My Only Vice. Elizabeth BevarlyЧитать онлайн книгу.
did I tell you?”
Rosie smiled back. “No, you didn’t,” she said, genuinely delighted to hear the news. “Congratulations. That’s great. How long have you two been together?”
“Since high school,” Shannon told her, sounding almost bashful now. She held up the fabric pouch Rosie had just handed her. “Maybe you can give me a lifetime supply of this for my wedding present, huh?”
Rosie shook her head. “Not a chance. You won’t need that once you’re married.”
Shannon expelled a dubious sound. “Are you kidding? That’s when I’ll need it the most.”
Rosie shook her head again. “I’m sure it’s just the pressures of college that are making Devin…you know.”
Shannon made a wistful sound now. “I hope you’re right,” she said. She fiddled with the pouch again. “I guess it would be pretty bad to have to rely on this stuff for the rest of our lives, wouldn’t it?”
“You won’t need it,” Rosie assured her. “You guys will be fine.”
Shannon eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “As long as you’re here for now,” she said, “supplying us with what we need. Thanks, Rosie.” And with that, she spun on her heel and left the store.
Kids, Rosie thought, ignoring the fact that there was barely a decade between her and Shannon’s age. Some people grew up a lot faster than others. And Rosie should know. She hadn’t been a kid since… Well. She hadn’t even been a kid when she was a kid.
Before more thoughts of the past could put her into a less-than-cheerful mood, she pushed them to the very back of her brain, where she relegated all the things that threatened to stain the picture-perfect life she was trying to paint for herself in Northaven. She’d struggled through a lot to get where she was, dammit. She was a survivor in the strictest sense of the word. She’d worked hard to achieve a fragile kind of satisfaction—with her life and herself—that she wouldn’t mess with for anything. And she was still working hard, still trying to move forward. Even if Kabloom wasn’t a booming success, she was still turning a profit at the end of every month.
Okay, so maybe she hadn’t shown the best judgment, opening a florist and organic gardening shop in a town that catered to young, carefree students who didn’t give a second—or even first—thought to such things. But there were only a handful of florists in the entire county—and none in Northaven proper—so when someone did need flowers, they called Kabloom to order them.
Besides, her aphrodisiac business had begun to flourish over the past six months, even though she hadn’t gone out of her way to advertise it. And that was a direct result of living in a college town. Rosie hadn’t consciously considered the benefits of that, but the college atmosphere here did foster a culture of more tolerance—and even enthusiasm—about her products. She was grateful to the campus crowd for taking such an interest. Word of mouth alone had been phenomenal.
It had even traveled beyond campus. She had clients now who were scions of the community. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or even the mayor of Northaven, since she was one of Rosie’s biggest customers.
Rosie sighed as she looked around her shop. Her empty shop. Her empty shop that was empty most of the time—save those busy lunchtimes when so many Northaven students came in to pick up their special orders. Rosie hadn’t even had to hire another employee, since she kept only daytime hours. Save a handful of feminine holidays like Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, any traffic she saw in the shop was sporadic. When she’d come to Northaven two years ago after everything went to hell in Boulder, she’d had hopes for building her business a little faster, but at this rate… Well, thank goodness people here died on a regular basis, so at least she had the funeral orders.
And that, more than anything, told Rosie she couldn’t afford to skimp on the aphrodisiac side of the business. Because, call her crazy, being grateful for the death of one’s neighbors did not seem like a sound business plan. In fact, it seemed kinda ooky.
Her gaze strayed to the back of the shop and fell on the cabinet from which she had just pulled Shannon’s special order. Maybe, if she was very, very careful, she could expand a little bit on her aphrodisiacs. Start looking into other preparations that might have the same effect as the teas she blended for her customers. Incense, maybe. Massage oils. Candies. As long as Rosie stayed behind the scenes herself and never became a public persona, she shouldn’t have any problems. That had been what caused the trouble in Boulder. Putting a public face onto her work.
Yeah, maybe she should start focusing a little more of her professional efforts where they would turn the greatest profit, even if that profitable area wasn’t exactly—to some people’s way of thinking anyway—conventional. There had been a time in the nation’s history, after all, when a respectable woman couldn’t even buy a cocktail legally. These days, you’d be hard pressed to find a social gathering where someone wasn’t drinking. A few years from now, what Rosie was selling from that cabinet might very well be the centerpiece at every party. Why shouldn’t she be the front-runner as a supplier?
Hey, who was there in Northaven to say she couldn’t?
SAM CURBED HIS IMPULSE to flee as he folded himself into the chair before Ed Dinwiddie’s desk at the Northaven College Campus Security Office. Although the college could have been the poster child for New England Liberal Arts schools right down to its pillared entrances and ivy-encrusted brick walls, the decor of campus security was nowhere close to the quaintness of the Northaven police station. In fact, Ed’s office had a lot in common with Sam’s Boston precinct, and somehow Sam got the feeling it was because Ed wanted it that way to make himself feel more like a real, live cop.
His desk was a scarred, ugly gray metal thing, his chair a beat-up number upholstered with cheap soiled fabric and wheels that cried out in pain when Ed settled his ample frame into it. The only decorations on the grayish-white walls were framed awards of dubious origin with Ed’s name emblazoned on them, and a handful of eight-by-tens of Ed shaking hands with people, most of whom Sam recognized as members of the Northaven Chamber of Commerce. It was all Ed, all the time, and it was more than a little creepy.
“Vicky tells me you have a suspect in the campus narcotics traffic,” Sam said to open the conversation, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He didn’t bother to point out that there was no actual proof of any campus narcotics traffic. Ed would have just taken ten minutes to insist otherwise.
“I do,” Ed told him. “Rosie Bliss.”
Wow. Sam hadn’t thought it could sound any more ridiculous a second time, but coming from Ed’s mouth, the suggestion that Rosie was peddling dope sounded even sillier than when Vicky had said it. And Vicky had been laughing hysterically at the time.
“Rosie Bliss,” Sam echoed, swallowing the hysterical laughter he felt threatening himself.
“Yep,” Ed said with complete confidence, running a hand over his graying crew cut.
Sam inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. Only when he was certain he could continue with a straight face did he do so. “And what leads you to this conclusion, Ed?”
“Well, it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” the other man countered. “The drug traffic on campus started not long after she moved here. She owns a flower shop, for God’s sake, so she must know all about plants and how to grow them illicitly. Kids go into her shop on a regular basis but rarely come out with flowers or plants. At least none that I can see.”
Sam eyed the other man levelly, not much liking what he was hearing. “Are you telling me you’ve been staking out Rosie’s shop?”
“Not at all,” Ed assured him in a way that was in no way reassuring. “I eat lunch in the square when the weather’s nice, and I’ve just happened to notice that lunch hour is often a pretty busy time for Kabloom. Only the kids that go in there don’t seem to be coming out with anything.”
“Maybe they’re ordering