Blue Dahlia gt-1 Read online

  The foundation plantings desperately needed shaping, and what had been flower beds looked either overgrown or stone dead.

  She heard the buzz of chain saws and country music playing too loud as she walked around the side

  of the house. Ivy was growing madly here, crawling its way up the brick. Should be stripped off, she thought. That maple needs to come down, before it falls down, and that fence line's covered with brambles, overrun with honeysuckle.

  In the back, she spotted Logan, harnessed halfway up a dead oak. Wielding the chain saw, he speared through branches. It was cool, but the sun and the labor had a dew of sweat on his face, and a line of

  it darkening the back of his shirt.

  Okay, so he was sexy. Any well-built man doing manual labor looked sexy. Add some sort of dangerous tool to the mix, and the image went straight to the lust bars and played a primal tune.

  But sexy, she reminded herself, wasn't the point.

  His work and their working dynamics were the point. She stood well out of the way while he worked,

  and scanned the rest of the backyard.

  The space might have been lovely once, but now it was neglected, weedy, overgrown with trash trees

  and dying shrubs. A sagging garden shed tilted in the far corner of a fence smothered in vines.

  Nearly a quarter of an acre, she estimated as she watched a huge black man drag lopped branches

  toward a short, skinny white man working a splitter. Nearby a burly-looking mulcher waited its turn to chew up the rest.

  The beauty here wasn't lost, Stella decided. It was just buried.

  It needed vision to bring it to life again.

  Since the black man caught her eye, Stella wandered over to the ground crew.

  "Help you, Miss?"

  She extended her hand and a smile. "I'm Stella Rothchild, Ms. Harper's manager."

  " 'Meetcha. I'm Sam, this here is Dick."

  The little guy had the fresh, freckled face of a twelve-year-old, with a scraggly goatee that looked as if

  it might have grown there by mistake. "Heard about you." He sent an eyebrow-wiggling grin toward

  her coworker.

  "Really?" She kept her tone friendly, though her teeth came together tight in the smile. "I thought it

  would be helpful if I dropped by a couple of the jobs, looked at the work." She scanned the yard again, deliberately keeping her gaze below Logan's perch in the tree. "You've certainly got yours cut out for

  you with this."

  "Got a mess of clearing to do," Sam agreed. Covered with work gloves, his enormous hands settled on

  his hips. "Seen worse, though."

  "Is there a projection on man-hours?"

  "Projection." Dick sniggered and elbowed Sam.

  From his great height, Sam sent down a pitying look.

  "You want to know about the plans and, uh, projections," he said, "you need to talk to the boss. He's

  got all that worked up."

  "All right, then. Thanks. I'll let you get back to work."

  Walking away, Stella took the little camera out of her bag and began to take what she thought of as "before" pictures.

  * * *

  He knew she was there. Standing down there all pressed and tidy with her wild hair pulled back and shaded glasses hiding her big blue eyes.

  He'd wondered when she would come nag him on a job, as it appeared to him she was a woman born

  to nag. At least she had the sense not to interrupt.

  Then again, she seemed to be nothing but sense.

  Maybe she'd surprise him. He liked surprises, and he'd gotten one when he met her kids. He'd expected to see a couple of polite little robots. The sort that looked to their domineering mother before saying a word. Instead he'd found them normal, interesting, funny kids. Surely it took some imagination to

  manage two active boys.

  Maybe she was only a pain in the ass when it came to work.

  Well, he grinned a little as he cut through a branch. So was he.

  He let her wait while he finished. It took him another thirty minutes, during which he largely ignored her. Though he did see her take a camera—Jesus—then a notebook out of her purse.

  He also noticed she'd gone over to speak to his men and that Dick sent occasional glances in Stella's direction.

  Dick was a social moron, Logan thought, particularly when it came to women. But he was a tireless worker, and he would take on the filthiest job with a blissful and idiotic grin. Sam, who had more common sense in his big toe than Dick had in his entire skinny body, was, thank God, a tolerant and patient man.

  They went back to high school, and that was the sort of thing that set well with Logan. The continuity

  of it, and the fact that because they'd known each other around twenty years, they didn't have to gab

  all the damn time to make themselves understood.

  Explaining things half a dozen times just tried his patience. Which he had no problem admitting he had

  in short supply to begin with.

  Between the three of them, they did good work, often exceptional work. And with Sam's brawn and Dick's energy, he rarely had to take on any more laborers.

  Which suited him. He preferred small crews to large. It was more personal that way, at least from his point of view. And in Logan's point of view, every job he took was personal.

  It was his vision, his sweat, his blood that went into the land. And his name that stood for what he

  created with it.

  The Yankee could harp about forms and systemic bullshit all she wanted. The land didn't give a rat's

  ass about that. And neither did he.

  He called out a warning to his men, then topped the old, dead oak. When he shimmied down, he unhooked his harness and grabbed a bottle of water. He drank half of it down without taking a breath.

  "Mr...." No, friendly, Stella remembered. She boosted up her smile, and started over. "Nice job.

  I didn't realize you did the tree work yourself."

  "Depends. Nothing tricky to this one. Out for a drive?"

