“The Prince of Bayberry Island! I haven’t heard this voice in a while.”
“Mickey, I need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“It involves a congressman, an alleged child abduction, the FBI, and a possible bribe of a public official.”
“Just my kind of party.”
“It’s the middle of festival week, and I’m stuck here. I’m asking you to be my feet on the ground in Maine, Boston, and DC for a couple days. Can you do it?”
“That’s why I gave you this number, Flynn. You’re in luck—I happen to be in between projects. Tell me what you need.”
* * *
Charlie signed for the delivery. There were so many fresh flowers, potted plants, and casseroles in the place by now that he could open his own combination restaurant/garden center.
“Thank you, son.” He checked out the white panel van parked just steps from the house. It had one of those large magnetic business signs slapped on its side. “Never got a delivery from you people before.”
“It’s a new shop.”
“All the way from Augusta, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was something fishy going on. The man standing at his door was stiff as a fence post and well into his thirties. He was dressed in jeans but was acting all business—barely cracked a smile. He was probably another damn FBI agent. In fact, Charlie figured there was a listening device shoved down into the Shasta daisies. He was sick of this whole business.
“Long drive to deliver some flowers.”
“I just go where they tell me, Mr. McGuinness.”
Charlie looked past the deliveryman and waved to the FBI agents at the end of the farm lane. Every night and every day, they sat there in the blue government-issued sedan, staring at him. God knows it had to be the most boring assignment in the history of their careers.
“Say hello to your buddies for me.”
“What buddies?” The man stiffened.
“Joe and Fred down there at the end of the lane.”
“They’re not my buddies, sir.”
Charlie laughed. “Whatever you say. Bye, now.” He tried to shut the door but a large leather shoe prevented it from closing.
“Be sure to read the card,” the man said.
Charlie glanced at the small white envelope stuck inside the arrangement. It was probably some kind of FBI trick, a fake note from Evie, begging for help. They hoped he would take them right to her. They must really think he was stupid.
He put his lips directly into the flowers. “I don’t know where they are, dammit!” He looked up to see the stiff man smiling.
“Jordi is under the apple tree, Mr. McGuinness.”
Charlie froze, staring at the man as if seeing him for the first time. Of course, no one would know that but the girls. His heart flipped with joy as he suddenly understood—these flowers weren’t another sign of support from loyal friends and neighbors or an FBI trap. This guy wasn’t acting like a floral deliveryman because he wasn’t one. He was a messenger. A man others counted on to slip under the radar.
Charlie couldn’t help it. Tears formed in his eyes. “Thank you, son.”
“Call us for all your floral needs.” The man handed Charlie a slip of plain paper with an 800 number and a name penned in ink: Flaherty.