sitting on my couch with a fire in the hearth, swaddled in a comfy blanket, the dogs snoozing alongside while I sipped from a mug of hot soup and read the newest edition of Them Monthly.
I could hear dogs barking after parking the van in Rob’s driveway and climbing out, so I went around to the rear of the property, where the kennel and offices were located in a detached building across a tidy lawn from the house. The door to the kennel’s office was ajar a bit so I knocked as I pushed it open wider. “Rob? Teresa?” I called out. “It’s June. I’ve come to love on some puppies.”
I was met with loud yapping from Champion Awen’s Rhodri Mawr and Awen’s Ceridwen, the AKC registered sire and dam of Rob’s litters, overlaid with whimpering and whining from the puppies. I stepped farther into the room, peering into the darkness of the room, looking for Rob or maybe Teresa.
What I found, instead, was Rob’s body with a leather show ring lead wrapped around his throat.
CHAPTER SIX
I clapped my hand over my mouth, trying to stem the screams that threatened. I stood still for a moment, wondering if I should check to see if he had a pulse. The sight of his lifeless face kept me at arm’s length, however, and it took me three tries to drag my cell phone out of my back pocket and another four to dial Sawyer’s number. I had promised myself that I’d call him at some point. I just didn’t think it would be because I’d discovered a dead body.
