Slugfest

Thirty-eight

I made a cup of tea and curled up on Lucy’s sofa with the show directory, which I was sure held some answers. It was packed with ads for everything from Guy’s fake stone products to tours of Irish gardens to the banks and car companies that had sponsored the show.

In fact, the directory could mislead people into thinking the show was larger than it was. That was a testament to Kristi Reynolds, who relentlessly chased down advertisers. Knee-replacement surgeons? Maybe she was a marketing genius—gardeners frequently had knee problems.

It was no secret that Kristi wanted to give the Philadelphia Flower Show a run for its money. Allegra had said as much in a less flattering way in the ladies’ room. But Kristi would have to do better than just a glossy show directory. The Philly event had been around for close to two centuries and was the premier flower show in the country—maybe in the world—with landscape displays, floral designs, exhibits from national plant societies, and individual entries from people all over the East Coast.

The Big Apple had dipped its toes in, but Kristi’s greatest strength was public relations, and that’s what had kept the show afloat for the two years since she’d taken over from the previous director.

I scanned the ads and four-color images, then went back to the dog-eared page. Counting both sides, there were six entries. Six vendors or exhibitors: Bagua Designs; Bambi-no, Inc.; BioSafe Products; Brooklyn Beach Garden; Buzz Word Honeys and Soaps; and Byron Davis High School. One of them was the place Garland Bleimeister was desperate to go last Wednesday. Maybe the last place he’d ever gone—under his own steam. But as Guy Anzalone had said, their brief descriptions were just the beginning, one or two lines that said what they were selling or why they were here, but probably wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know. I’d have to dig deeper if I wanted to get the real stories behind them.

The next morning, a note shoved under my door invited me to breakfast anytime between 6:45 and 9:30 A.M. I didn’t remember telling J. C. Kaufman that Lucy didn’t own a coffeepot or saucepan, but maybe she’d figured it out when she and the cats had been in the nearly empty apartment when the cops had been there. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa and had dragged myself into bed a few hours earlier, so coffee—especially made by someone else—sounded good.

The red dress was draped over a slipper chair. In the movies, the dress, the shoes, and the underwear would leave a trail, like breadcrumbs, to the bedroom, where a handsome stranger would still be sleeping under warm, rumpled sheets. Would that this were the movies.

I showered, dressed, and patted myself down with the old salesman’s mantra “spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch,” a Willy Loman–like routine to make sure you had everything you needed for your day’s sales calls. An old salesman had taught it to me on one of my first business trips and, like a song you can’t get out of your head, I remembered it every time I traveled for work.

In my case, it was backpack, phone, keys, and show badge. I shoved the badge in the back pocket of my jeans and felt it catch on something. Instantly I remembered what it was. I fished out the plastic badge holder and the slip of paper it had gotten caught on:

I know what you’ve done. I’ve found the laboratory you used and I’ll tell everyone unless you take care of me. G.

It was Garland’s note. The show directory was still on the sofa, where I’d fallen asleep on top of it. I retrieved it, refolded the note, and slipped it into the directory next to the dog-eared page. Then I headed downstairs to J. C.’s.

She must have been listening for me, because the door opened even before I knocked. A warm, biscuity aroma met me at the door.

The pet poison list I’d left for J. C. had made me a friend for life. And the best friends were the ones who could cook. Moochie curled himself around my ankles.

I climbed onto a stool at the wheeled cart that defined J. C. Kaufman’s kitchen and sniffed the air as she poured me a large mug of coffee. “Those scones smell heavenly.”

“Sleep okay?” she asked. I had a feeling she already knew the answer, since her hearing bordered on supernatural and I’d gotten in late. She probably also heard me stumbling around at three A.M. when I finally made it into the bedroom.

“Not really. Strange doings at the flower show and some crazy dreams,” I said. “Beekeepers, giant calzones, and frankfurters doing Radio City Music Hall numbers in my head.”

“Drugs?”

“Please. I don’t even take DayQuil.” I told her about the blackout, Nikki’s accident, and the news of Garland Bleimeister’s death. Then I pulled out the show directory and Garland’s note.

“Does this have anything to do with the linebacker I saw you talking to last night?” So she had heard and seen my conversation outside with Guy Anzalone. She tilted her head as an apology. “Bedroom window faces the terrace and Moochie likes to climb in and out, so I leave it open. I didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“You were watching my back?” She seemed pleased that I’d remembered her catchphrase.

“Some days I’m glad I’m not young anymore,” she said. “Have you called the police?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had much time. You know I’ve called the cops twice in four nights. They’re going to think I’m either a cop groupie or a hysteric.” I broke open the still-warm scone and watched the steam escape. I brought J. C. up to speed.

“Now that I’ve found his note, I’ll definitely call today. But I’ll do it from the convention center. No point in waiting around here. I’ve still got work to do.”

“This boy … Garland. He was the one who left his bag with you?”

“Accidentally. But, yes, I did have it briefly. It’s gone now. Either he picked it up himself before he died or someone stole it. The sculptures were slightly out of place the other day.”

She gave me a long look over the top of her glasses.

“What?”

She tilted her head toward the front door. What was she thinking that I hadn’t gotten around to? Was our adventure in Lucy’s building the other night more than a run-in with some overzealous menu deliverymen?

“You think someone was here looking for the bag?”

“Nothing was taken. I’m just saying—watch your back.”

“Lucy doesn’t have anything worth stealing, unless the thief is a shoe freak. If there was anything valuable in the bag, wouldn’t the kid have been more careful with it? But maybe someone else wanted the bag because they’re afraid of what might be in it.”

J. C. and I exchanged numbers. She made me promise to call the police as soon as I got to the Wagner Center and said she’d stay on the lookout for any strangers in the building. I pitied the poor delivery person who didn’t identify himself to her satisfaction. I wrapped a scone for the road and placed it in the outside pocket of my backpack so it wouldn’t get crushed. As I did I felt the rumble of my cell and pulled it out of my bag. The caller’s number was unfamiliar.

It was a woman. “Is this Paula Holliday? I’m an exhibitor at the flower show. Can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about Garland Bleimeister.”

I couldn’t think of anywhere near Lucy’s for us to meet except Carmine’s and it was too early for pepperoni. The caller suggested a place called Jimbo’s Bagels a few blocks east. It was in the same general direction as the convention center, so I’d have to pass it anyway.

“Fifteen minutes.” I hung up and tried to make sense out of what I’d just heard. “That was someone named Cindy Gustafson.”

“Why is she calling you?”

“I guess I’ll find out.” I leafed through the show directory. Cindy was one of the six vendors on the dog-eared page.

“Like I said—watch your back.”