Pushing Up Daisy

By Patti Larsen

Daisy Bruce never expected to see her ex-fiancée again. Especially when their reunion coincides with confronting the two people who contributed to her breaking up with Emile Reis in the first place. And when an unexpected death is thrown in the mix, she's forced to not only face her past but her choice to become a Fleming Investigations private detective in the first place. Can she solve the case before her heart betrays her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781998948048

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Pushing Up Daisy

Daisy Bruce Cozy Mysteries: One

Smashwords Edition

© Patti Larsen 2023

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com/

***

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

The tall blond beside me doesn’t have the right to smell as good as he does. I’ve almost forgotten just how delicious Emile Reis is in a white tux jacket, or how those blue eyes of his have this particular way of making my knees weak and my will melt until I’m willing to say yes to just about anything as long as he keeps smiling at me.

Am I blushing? I’m blushing. I’m so sorry. I know, I’m ahead of the story and you’ve only just jumped into the mess with me. I thought I was over him a long time ago, but apparently, I’m not done with my past just yet. Or it’s not done with me. Either way, my best friend, Fee, is going to be so mad at me when she finds out…

I really should share a bit of what happened to get me here so that you’re not lost. Because I’m lost, trust me, to the feelings I thought I had under control and the longing that I really can’t afford or even want to have right now, when my life is actually finally going the way that I want it to.

I suppose the best laid plans are always at the whim of whatever fate has in store. I just wish that fate would make up its mind, because I don’t know if my heart can take being broken so thoroughly for the second time by someone who I thought I could spend the rest of my life with.

Okay, deep breath, Daisy Bruce. Let’s try this again.

***

The top drawer of my new desk glides smoothly closed as I tuck away the file that I’ve spent the last few hours on, hitting a wall for now until I hear back from my source in the city planning department. Montpelier is like any small urban space with its variety of restaurants, bars, theaters and other entertainments, but that doesn’t mean my client deserved to have her new club rejected without due consideration. I have it on good authority from Dorothy, the secretary to the councilor in charge of permits, that there’s something shady behind the choice. She was more than happy to tell me all about it over coffee this morning. And when my favorite insider tells me something?

I listen carefully.

My boss (and best friend), Fiona Fleming, co-owner of Fleming Investigations and the most amazing private detective and new mother on the planet (don’t get me started on the twins! I miss those adorable girls already) makes it a habit to go right to the source when she’s investigating. I wish I had her gumption and guts. Then again, she says we all have our strengths and I think I’m finally learning to lean into mine.

I’ve always found it easy to connect with those others might call the little guy, the unseen and unheard, the employees of those who make the big decisions. Ever since I made friends with my father’s secretary when I was a little girl, admiring her deep red lipstick, the way she always knew what Daddy needed, how she radiated confidence and calm even when he lost his temper, I made it a habit to pay attention to those no one paid attention to.

I like to think it pays off.

My phone rings, the cheerful pop tune usually making me smile but only reminding me I’ve been putting off a particular conversation for weeks now. I don’t answer, smoothing the skirt of my favorite red dress in what I know is a nervous gesture, but I can’t help it. It’s not hard to note the raised eyebrow from the woman across from me, her own desk littered with enough papers, coffee cups and various take-out cartons I have no idea how she finds anything. It surprised me to find out former FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Michaud is a slob. Not that I judge her for it when it does nothing to interfere with her brilliance in the field. No, it’s the way she flashes me a grin as the call goes to message that has my anxiety increasing.

He’s not going to let you ignore him forever, she says. I adore Liz and her no-nonsense attitude, the way she carries herself with such professionalism and confidence. No less than the second woman at the desk at the far end of the room who watches with just as much amusement. We’ve adopted the same setup as the original office, no walls between us, something I know clients find uncomfortable but that I’ve adapted to and look forward to, honestly.

That’s what, three calls now? Jill Wagner’s days as sheriff of my hometown of Reading, Vermont, have left her with the kind of stoic good nature I adore about Fee’s dad, John Fleming. I have always suspected Jill emulates him as much as possible and now that she and Liz are running the Montpelier office, it’s even more apparent. She’s always favored ponytails for her thick, blonde hair and very little makeup—not that she needs it!—and has adopted what I privately think of as standard special agent attire in her fitted black suit. I hardly blame her for finding herself in the people around her. Haven’t I done the same? And besides, Fee’s not a great investigator by chance, is she?

A chip off the old block, my Fiona.

I sigh softly and set my phone down, hands going to my full skirt again. I twitch them to quiet in my lap as I reply. I know, I say to both women, smirking in tandem at me as I shuffle my feet under my desk, uncomfortable with the fact I still haven’t dealt with the insistence of our firm’s wealthiest client. I’m just trying to decide what to say.

Nelson’s not going to take no for an answer, Jill said. Nelson Delamonte, former football star and present wealthy entrepreneur, had done his best to make Fee’s husband, Crew Turner, his right-hand man. Failing that, he’d fallen back to me. I still don’t know why, but I do know it makes me uncomfortable. No, he’s never been inappropriate, heaven’s, no. I think it’s just that I’m loving this new freedom, living in the city, working with the girls. Moving to Miami to be Nelson’s right hand feels like a step back, as funny as that might sound. And while I know it’s a dream come true job for many, I like who I am and what I’m doing.

Now to convince Nelson that he doesn’t need me. Because surely there’s someone else more suited to the job than I am.

