Page 3 of Dirty Little Secret, Baby
I breathe a sigh of relief, because that's exactly where it is. And all the other keys are on the ring too. Finally! An envelope is peeking out of the mailbox. This time, not a letter from the ARS Group, but one from the landlord. I get a bad feeling, but I put the envelope aside, hurry over to Veronica, jiggle the key, and see her relief as well.
"Let's go, now," she says, while I take the flower arrangement in my free hand and Veronica attaches the greeting card to it for me.
******
"Almost there," I murmur, looking nervously at the clock, then at the bouquet next to me on the empty passenger seat, and then back at the traffic. Veronica had wanted to come with me, but I told her she'd already done enough for me, and besides, she had to cover a night shift for a colleague who called in sick, so we just postponed my dinner invitation until tomorrow.
The traffic was better than expected, and I might actually make it just in time without having anything deducted from my payment. The neighborhood has changed by now. I can't be far, because on my right and left are stately mansions with huge front yards and heavy iron gates. Here and there, there are even gatehouses. I don't think I've ever been in this area before. Therent for one of those gatehouses probably costs more than what I'd get for selling my car.
In 1,000 feet, you will arrive at your destination, the voice of the navigation system chirps.
I glance in the mirror. My frizzy, curly hair is sticking out in all directions again.
Mop-head! Fat mop-head, I hear the voices of my old schoolmates in my head. I hate my hair for being so wild, as if it's some kind of stress sensor so everyone around me can see my mood as clearly as possible. I'd love to comb it again, as much as that's possible with curly hair. Veronica always says it looks cute and has often heard men say they like my hairstyle. I think she was just being nice.
Whatever. There's no time for combing anyway, and I'm not here to meet anyone. I'm just the delivery girl for a rich playboy's bouquet, who has some kind of penchant for nectar. I park on the street, double-check that I'm at the right address, get out, and marvel at the estate, whose iron gates are open and whose gatehouse is unoccupied. A taxi is coming toward me, but no one is inside except the driver. He probably just dropped someone off. Maybe the lady the bouquet is for? The front yard is decorated with garlands. A few expensive cars are parked in front of the entrance, which is almost 300 feet away: Bentley, Porsche, Jaguar. Those are just the brands I know. Music is booming from the house.
Apparently, there's a party going on, and maybe the gold leaf arrangement is a gift? But what's with the greeting card then?
Shaking my head, I walk on, glance at the clock, and tell myself that I'm not going to solve this mystery and that it shouldn't matter to me. I'm just here to get the $400 and then get out of here.
"Who are you?" I hear a harsh voice that makes me jump when I'm just two steps away from the grand staircase leading to the front door. I look to the side and spot a burly, grim-faced guy with a boxer's nose. The small name tag with "Security" on his lapel wasn't necessary. You could tell that from ten feet away, as long as he wasn't hiding somewhere in the bushes.
"Delivery," I say, holding out the flowers to him.
"Anyone could say that," he grunts, unimpressed.
"Here's the order from..." I look at the printout with the address, which I thankfully have handy. "Alex Rodgers," I read aloud. "This is the right place, isn't it?"
"Mr. Rodgers lives here. But no one said anything about an order or flowers," the security guard snaps, whose job it must be to be unfriendly and intimidating. Normally, that works on me, and I'd be the first to turn around and leave a club if a guy like that was standing in front of it. But in this case, I have a $400 bouquet and no intention of taking a loss.
"I'm just a simple flower girl and I'd like to get paid for the bouquet. Here's the order I received," I hold out the printout to him. "Would you please ask your boss? That's all I'm asking," I say, putting on the friendliest smile I can muster.
"Mhm," the security guard grunts, then pulls out a walkie-talkie without taking the paper from my hand. Apparently, he has no interest in checking the order. "Dilara. There's a delivery here for Mr. Rodgers. Flowers with glittery stuff on them."
"That's gold leaf," I murmur, but he gives me a curt hand gesture to let me know he doesn't want to hear it. There's a crackle over the line. Then a voice comes through, apparently female. Maybe the recipient of the bouquet? Why is he radioing her and not this Mr. Rodgers?
"Send her away," I hear from the other end of the walkie-talkie.
"Please, I can't just..."
"You heard her," the security guard interrupts me.
"Please ask again. Please," I plead with him.
"The woman is pretty persistent. Maybe Mr. Rodgers did order the flowers?" he asks, and his expression softens a little. Maybe he just saw more of my hair frizzing up? Could this stress sensor actually be a good thing for once?
There's no answer. The security guard shrugs. I almost feel sorry for him, because he's probably just following his orders. Then the door opens. A blonde woman in a tight-fitting dress with a very low-cut neckline appears. I don't know who she is, but one thing is clear: it's not Mr. Rodgers.
I glance at the clock and see that the delivery is already a minute overdue. Ten dollars less. And the decisive moment is when Mr. Rodgers or someone else digitally signs for the delivery on the app on my phone.
"Is this another one of those jokes?" the woman asks, crossing her arms over her chest and sounding at least as grumpy as the security guard was before.
"What jokes?" I ask, not knowing what she's getting at. But I don't really care about the answer. What is definitely not a joke is that money is slipping through my fingers with every passing minute. "Listen, these flowers were ordered online. I just want to drop them off and get the amount I'm owed for them..."
"I'm Mr. Rodgers' personal assistant, and I would know if he ordered flowers," she snaps, cutting me off. "There is no way I'm accepting this delivery for him."
"Listen," I say with a sigh. "I don't know what's going on here. But every minute I'm late with the delivery, the company cuts my fee, I'm just..."
