She laughed at herself. A hotel? She didn’t make enough money to set herself up like that, not even in a rathole of a hotel. The afternoon shopping spree had almost maxed out her one credit card. “And this is just day one,” she said aloud, turning on the shower and stepping in.
Once the warm water began to sluice over her, she reached for Frank’s shampoo, leaving her own in the plastic bag, leaving the one she knew must be Irene’s on the tile shelf above her. She washed her hair with it, and as its scent rinsed across her face, the knot that had been tied so tightly somewhere in the middle of her chest loosened and the tears began to flow. She couldn’t remember ever crying so much in a single day, and she despised herself for it, even as she let long-denied grief take her where it would go.
So she let herself think of Phil and of what might have been. She fantasized, as she had so often, of Phil at the hospital on the night she gave birth to his son, holding Seth as an infant, how proud he would have been.
She thought of being held by him, of sharing warmth with him.
And as she had done so many, many times, she wondered if he had suffered before he died, if he had been scared, or cold, or lonely. If, from within the wreckage, the very marrow of his bones had tried to call out, asking to be found, only to be utterly abandoned.
“Stop it!” she said aloud, but the scolding only made her cry harder.
Irene had been sent into downtown L.A. on a story that the greenest reporter in the newsroom could have covered, on orders from Wrigley, her boss’s boss. She had watched while Judge Lewis Kerr was handed a plaque from the Southern California Women in Law, thanking him for organizing a series of Tomorrow’s Women in Law days in six counties. Tomorrow’s Women in Law days allowed girls to learn about the legal system by touring courtrooms, meeting with judges and attorneys, and generally being scared out of their wits by the inmates in the women’s jails.
Irene liked the program, and liked Kerr, but she was a veteran reporter, and the assignment had been a bit of petty office warfare. She had, not for the first time, considered finding other work. She loved her job, especially on the days when she was allowed to do it. Today wasn’t one of those days.
Although the press conference was over at two-thirty, Kerr had been flattered that the Express had sent her out on the story, had singled her out afterward, and had extracted a promise from her to attend the upcoming dedication ceremonies for a new wing of the Las Piernas County Courthouse. The fifteen minutes of sunshine he showered down on her ensured that she was going to be totally screwed trying to get back from L.A. through traffic.
The traffic was only beginning. Knowing she was never going to make it back in time to file the story, she called it in — on one of the newspaper’s cell phones. She had left her own phone at home when she heard that she would be covering this event. Wrigley would have to foot the bill for this one. She knew the cost of the call would irk the stingy bastard. Keeping that in mind, she described today’s event in minute detail. She had never loaded a story up with so many adjectives in her life.
As it turned out, she also paid for her moments of revenge — the battery on the cell phone went dead just before she reached the last bloated paragraph of the story, abruptly ending the call and denying her the chance to check her messages. Cussing out Wrigley for not investing in phones with a longer battery life, she inched her way home, smelling exhaust fumes, watching brake lights, and wondering if the paper in Modoc County was hiring.
At last, after spending nearly three hours covering a distance of about thirty miles, home was in sight. She pulled into the driveway, anxious to get out of the car. She hurried into the house, was snubbed by a preoccupied Cody, greeted the dogs, and went back into the bedroom to change.
She was surprised to hear the shower running; she hadn’t seen Frank’s car. But he might have parked in the garage or on the street. His clothes were in a pile and smelled heavily of smoke. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She was putting them in the bag for dry cleaning, wondering why her normally neat husband had just tossed them on the floor, then thought of the shower. Probably washing the smoke smell out of his hair. She imagined him in the shower, smiled, and quickly stripped. She was on her way out of the bedroom when she saw the blue kimono. She smiled again and put it on.
She stepped into the bathroom, heard a woman say, “Honey, are you awake now?”
Honey?
Through a haze of red, she pulled the shower door open and yanked the temperature control so that the water went to one hundred percent cold.
Seth woke up, hearing two women’s voices shouting words that would have put him on restriction for weeks.
32
Wednesday, July 12, 5:45 P.M.
Garrity’s Flowers
He parked in the alley behind the florist shop, checked his pocket to make sure he had the photos, and got out of the car. The two vans parked at the back of the store were older than the one he had seen. They were white Chevy vans, but they didn’t look like the one at the cemetery. Emblazoned in red and green on the side panels and the back door of each was Garrity’s Flowers and the florist’s phone number (2-4-BLOOM). One of the vans had something in common with the van he had seen — its plate number. Even before he walked around to the front end, he knew the other plate would be missing.
He walked through a narrow breezeway between buildings to get to the front of the shop. A bell rang as he stepped in, but apparently it wasn’t heard over Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, which was playing over a speaker. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy both the music and the earthy scents of potted plants, the sweet and spicy mix of fragrances of roses and other flowers, the bright colors of summer blooms.
There was no one at the front counter at the moment. A set of glass climate-controlled cases filled with orchids and other exotic-looking plants stood behind the counter, and through them he could see an elderly woman working in the back of the shop. He heard her humming to herself as she created an elaborate arrangement.
Frank didn’t rush her. An avid gardener, he was quickly distracted by the colorful displays around him. Florists could order from greenhouses, of course, and while his own roses and zinnias and dahlias were doing fine, he couldn’t match the variety here. He walked slowly past bins of tulips, lilies, irises, snapdragons, carnations, daisies, and chrysanthemums. He made his way toward another set of climate-controlled cases at the back — these were filled with roses. Wending his way to it, he studied their various shades and shapes, wondering if he should surprise Irene by bringing her a dozen of them, a token of thanks for accepting two houseguests without notice — and a peace offering. It would surprise her — he didn’t stop at florists very often; not only because there were plenty of flowers right outside their back door, but also because he preferred to see flowers growing.
The aisles of the shop were narrow, crowded with blossoms, indoor plants, boxes of chocolates, and a limited assortment of other gifts — ceramic mugs with “World’s Greatest Granddad” and similar phrases imprinted on them; stuffed animals, mostly overdressed bears; hand-painted T-shirts, seemingly designed with cat lovers in mind. He negotiated his way between a display of Mylar balloons and a large potted palm and was bending to take a closer look at a bromeliad when the bell on the door rang again.
A young man entered the shop. He was tall. Not quite as tall as Frank — six two, maybe. His build was solid and muscular — so muscular that Frank thought his neat blue suit must have been custom-tailored. He had close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a small tattoo on his thick neck just behind his right ear. A wasp.
He walked directly to the counter, apparently not noticing Frank’s presence. His posture was ramrod straight, his manner assured.