Feliz Naughty Dog - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,27
it’s kind of long, isn’t it? I mean, what could you do with all this? Tie someone up?” He laughed, but Agnes gulped.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Finnie said, suddenly preoccupied with other scarves.
“Irish or Scottish? I hear some lilting brogue in your voice.”
“Irish,” she said tightly.
“I’m Italian,” he replied. “Well, my ancestors are. It sounds like you’re the real deal.”
“I am,” she answered.
“What about this one?” He held up a fuchsia infinity scarf. “Too pink?”
“Too…” Finnie stepped back and looked up at him. “For your wife?” she asked, an edge in her voice.
“Oh God, I wish she was my wife. Maybe she will be someday.”
“If you make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
Agnes nearly choked.
But Aldo laughed heartily. “I see what you did there, since I’m Italian. Very funny, ma’am. The only thing I don’t want her to refuse is my gift.” He hung the scarf in its place. “Maybe perfume? Earrings? Too much? I really want to impress her.”
Who was this woman he wanted to impress? That child with a child of her own? He just didn’t strike her as a playboy. Irritation skittered up her spine as she remembered the young mother he’d been flirting with. And his voice on the phone when he’d said he found the one and got her number.
“Well, how well do you know her?” Finnie asked, engaging him in conversation for reasons Agnes would never understand.
“Not that well,” he admitted on a laugh. “I’m not even sure if a present is appropriate, but with the holidays, it seemed right.”
“Maybe just some simple flowers,” Finnie said.
Why was she giving him advice?
He laughed again. A rich, from-the-chest laugh that Agnes wished she didn’t like so much. “That might be a little, oh, I don’t know, unimaginative.”
“All women like flowers,” she said.
“But flowers are my business. I get them for free.”
“Well, then ye should know that women love flowers. Pick one that reminds you of her—a red rose or a white orchid—and tell her why that flower reminds you of her, and that will impress her more than a scarf.”
“Clever. What’s your name?”
Oh, now he was hitting on Finnie? Agnes inched her head to the side to see the exchange rather than just hear it.
“Finola.” She extended her hand.
“That’s a fine Irish name,” he said, smiling down at her as he shook her hand. “I’m Aldo. And it was nice chatting with you.”
“Aren’t you going to get the scarf for your lady friend?” she asked.
“I think I’ll take your advice and get her a flower. I want it to be special, because she is.” He gave a nod. “Merry Christmas, Finola.”
He walked away, leaving both of them behind. Agnes stepped out from her hiding place behind the handbags.
“What happened to turning him in?” she asked.
“I was just trying to get a read on the man,” Finnie said.
“And what did you read?”
Finnie looked in the direction he’d gone. “He does seem…I don’t know. Not like a mobster.”
“Oh, now he’s not a mobster. Now that he’s got some hussy on the line and the FBI down his throat. Now you like him?”
Finnie sighed. “I wouldn’t say I like him, but if I hadn’t heard him talking about the FBI and a corpse with my own ears…” She shook her head. “Come on, Agnes. We can’t lose sight of him.”
“So we can turn him in for the good of our community,” Agnes said glumly.
Finnie slipped her arm around Agnes’s. “So what did you think of him, seeing him up close and not dressed as Santa for the first time?”
“That he posted a real picture, because he is handsome. Tall. Warm.” She made a face. “Also buying a scarf for ‘the one’ who is young, beautiful, and has a kid, but he doesn’t care because he can’t be picky.”
Silently, they walked out of the store, pausing at the big entrance to the mall, not far from the massive tree and the hordes of people around Santa’s Workshop.
“Did we lose him?” Finnie asked, looking left and right. “Did he go up those stairs?”
“Let’s look.” They walked to the large, curved stairs and climbed them to the top, heading to the railing for a direct view down to the holiday heart of the mall. Silent for a moment, they scanned the people, trying to spot Aldo.
Then a loud shriek echoed over the sound of carolers, followed by a bark. A familiar bark.
“Is that Gala?” Agnes pushed farther over the railing to see down, her heart leaping as more shrieks floated up,