Page 9 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I frowned. “Would you like me to try to find the contact details for the Rankins? I have them around somewhere.”

But I was talking to thin air. The caller had hung up.

I stood there, stunned, looking incredulously at the telephone receiver.

Talk about rude!

With my curiosity swirling, I dialled 1471 to see if I could retrieve the number of the man who’d just called me. No luck. The message, “The caller withheld their number” echoed in my right ear.

I replaced the receiver on its cradle and studied the phone. What on earth was that about? I gave the silent phone another frown. It was all very odd.

* * *

I forgot all about the call by Friday morning as I wrestled with updating the Flower Power website. I listed some new arrivals, boasted about our current discounts on offer and hoped to encourage people to think about their poinsettias, Christmas wreaths, and festive centrepiece decorations by advising customers that they could begin submitting their orders from the start of next week. I uploaded some new images of my latest handiwork to reiterate the point.

I also posted an advert for autumnal door wreaths. They were actually the leftover Halloween ones consisting of orange, tangerine and amber flowers, interwoven with black ribbon and studded with tiny bat and cat silhouettes. I’d decided to recycle them by removing the black ribbon, bats and cats and reinvigorating them with some berries and cones. I asked Amber to take a few pictures of them and upload them to social media sites. Waste not, want not!

Then I gave Amber some revision questions ahead of a theory test on her course. We went over everything, from the preferred size and shape of vase for an arrangement to how to trim stems in three varying heights like football stadium tiers to create more volume.

We also discussed what was currently trending – tropical flowers in a geometric vase without a lot of greenery; mounded arrangements of just one type of flower; and woody branches with fruit or berries – when the shop doorbell tinkled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure entering huddled in an ankle-length, dove-grey coat with a flash of red scarf at the neck. It took me a moment to realise it was Ezra’s chauffeur, Jackson.

“Good morning,” I said, closing the lid of my laptop.

Jackson’s features were open and friendly as his eyes shifted from left to right, checking out who was around.

Amber afforded Jackson a brief, disinterested glance, before turning her attention to a young couple who were admiring the potted heather.

Jackson strode over and dropped his voice. “Ezra’s out back. Would it be too much to ask for you to let him in through the fire door please?”

“Of course.”

I hurried to the back of the shop and clanged open the heavy door. Blimey. This was unexpected. Why was Ezra back again so soon?

Ezra stood facing me with a cheerful smile plastered across his face. He swiped off his hat and jammed it into his coat pocket.

“Good morning, Bailey. How are you? Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but I’ve got to be careful.”

I smiled. “I’m well, thank you, Ezra. How are you?”

“I’m quite chipper.”

Jackson emerged, told Ezra he would wait in the car, and then slipped out of the fire door as Ezra made his way in.

I snuck a peek over the shop floor. Amber was striding around, all Cleopatra eye make-up and Doc Martin boots, as she guided the couple over to where we housed some hanging baskets.

“I don’t suppose you have a minute?” he whispered.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I made sure Ezra was safely ensconced in my office with the door closed. “Amber, can you keep an eye on things here for a few moments please?”

“Sure.”

I slipped into the office and closed the door behind me. Ezra was appreciating the potted orchid on my desk and the framed pictures of artistically photographed flowers on the walls.

He sat himself down. “I wanted to thank you again for the other day.” His wide mouth slid into a lopsided smile. “You were so kind and understanding.”

“You’re welcome. How are you feeling now?”