“So. Back to me and my problem. How does someone know my real name, a name that I never use when I’m in the clubs. Do you think in addition to knowing my name, whoever it is also knows I’m a reporter and that I work for the Journal?
Abby was quiet for a bit.
“Was there anyone at Doyle’s last night that you see at other bars? ” Abby asked. “You and Hanah go out every weekend and most Wednesdays. Do you always use the phony name/job bit?”
Suddenly Abby banged her cup down and startled the hell out of me.
“By Jove, I’ve got it,” exclaimed Abby using her most awful British accent, “Maybe it was someone who works at the Journal. But neither you nor Hanah knew they were there.”
“You know, you could be right. It does make sense.” I took another swallow of my now very tepid coffee.
My head was starting to scream at me and I got up to get two aspirin. Just as Abby was putting a large piece of eclair on Stella’s plate, the front doorbell rang.
Abby was more appropriately dressed so she went to see who was disturbing our little Saturday morning brunch.
“I wonder who it is?” whispered Stella. Never one to miss any action, Stella had quickly returned to her spot on the kitchen table. Stella was a very friendly cat. Plus, there always seemed to be a tidbit or two for her from most of our friends.
“I don’t know. Why are we whispering?”
I could hear Abby talking and then she said “hang on” and soon appeared back in the kitchen. She looked surprised.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I need a dollar for a tip.” She opened up the cupboard over the sink and took down the old Apple cookie jar where we kept change and dollar bills. It made tipping delivery people a snap.
“For what?” I asked.
“For. A. Tip.” Abby said evenly and then went back to the front door.
I looked at Stella. “Well, that was rude.”
“You have a killer hangover. Everything will seem rude today.” she said knowingly.
I heard Abby say ‘thank you’ and then heard her shut the door.
She walked into the kitchen carrying a long, rectangular floral box. It was heavily wrapped in plastic to protect it from the freezing cold. The box said “Flora’s Fresh Flowers”. It was very narrow and appeared to contain a single flower.
“Who’s it for?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “There was no name on the delivery ticket. Only an address. This one.”
“Well, well,” said Stella. “The plot thickens.”