4
Judge
Ispend most of the day with Ezra Moore, a man I trust, who is now digging deeper into Theron’s finances. Ezra has worked with me multiple times over the years. He handles all sorts of personal business I need handled outside of IVI. I have frozen Theron’s accounts but was surprised at how little money he had left considering I just paid him a sizeable allowance when he moved into the South Cottage and swore to stay away from Mercedes.
At first, I’d assumed he’d withdrawn all he could when he ran but it doesn’t look like that’s the case. And now, as we dig deeper into the accounts he held when my grandfather was paying him, I’m wondering exactly what is going on.
Because a lot of money is gone. And the way he looked the night he hurt Mercedes wasn’t right. I’m beginning to suspect there’s something more complex and darker in my brother’s life than I thought.
My mother, of course, claims to know nothing. Claims he couldn’t have done what he did and that it must have been sexual play that got out of hand. Then she accused Mercedes of being to blame, using Theron to make me jealous, and claiming Theron was only confused as to what she wanted. I almost killed her then and there. Paolo was with me when I questioned her. If he hadn’t been I’m not sure what I would have done.
She’s been smart enough to keep to herself in her cottage in the weeks since and I’ll be monitoring her comings and goings because I know one thing for sure. She’ll cover for Theron. And it’s just a matter of time until he needs money and he’s in touch.
Late in the afternoon I make my way down to Royal Street where King George III flower shop is located.
King George III. I’m not sure how much more pretentious he can be. George Beaumont, or Georgie as Mercedes calls him, is the third George in his family but the play on the name for his shop irritates me.
I reel it in, though. I’m doing this for Mercedes. I need to give her this.
King George III is hard to miss. Its exterior is candy pink, the door standing open, about a thousand multi-colored roses serve as a canopy over the entrance of the trendy shop and even before I enter, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer amount of color and sweet scent pouring out of the place.
From inside, a man laughs, and it grates on my nerves. I’m sure that’s Georgie.
I try not to scowl as two customers walk out, a middle-aged woman and her daughter I’d guess. They’re holding a bouquet and from the bits and pieces of conversation I hear, he’s providing the flowers at the younger woman’s wedding.
Once they’re gone, I enter the shop, which is not big but so overfull it would be too much anywhere else. The way Georgie has it laid out, though, I admit, it’s well done if a little much. Like a vomiting of color all around and above me with the drying flowers hanging upside down in various shades. When I reach the front of the shop, I find Georgie himself standing behind the counter studying me.
“Welcome to King George III,” he says with not quite the warmth he showed the two women who just left.
“Thank you,” I say, studying him, too. He looks different in person than he does in his photos. I guess I’d made up a personality based on his text exchanges with Mercedes but he’s more serious here. Or maybe he’s just more serious now that I’m in the shop and he senses something.
“Can I help you?”
“I’d like some flowers.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re in the right place,” he says and checks his watch. “But I am closing early this afternoon so if you can let me know the occasion or if you have something special in mind, I can help you.”
I hadn’t thought about this.
“A budget, perhaps?” he asks when I don’t answer right away. His eyes move over my bespoke suit.
That’s when I glance at the framed photo on the counter. On top is a handwritten note asking, ‘have you seen me?’ with an arrow pointing down to Mercedes’s smiling face.
I peer closer. It’s a smile I haven’t seen. Not that I’ve seen her smile much. Maybe she does more of that in her other life. I feel that thought like a physical thing. A tightening of my chest. She’s standing between Georgie and her friend, Solana. They must be at some kind of party from their dress and Mercedes, for as gorgeous as she looks, is definitely more than a little tipsy. The three of them have their arms around each other and Solana is bent double laughing as Georgie kisses Mercedes’s cheek, he, too, laughing too hard at something.
“All proceeds from purchases this week will go toward finding her,” he says somberly. He picks up the framed photo and dusts something off it, then sets it down and looks at me. “Our friend in the middle is missing. Haven’t seen or heard from her in two months.”
“Is it possible she doesn’t want to be seen or heard from?”
“No, it’s not.” He looks at her photo when he continues. “I think someone hurt our beautiful, sweet girl.”
His words repeat in my head. Someone hurt our beautiful, sweet girl.
“It’s the only explanation,” he continues. “And every time we try to put up an ad or file a missing person’s report, poof, it disappears. Like fucking voodoo.”
I clear my throat.
“Someone powerful doesn’t want her found. That’s what I think. But we’re holding a candlelight vigil this weekend. And every news channel will stream it live. Then let’s see the bastards try to stop us.”
“A candlelight vigil?”
“You should come.” He looks me over again. “Although I’m not sure you’re the type.”
“What type is that?”
“Never mind. Tell me the occasion and I’ll make you a gorgeous bouquet.”
“What kind of flowers does she like?”
“Who?”
“Mercedes.”
He pauses and I realize my mistake. His gaze sharpens on me. He’s trying to think back if he said her name.
“Roses. In every color but red.”
“Hm. Then I’ll take them.”