  "No, though I did enjoy looking at the neighborhood. It's beautiful." She looked around the yard,

  gestured to encompass it. "This must have been, too, once. What happened?"

  "Couple lived here fifty years. He died a while back. She couldn't handle the place on her own, and

  none of their kids still live close by. She got sick, place got rundown. She got sicker. Kids finally got

  her out and into a nursing home."

  "That's hard. It's sad."

  "Yeah, a lot of life is. They sold the place. New owners got a bargain and want the grounds done up. We're doing them up."

  "What've you got in mind?"

  He took another slug from the water bottle. She noticed the mulcher had stopped grinding, and after Logan sent a long, narrowed look over her shoulder, it got going again.

  "I've got a lot of things in mind."

  "Dealing with this job, specifically?"

  "Why?"

  "Because it'll help me do my job if I know more about yours. Obviously you're taking out the oak and

  I assume the maple out front."

  "Yeah. Okay, here's the deal. We clear everything out that can't or shouldn't be saved. New sod, new fencing. We knock down the old shed, replace it. New owners want lots of color. So we shape up the azaleas, put a weeping cherry out front, replacing the maple. Lilac over there, and a magnolia on that

  side. Plot of peonies on that side, rambling roses along the back fence. See they got that rough little hill toward the back there, on the right? Instead of leveling it, we'll plant it."

  He outlined the rest of it quickly, rolling out Latin terms and common names, taking long slugs from his water bottle, gesturing.

  He could see it, he always could—the finished land. The small details, the big ones, fit together into one attractive whole.

  Just as he could see the work that would go into each
and every step, as he could look forward to the process nearly as much as the finished job.

  He liked having his hands in the dirt. How else could you respect the landscape or the changes you

  made in it? And as he spoke he glanced down at her hands. Smirked a little at her tidy fingernails

  with their coat of glossy pink polish.

  Paper pusher, he thought. Probably didn't know crab-grass from sumac.

  Because he wanted to give her and her clipboard the full treatment and get her off his ass, he switched

  to the house and talked about the patio they intended to build and the plantings he'd use to accent it.

  When he figured he'd done more talking than he normally did in a week, he finished off the water. Shrugged. He didn't expect her to follow everything he'd said, but she couldn't complain that he hadn't cooperated.

  "It's wonderful. What about the bed running on the south side out front?"

  He frowned a little. "We'll rip out the ivy, then the clients want to try their hand at that themselves."

  "Even better. You've got more of an investment if you dig some yourself."

  Because he agreed, he said nothing and only jingled some change in his pocket.

  "Except I'd rather see winter creeper than yews around the shed. The variegated leaves would show

  off well, as would the less uniform shape."

  "Maybe."

  "Do you work from a landscape blueprint or out of your head?"

  "Depends."

  Should I pull all his teeth at once, or one at a time, she thought, but maintained the smile. "It's just that

  I'd like to see one of your designs, on paper, at some point. Which leads me to a thought I'd had."

  "Bet you got lots of them."

  "My boss told me to play nice," she said, coolly now. "How about you?"

  He moved his shoulder again. "Just saying."

  "My thought was, with some of the reorganizing and transferring I'm doing, I could cull out some office space for you at the center."

  He gave her the same look he'd sent his men over her shoulder. A lesser woman, Stella told herself, would wither under it. "I don't work in a frigging office."

  "I'm not suggesting that you spend all your time there, just that you'd have a place to deal with your paperwork, make your phone calls, keep your files."

  "That's what my truck's for."

  "Are you trying to be difficult?"

  "Nope. I can do it without any effort at all. How about you?"

  "You don't want the office, fine. Forget the office."

  "I already have."

  "Dandy. But I need an office. I need to know exactly what stock and equipment, what materials you'll need for this job." She "yanked out her notebook again. "One red maple, one magnolia. Which variety

  of magnolia?"

  "Southern. Grandiflora gloriosa."

  "Good choice for the location. One weeping cherry" she continued, and to his surprise and reluctant admiration, she ran down the entire plan he'd tossed out at her.

  Okay, Red, he thought. Maybe you know a thing or two about the horticulture end of things after all.

  "Yews or winter creeper?"

  He glanced back at the shed, tried both out in his head. Damn if he didn't think she was right, but he didn't see why he had to say so right off. "I'll let you know."

  "Do, and I'll want the exact number and specimen type of other stock as you take them."

  "I'd be able to find you ... in your office?"

  "Just find me." She turned around, started to march off.

  "Hey, Stella."

  When she glanced back, he grinned. "Always wanted to say that."

  Her eyes lit, and she snapped her head around again and kept going.

  "Okay, okay. Jesus. Just a little humor." He strode after her. "Don't go away mad."

  "Just go away?"

  "Yeah, but there's no point in us being pissed at each other. I don't mind being pissed as a rule."

  "I never would've guessed."

  "But there's no point, right at the moment." As if he'd just remembered he had them on, he tugged off

  his work gloves, stuck them finger-first in his back pocket. "I'm doing my job, you're doing yours. Roz thinks she needs you, and I set a lot of store by Roz."

  "So do I."