Let me screen your calls. I look up as our new office assistant, Beau, saunters over to my desk and perches himself there, his immaculate makeup making me sigh with jealousy. I really needed him to teach me how he got his liner so perfect. I knew if I asked, he’d take me shopping, too, because that A line skirt he’s wearing? Stunning on his lean frame, especially paired with the leather vest and short-sleeved turtleneck that lean him out even more and have me thinking model thoughts. I hand over my phone as he hums a soft, absent tune, red-painted lips pursed, long nails clicking on the screen, the flash of sparkly polish on the pointed tips flying as he forwards Nelson’s number before winking his fake lashes at me. I got you, sugar.

I shouldn’t let him deal with it, but I’m grateful regardless. I really do need to commit to what I want, but maybe I can stall long enough to come up with a good reason to say no without hurting Nelson’s feelings.

Silly, yes. The likes of Nelson Delamonte don’t get hurt feelings, not like I do. To him, this is just business, and he’s used to getting what he wants. I understand that. But for me? It’s more personal.

Oh, Daisy Bruce, grow a backbone already.

Speaking of backbones… you’re wondering what all of this has to do with where this began, aren’t you? Let’s finally get to that, then.

As I sit there pondering my lack of courage and judging myself for it, another challenge along the same lines appears in my life when I thought I’d never see him again. Yes, you already know who I mean. The door to the office opens and yet another chance to be brave and say no strides through.

All six-feet-four-inches of him. And I stare with shock and a private hit of hurt at the sight of the only man I’ve ever loved as he pauses on the threshold of Fleming Investigations, Montpelier, and meets my eyes with his own beautiful ice blue ones.

Daisy, Emile Reis says in that deep voice with his British accent hiding his royal Luxembourgian heritage crossing those full lips, white-blond hair swept back from his tanned forehead, wide shoulders broadened by the expensive cream wool of his long coat. I find myself standing to greet him, unable to speak, tongue locked and throat tight as he smiles that sexy, amazing smile that hurts as much as it sparks joy. Hello, my dear. I hope you don’t mind, but I need a favor.

As if we hadn’t been engaged once upon a time and parted in the most excruciating way, my choice, yes. But still heartbreaking.

Like it or not, I will always love him, even if marrying him is off the table. And that, then, is how I find myself on his arm, exiting a limousine onto a red carpet with cameras flashing and people calling his name for attention, on my way to attend the engagement party of one Sloan Hawthorne.

Care to join me?

***

Chapter Two

It’s achingly familiar to walk at his side, to feel the brush of the long, flowing gown around my ankles, my choice of red—my favorite color in the whole world—making me feel confident, even if maybe I shouldn’t be. Why not, you wonder? The man whose engagement party we’re attending spent the entire time I was with Emile doing everything he possibly could—with his sister’s help—to break us apart.

I won’t say he succeeded, because I refuse to give Sloan (or Scarlett, for that matter) that kind of power, but I will admit their continual backstabbing, cloaked hostility and cynical fake friendship contributed to my decision to walk away from the man I love. Yes, there were many factors involved, like Emile’s family and their lack of enthusiasm, but I digress.

So why, then, you wonder, did I agree to attend on my ex-fiancée’s arm? Maybe I have something to prove. Or perhaps when he asked, I didn’t have the heart to say no. I’m going to go with the latter, only because I hate to think I’m that petty to claim the first option.

I probably am, though. Don’t be mad, okay?

Regardless of my previous relationship, it feels good to be out with Emile. I even got to pull out one of the few gowns I kept from our time together, the designer dress showing off a bit more skin than I usually preferred, though the gossamer slit skirt and halter style totally suits me. A quick updo of my honey curls and Beau’s expert hand adding a bit extra to my usual routine and I was ready for the ball. Though my hand rises to touch, briefly, the ruby choker necklace Emile presented to me when he arrived to pick me up, matching earrings, diamond bracelet and massive ring all as familiar as he is, even if they still made me feel uncomfortable in their extravagance.

He looks down at me with that amazing smile of his, my heart fluttering like it always does when I’m with him, and I find myself beaming back. Maybe this is a good thing. Confronting my past this way might actually give me the closure I never got to have. I left him without confronting the Hawthornes or his family. He was the only one I had to face when I told him it was over between us. This opportunity to say goodbye to that life lifts my chin and gives me a sense of satisfaction that surprises me.

I shouldn’t be this happy to be going into the lion’s den, but I am.

We pass through the doors to the small boutique hotel where the event is being held, leaving the shouting photographers behind, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my arms and making me shiver. Emile reacts instantly, as he always does, tucking me closer with a show of concern.

Are you cold, my dear? His arm circles my waist, softly rubbing up my arm and I don’t fight the familiarity of the motion. I don’t encourage it, either, however, and he must see that in my face, my generic smile the best I can muster against the allure of who he is—was—to me. His arm drops away and he nods as though accepting that such closeness isn’t his right anymore without me having to say a word.

Is it wrong that almost brings tears to my eyes?

I’m fine, thank you. I inhale the sugar and flower-scented air, music from a small quartet inviting us to cross the stunning marble lobby with its sweeping staircase to the next floor. He guides me without another word up the thick, red carpeted steps, returning to the regal gentleman who nods and smiles sparingly at everyone we pass. I hear them whisper as we go by, especially the women. I know seeing me here with him, at this event of