“I’m sure she did.” She knew Molly was not proud of her past, which included a string of one-night stands and lost weekends. They rarely talked about her great familiarity with the lesbian bar scene. It was a topic they avoided, just like her drinking. She wished that Molly could give up alcohol as easily as women.
“Hey, sorry. That was a cheap shot.”
“I take it you don’t like Molly.”
“No, she’s cool.”
Ari decided not to pursue the subject, and they said little else until they pulled into a small parking lot next to a Victorian house, which had been zoned for a business. It was blue with white trim. A low roof, wide eaves and ornamental brackets added to its unique character. A hanging wooden sign painted with a giant marigold and
Cavanaugh Flowers
swung slightly in the light fall breeze. Flowers grew everywhere around the porch, and Ari could see a greenhouse in the back.
When they entered, a bell tinkled above the door. A short, stout woman overdue for retirement stood behind the counter, bundling roses and wrapping them in cellophane. “May I help you?”
The woman’s broad smile conveyed true warmth, and Ari suddenly doubted this sweet little shop had anything to do with Jane’s orchid dilemma.
Biz nodded and set her hands on the edge of the counter. “Are you Mrs. Cavanaugh?”
“That’s me.” The woman grinned.
Biz returned the smile. “Well, I hope you can help me. I’m looking for someone who grows rare orchids. Do you?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh nodded proudly. “We do. We have an incredible greenhouse in the back. Are you looking for a specific kind?”
Biz pulled out a picture of the elephant orchid and the woman recognized it immediately. “Yup, we’ve got it. It’s very rare, but I’m proud to say we’ve been successful.”
“Have you sold any lately?”
She frowned and shook her head. “No, there’s not much call for these flowers for sale. They’re mainly show flowers, and that’s what we do with them.”
“So no one has come in asking to buy them?”
“No. We haven’t sold a single one in a long time.”
Biz looked around and glanced at Ari. “I see. What about phone calls? Has anyone made inquiries?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh thought for a moment and shook her head again. “Nope, not that I can recollect.”
Biz sighed and stuck her hands in her back pockets, as if realizing the shop was a dead end. “I don’t suppose you know anyone named Jane Frank?”
“Only Jane I know is my Aunt Jane, and she’s been dead for twenty years. Say, what’s with all the questions? Normally people just come in here to buy flowers, but I don’t think that’s your intention, is it, young lady?”
Biz smiled crookedly. “No, ma’am. I’m actually looking for a long-lost friend who grew orchids here in Phoenix.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh studied Biz, apparently assessing where the truth began and ended in the story. “Lots of people grow orchids.”
“But not this kind,” Biz said. “And that’s my only connection to this woman named Jane. I don’t have a lot else to go on.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh eyed her shrewdly. “I wish I could help you, young lady, but I don’t know a Jane, and we haven’t had any inquiries about our flowers.”
“Is this your family business?” Ari thought to ask. “I think I’ve noticed it here for a long time.”
“Twenty years,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. “It belongs to Mitch and me. Anything else I can help you with? Maybe interest you in some daisies?”
Ari and Biz shook their heads and waved good-bye.
Mrs. Cavanaugh watched them go, a slight smile on her face. She had learned long ago how to protect her customers and her employees. She only looked simple-minded. She had no idea what those women were after, but she always knew it was best to keep her cards close to her chest.
“Who was that?” a voice said from the back.
She turned toward the voice. She so enjoyed it when her “adopted” niece came by. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I just got here. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
She snorted. “You’re not interrupting. Hell, you would have done better to talk to them. After all, you’re the one who grows the orchids.”
The younger woman nodded in agreement. “So, what did you tell them?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh laughed. “Absolutely nothing, honey.”
By the time Biz and Ari battled the Monday afternoon traffic back into Central Phoenix, it was lunchtime. Before she could protest, Biz steered the Shelby into the parking lot of Oaxaca, gaining the approving stares of many patrons as they pulled into a parking spot. Ari had been here a few times with Molly, and a twinge of guilt gnawed at her, but she didn’t suggest they go elsewhere. They found a booth in the back and a waiter quickly took their order. When the menus disappeared, Biz turned to Ari.
“You know, my mother always told me it was rude to stare,” Ari said.
Biz’s lips cracked a smile, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not staring. I’m studying you.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels natural.”
The comment surprised Ari and she looked away, shaking her head. “How old are you again?”
Biz didn’t answer her question but chose to stretch her arms across the back of the booth. The gesture suggested extraordinary familiarity, and while her arm wasn’t draped over Ari’s shoulder, her hand was close enough to imply intimacy. “What other pieces of advice does your mother give you?”
Ari’s gaze fell to the table. “None anymore. My mother died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Biz said softly, taking her hand. “I can relate. My mother’s not dead, but she might as well be. She threw me out years ago.”
Ari offered a sympathetic smile. “That happened to me, too. My father.”
Biz’s eyes widened. “Jack Adams tossed out his own daughter? Wow.” She took a deep breath and gave her hand a squeeze. “I guess we have a lot in common.”
“It seems so.” Ari abruptly pulled her hand away from Biz’s grasp.
“Sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“Cops come here. Cops look out for each other. I don’t need one of them calling Molly and reporting that I was cheating.”
“But we’re just having lunch. Aren’t we?”
Ari nodded. “Yes.” She took a drink of water and guided the conversation into more mundane topics like Biz’s car and her penchant for wearing rock band T-shirts, which apparently were all purchased at concerts or on eBay.
“So how many concerts have you been to?”