  "I get that. Let's try to stay out from under each other's skin, otherwise we're just going to give each

  other a rash."

  She inclined her head, lifted her eyebrows. "Is this you being agreeable?"

  "Pretty much, yeah. I'm being agreeable so we can both do what Roz pays us to do. And because your kid has a copy of Spider-Man Number 121. If you're mad, you won't let him show it to me."

  Now she tipped down her sunglasses, peered at him over the tops. "This isn't you being charming, is it?"

  "No, this is me being sincere. I really want to see that issue, firsthand. If I was being charming,

  I guarantee you'd be in a puddle at my feet. It's a terrible power I have over women, and I try to use

  it sparingly."

  "I just bet."

  But she was smiling as she got into her car.

  SIX

  Hayley Phillips was riding on fumes and a dying transmission. The radio still worked, thank God, and

  she had it cranked up with the Dixie Chicks blasting out. It kept her energy flowing.

  Everything she owned was jammed into the Pontiac Grandville, which was older than she was and a lot more temperamental. Not that she had much at this point. She'd sold everything that could be sold. No point in being sentimental. Money took you a lot more miles than sentiment.

  She wasn't destitute. What she'd banked would get her through the rough spots, and if there were more rough spots than she anticipated, she'd earn more. She wasn't aimless. She knew just where she was going. She just didn't know what would happen when she got there.

  But that was fine. If you knew everything, you'd never be surprised.

  Maybe she was tired, and maybe she'd pushed the rattling old car farther than it wanted to go that day. But if she and it could just hang on a few more miles, they'd get a break.

  She didn't expect to get tossed out on her ear. But, well, if she was, she'd just do what needed to be

  done next.

  She liked the look of the area, especially since she'd skirted around the tangle of highways that surrounded Memphis. On this north edge beyond the city, the land rolled a bit, and she'd seen snatches

  of the river and the steep bluffs that fell toward it. There were pretty houses— the neat spread of the suburbs that fanned out from the city limits, and now the bigger, richer ones. There were plenty of big

  old trees, and despite some walls of stone or brick, it felt friendly.

  She sure could use a friend.

  When she saw the sign for In the Garden, she slowed. She was afraid to stop, afraid the old Pontiac would just heave up and die if she did. But she slowed enough to get a look at the main buildings, the space in the security lights.

  Then she took a lot of slow breaths as she kept driving. Nearly there. She'd planned out what she would say, but she kept changing her mind. Every new approach gave her a dozen different scenes to play out

  in her head. It had passed the time, but it hadn't gelled for her.

  Maybe some could say that changing her mind was part of her problem. But she didn't think so. If you never changed your mind, what was the point of having one? It seemed to Hayley she'd known too many people who were stuck with one way of thinking, and how could that be using the brain God gave you?

  As she headed toward the drive, the car began to buck and sputter.

  "Come on, come on. Just a little more. If I'd been paying attention I'd've got you gas at the last place."

  Then it conked on her, half in, half out of the entrance between the brick pillars.

  She gave the wheel a testy little slap, but it was halfhearted. Nobody's fault but her own, after all. And maybe i
t was a good thing. Tougher to kick her out if her car was out of gas, and blocking the way.

  She opened her purse, took out a brush to tidy her hair. After considerable experimentation, she'd settled back on her own oak-bark brown. At least for now. She was glad she'd gotten it cut and styled before she'd headed out. She liked the longish sweep of side bangs and the careless look of the straight bob with its varying lengths.

  It made her look easy, breezy. Confident.

  She put on lipstick, powdered off the shine.

  "Okay. Let's get going."

  She climbed out, hooked her purse over her shoulder, then started the walk up the long drive. It took money—old or new—to plant a house so far from the road. The one she'd grown up in had been so close, people driving by could practically reach out and shake her hand.

  But she didn't mind that. It had been a nice house. A good house, and part of her had been sorry to sell

  it. But that little house outside Little Rock was the past. She was heading toward the future.

  Halfway up the drive, she stopped. Blinked. This wasn't just a house, she decided as her jaw dropped.

  It was a mansion. The sheer size of it was one thing—she'd seen big-ass houses before, but nothing like this. This was the most beautiful house she'd ever laid eyes on outside of a magazine. It was Tara and Manderley all in one. Graceful and female, and strong.

  Lights gleamed against windows, others flooded the lawn. As if it were welcoming her. Wouldn't that be nice?

  Even if it wasn't, even if they booted her out again, she'd had the chance to see it. That alone was worth the trip.

  She walked on, smelling the evening, the pine and woodsmoke.

  She crossed her fingers on the strap of her purse for luck and walked straight up to the ground-level doors.

  Lifting one of the brass knockers, she gave three firm raps.

  Inside, Stella came down the steps with Parker. It was her turn to walk him. She called out, "I'll get it."

  Parker was already barking as she opened the door.

  She saw a girl with straight, fashionably ragged brown hair, a sharply angled face dominated by huge

  eyes the color of a robin's egg. She smiled, showing a bit of an overbite, and bent down to pet Parker when he sniffed at her shoes.

  She said, "Hi."

  "Hi." Where the hell had she come from? Stella wondered. There was no car parked outside.