The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [101]
“Simon, you’re going to be careful, right? You’re not going to . . . well, do or say anything that’s going to cause him to, well, to do anything to you, are you?”
“Not if I can help it. The object is to narrow down the list of possible players on the bad guys’ side, not on our side.”
“We being the good guys.”
“Absolutely we are the good guys.”
“Well, you be careful. You know what they say about good guys finishing last.”
“Not this time, sweetheart,” Simon tried to cheer her with his best Bogie. “Not this time . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Polly glanced up as the little bell over the door announced a customer. A small figure in a sunny yellow raincoat stood just inside the shop, shaking water from an umbrella, which was left by the door.
“Hi!” Polly called from the counter where she’d been wiring dried hydrangea to a wreath. “Can I help you with something?”
“Are you Ms. McDermott?” the woman said from the door.
“No, I’m not. Is there something I could help you with?”
“I was looking for Dina McDermott.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t here right now.”
“I was hoping to discuss a garden renovation with her. I’ve heard she’s quite talented.” The potential customer smiled warmly.
“She’s the best.” Polly smiled back.
“So they tell me. My husband and I are looking at an old farm that’s for sale a few miles from here, and I was wondering if the garden was worth restoring or if we should just scrap it and start over.” Another smile. “I thought perhaps we should get an idea of what something like that might cost. The renovations on the house alone are going to be major, so we thought maybe we should look at the whole picture.”
“Get an idea of what the whole project might cost.” Polly nodded. “A smart thing to do.”
“So I was hoping to maybe get together with her as soon as possible. Is she expected soon?”
“I’m not sure.” Polly debated. This was the third inquiry about a potentially promising landscaping job since she’d spoken with Dina two days ago. Whatever was keeping her, Polly thought, it must be really important.
“Look, why not leave your name and phone number, and I’ll make sure she gets the message.”
“That would be fine. The last name is Dillon. Here, I’ll write down the number for you. . . .”
Polly waited until the customer had left the shop before grabbing the phone and dialing Dina’s cell phone but was forced to leave voice mail.
“Hi, Dina, sorry to disturb whatever it is that you’re doing—hope it’s something good, by the way, something involving a gorgeous man and lots of sunshine, but I promised myself I wouldn’t pry. Anyway, I just thought you should know that we’ve had three customers asking about landscaping. One McMansion—a neighbor of the Pattersons whose property you did last fall—and two other potential garden jobs. The one garden is a Mrs. Fields—she and her husband just bought that house with the red siding on the left as you go out of town. And the other is a customer who stopped by to see about getting an estimate for a renovation on an old farm a few miles from here, forgot to ask which one. Anyway, she and her husband are trying to decide whether or not to make an offer on this property and wanted your input on what it would take to bring the grounds back. Their last name is Dillon. I’ll give you the numbers. . . .”
At Wild Springs, the three women had fallen into a guarded routine, the company sometimes more uneasy than at others. Betsy may have been in a wheelchair, but she was anything but sedentary. The hours not spent in the riding barn—where, with the aid of another instructor, Betsy gave lessons three afternoons each week as well as Saturday mornings—there was tennis. Or ambling along the fields and woods around Wild Springs. And for Dina, there was the garden.
Dina had spent several hours during the first two days at Wild Springs inspecting the beds, absently pulling a weed here or there, mentally dividing this clump of overgrown daylilies or that clump of iris— acts that were, for Dina, as natural as breathing. Dina had told Betsy that dividing overgrown perennials