Page 25 of Dying to Meet You
“I don’t know,” I manage.
“Some friend who’s worried about you,” my father suggests. “Aren’t we all these days.”
He could be right. It’s just that peonies are my favorite, and not many people know that.
Tim did. A couple of weeks ago, we’d walked past a florist on Congress Street, and I’d pointed at the pink peonies in the window. “See those? I used to paint still lifes of peonies. I love how round they are.”
“You paint?” he asked.
“I dabbled.”
“Were you any good?”
“Not even a little,” I told him, just to watch him grin. “So now I stick to drawing floor plans.”
A week later, he surprised me with a bouquet of peonies. Much like the ones my father found on the front porch.
Fighting the irrational suspicion that the flowers were sent to me by a ghost, I put them on the coffee table and avoid looking directly at them all day.
***
Monday arrives, as it has no other choice. But I’m still a wreck. When I approach the mansion on foot, I find two police cars, a lot of yellow police tape, two different news vans, and about a dozen gawkers standing on the sidewalk.
It’s a circus. The very worst kind.
My eyes dart fearfully toward the parking lot and the place where Tim died. The spot has been cordoned off, but otherwise there’s no obvious clue as to what happened there. The rain has washed away the blood, but I know I’ll still see it when I close my eyes.
Trembling, I duck past the police tape and walk up to the porch. A uniformed officer with an acne problem stands guard outside the carved door. “Hi. I’m Rowan Gallagher,” I tell him. “I work here.”
He opens the door, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles. “Riley! You got a customer.”
The detective appears in the doorway. “Come in, Rowan. Let’s walk through together. I just need you to tell me if anything is missing from your office.”
“Why? Was the lock broken?”
She purses her lips. “There’s no evidence of forced entry. And the contractors I’ve spoken to haven’t reported anything missing. But Tim’s electronics were stolen from his car. We’re trying to make sure that’s all that was taken.”
“Okay. Sure.” I trail her as she struts through the atrium like she owns the place. I’m getting the feeling she spent a lot of time here this weekend.
She leads me toward the library. “Theydidtell me that the house is haunted.”
“And did you find that helpful?”
“Not particularly.” She moves aside when we reach the door to the library, allowing me to enter first.
Inside, I give the room a wary scan. It’s exactly as we left it. The walnut bookshelves are mostly bare, except for our collection of fabric samples, plus some lighting catalogs and paint decks I’d brought from home. “Everything looks fine. Let me just check the inner office.”
When I do, it also looks untouched. There aren’t even any new mouse droppings on my desk. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s been in here.”
“Glad to hear it. You’re clear to come and go as usual now. But before I leave, can you just look over this list of contractors your colleague gave us on Friday? Can you think of any other person or outfit who worked here in the past month?”
I take the list, which is in Beatrice’s handwriting. It’s thorough, because Beatrice is not a slacker. The general contractor, HVAC guys, the electricians, the art conservators, the interior designer... It’s a lot. “This looks comprehensive.”
“Good.” She takes the list back. “Thank you for your time. We’ll be leaving now, but I’ll still need to keep the parking area cordoned off until my boss gives me the word.”
“Okay,” I say numbly.
Then she leaves me alone in the mansion, just a few yards from where my ex-boyfriend died.