Biz did a mental calculation and shrugged. “It’s hard to keep track. Probably three hundred. I really like the concert atmosphere. Do you go?”
“Not too often. I work a lot of nights, but I’ll go if it’s someone I really want to see.”
The waiter brought their taco salads and they abandoned the conversation for food. Ari felt Biz’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. It was both awkward and easy being with Biz, and she couldn’t understand how such conflicting emotions would overtake her—at lunch.
Once they finished, she said, “So what do you make of this orchid business?”
“I’m really not sure. I followed Isabel and Jane last night, but there was nothing unusual, except for Jane’s ability to bed a woman in less than two hours, if you count time for a meal. That’s really quite a talent.”
Ari laughed. “Jane does get to the point. An expensive dinner is foreplay to her, and she’s ready to go home by the time the check comes. I’m positive her stalker is someone she knows.”
Biz raised her eyebrow. “Stalker? So you’ve changed your mind about this person? Do you think Jane is in danger?”
She shrugged. “I really don’t know. If you’d asked me before last night, I would have said no, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Well, the good news is that the person’s behavior is still rather benign. There haven’t been any threatening notes or phone calls.”
Her mind reached back to Jane’s conversations with Izzie. “I think there was a hangup, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jane told me that the night before last Isabel called her six times to plan their date, but the sixth time was a hangup. What if that was a different person?”
Biz drummed her fingers on the table and stared out into the restaurant. “Jane did tell me that she’s had several hangups in the last few weeks. She didn’t think anything of it, because she gets so many phone calls in a day, that there’s usually at least one.”
Anxiety crept into her stomach and formed a knot. She was suddenly glad that Biz was working for Jane. When she looked up again, Biz was staring at her.
“A kid gave it to me,” Biz said.
“What?”
“You asked me yesterday how I got my name. It was a kid who first called me Biz. My nickname is the reason I went into investigation.”
“It sounds like there’s a story behind that.”
“There is.”
“I’d be interested to hear it.”
Biz looked at her, as if debating whether to share. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and tossed it on the table. “After my mother threw me out, I came West to a warmer climate. I went to St. Louis and lived with my aunt and her third husband—a real winner. I spent as much time as I could away from the house, and I got a job working at a women’s shelter. These were women who had escaped their abusive husbands and were looking for work, making connections with friends or families, just trying to change their lives. Some only lasted a few weeks before they gave up and went back to the violent situation, and others were terrific success stories. One night this woman named Valerie appeared with her two kids, Frannie and Joey. Frannie was four and Joey was about two. The husband was horrible, and he’d done some vicious things to all three of them—I won’t go into it. They were there for about a week, and I got to know the kids rather well. Frannie was amazing and very bright. We used to play checkers, and she loved trying to say my name. I mean, for a four-year-old,
Elizabeth
is a lot of syllables, but she got it.”
Ari smiled, but Biz’s face clouded and tears welled in her eyes.
“One day I came to work and they were gone. The director said Valerie had gone back to her husband. I just had this horrible feeling, and I thought I was going to be sick. I worried about them for the next two weeks, having nightmares, praying they were all right and that they weren’t going to be a statistic. I kept going to the shelter to volunteer, hoping they would come back.”
“Did they?”
Biz nodded. “Yeah. Like so many women in abusive cycles, when they’d gone back, he was okay at first—feeling sorry, trying to make it right. Then he turned mean again one night after he got drunk, but this time, Valerie fought back. She’d been around these other women at the shelter, and she was starting to stand up for herself.” She paused and took a deep breath.
Ari instinctively took Biz’s hand. “You don’t have to finish telling me this.”
Biz turned to her and smiled. “No, I want to. When Valerie yelled at him to stop, it got her a punch in the face—hard. Two of her teeth came out. The kids started screaming, and Frannie was yelling at the dad, jumping on him. He went into this rage, grabbed a knife and cut off part of her tongue.”
“Oh, God!”
“It was horrible. The dad had enough sense to call nine-one-one, and of course, when the paramedics came, they called the police and the dad was taken away to jail. The next day when they were released from the hospital, they came back to the shelter. When Frannie saw me, she smiled and then she tried to say my name, but all that came out was Biz. She couldn’t make all the sounds anymore. She was so upset that she couldn’t say my name, but I told her it was okay. I liked Biz better, and from then on, I made everyone call me that for her. That’s when I decided I wanted to help women. If Valerie had been able to show the courts how abusive that asshole was, she might have done things differently. But she felt she was alone. I don’t ever want to see another woman treated that way.”
Biz gazed into space and Ari said nothing. They paid the bill and Biz drove her back to her office, insisting that she visit the east-side florist alone. Ari acquiesced, certain that Biz needed some space. She went through the motions of the afternoon, meeting her prospective clients and wading into the massive paperwork that sat on her desk, but she was unable to let go of the lunch conversation. Biz had revealed herself, and she felt flattered to have been the recipient.
Monday, October 16th
2:06 PM
All of the expertise and forensic technology of the twenty-first century couldn’t reveal the mystery of Itchy’s numbers. The slip of paper had undergone many tests, but only the most basic information was determined. It was twenty-four-pound weight, the standard weight used for stationery, and it could be purchased in any store that sold fine writing paper. A technician dusted for fingerprints, but only Itchy’s were clear.
Molly and Andre spent the entire morning combing the downtown area print shops for possible leads, but no one recalled ever having an account with that slogan. They also learned the font was common and the color, powder blue, was a typical choice. Frustrated after speaking with eight different printing companies, they returned downtown after a quick spin through the Pugzie’s drive-thru for some hero sandwiches.