Broken Flowers
by: Roony
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. Wes Craven owns Red Eye. I am not Wes Craven. I am prettier than Wes Craven. It is that simple.
And yes, I know I stole the title from the Bill Murray flick. I don't care. it's a good title.
A/N: YES! I finally get to post a Red Eye fic! I am so psyched that Red Eye got its own section! w00t!
I guess this is meant to be a mystery fic. Fans of LisaxJackson may enjoy this when it's finished. This will be a maximum of five or six chapters long. This is meant to be a short story, but I don't want to post more than five pages or so per chapter. Reviews are welcome, positive or negative.
Part One-Delivery
They started in March.
It was the slow season; not that many people staying at the Lux Atlantic and they wouldn't be until about two more weeks when spring break rolled around, the busiest time all year. She'd let herself sleep in a little for that reason. Hell, she was the manager. She was allowed to do that now and then. It was almost laughable to believe that that spontaneous, 'who cares?' thought would ever cross the mind of the Lisa Reisert of two years ago.
When she did finally come in, only about a hundred or so people were housed that day. There had been no incidents, such as an argument over the 'no pets' policy or a reservation being lost, or even a suite blowing up. No, everything was very calm and easy.
She got home around seven, parking her red Honda Civic out on the street. She got up, walked up the stone path across the yard to her house-and almost would've stepped on something on her front door step if the porch light hadn't been on.
She paused and stared at it, like she'd never seen anything like it before: a bundle of pink carnations, wrapped in white tissue paper that was held fast with a green ribbon. Lisa smiled a little. She quietly hoped that they were from some secret admirer-but deep down she knew they were probably something her dad had left her. A 'just because' type thing. He did that a lot, and had been especially doting towards her since…
No, let's not think about that right now. It's been a good day.
She wasn't in denial about what had happened on flight 1019, not like she had been about…about the rape. The trial and media coverage had kept her from that. But so had the inner strength that had begun to blossom within her.
Without another thought, she gently picked up the bundle of carnations. She held them carefully upright as she unlocked the door and went in. She lifted them towards her nose. They smelled wonderful. Judging by the careful arranging to make sure all the flowers fit together, not a loose one in the whole bunch, and the wrapping, Lisa supposed that they'd been ordered from a florist shop or something. But to her disappointment, as she set her keys down and inspected the bunch, there was no card.
She sighed. Maybe it was Daddy. She'd have to call him up and thank him.
She set her purse down on the hall table and decided to hurry and put the flowers in a vase. She frowned at the thought. A vase… She had some flowers pots that were used up with some African violets, crocuses, and another with chrysanthemums. But she didn't remember right away where she'd put her vases. She did have them, she knew that much. The problem was location.
Suddenly, the mental light bulb went on. She hurried over into the next room on her left, the dining room. The walls had a mint green wallpapers printed with print flower blossoms. There was a long dining table in the center of the room with a white tablecloth on top. The room wasn't used often, as Lisa didn't have large groups of people over that much, not even family, especially since her parents' divorce, and now her entire mother's side living in Texas.
She set the flowers down on top of a wooden cabinet, which she knelt before. There were doors; Lisa tried the one in the middle and was rewarded. There were roughly fives vases: one inherited from Grandma Henrietta, two from Mom, one from Aunt Shelly(her mother's side), and she didn't remember where the last one had come from. At random, Lisa chose the blue ceramic one from Mom. Lisa stood up and set it on top of the cabinet next to the flowers.
She gently undid the loose knot of the green ribbon and unwrapped the tissue paper. She grabbed the flowers, trying to grasp the full bunch in one hand without snapping any of the stems. Then she placed them in the vase. They fit just fit and the pink really went well with the shade of blue.
Later, after she'd ran the vase under the faucet, filling it with a fair amount of water, and placing it on the counter where the flowers would get a fine share of sunlight, Lisa called her dad.
He answered in his gruff, Southern accented voice: "Hello?"
Despite her father's accent and her mother's Texan drawl, Lisa hadn't gotten any accent, growing up in Florida, the most un-Southern state south of the Mason-Dixon.
"Hey, Dad, it's me," she said gladly.
"Oh, hi, Lisa!" he greeted, matching her tone, "How's my sweetie doing?"
"Oh, just fine," she replied.
"So, just calling to chat?" he supposed.
Back at his house, only a few miles away, Joe Reisert was lounging on his favorite chair. On the table beside him was a bowl of pretzels and in his free hand was the remote. The TV was on mute. He loved her more than the sun, but Joe was silently grateful that his daughter had called during the commercial. It was the Dolphins against the Steelers.
"Well, yeah, but I also wanted to thank you," Lisa replied casually.
Joe's brow furrowed a little in confusion.
"For what, honey?"
Now Lisa's brow furrowed.
"For the flowers…" she explained, a little bit of uncertainty in her tone.
Joe now frowned and looked sideways at the phone, as though it were Lisa.
"Flowers?"
That tone in her father's voice told Lisa immediately that her father hadn't sent the flowers. Now the red flag came up. But she didn't want him to worry.
"Oh, uh, sorry," she said quickly, trying to sound cheerful again, "I didn't look at the card. It's from Paul."
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Lisa felt sickeningly guilty. She never lied to her father. But if he got too concerned about her, his heart might act up. Being in retirement without the responsibilities of a job, Dad had spent one too many days and nights sitting around watching TV and eating pretzels, Cheetos, and so on.
But nonetheless, her father's concerned voice came over, "Paul? Who's Paul?"
Oops. Lisa had just thrown out the name on a whim.
"Oh, um, he's from work…"
But she knew she'd made a mistake. Now her dad would-
"Are you seeing him?" he asked briskly, bluntly.
She sighed into the phone. "Dad, he's just a friend."
"Who sends flowers?"
Lisa wondered how she was going to get her self out of this one. She'd been terrorized by an assassin for a few hours and driven an SUV into his front door, but he acted a thousand more times concerned over some guy.
"Um, you know, I have to go Dad, I, uh, need to do some laundry."
Back at his house, Joe opened his mouth to protest, but then he saw that the game was back on.
"Well…all right," he said, defeated, quickly adding, "But we'll talk about this Paul later."
Lisa rolled her eyes. "Right, of course, Dad."
She heard his quick 'Bye' and said hers, then hung up.
Dad hadn't sent the flowers.
Who had?
And her immediate reaction was expected. Jackson Rippner flashed into her head. For a minute all real thought stopped and she had a quick memory flash of her history with him: the plane, the attack at the house, the trial… The trial had been difficult. She was the best evidence the prosecution had. Her testimony had been all that tied the Keefe's room blowing up and the man at her house to Jackson. Otherwise, no physical evidence linked him to anything, save his attempted murder of her.
But her fear was replaced by rational thought. Jackson couldn't possibly have sent her the flowers. He had restricted communications and was specifically banned from ANY communications towards Lisa Reisert, her hotel, her father, and a few others. That last part had been added as a 'thank you' from Keefe. While he himself didn't technically have the power to impose such a thing, he had considerable influence on those that did. And so, Lisa decided that Jackson might not have sent them. Visiting the florist company the flowers had come from would be a little more reassuring.
And then a sudden, panic of a thought: what if there was something wrong with the flowers? Like a biological weapon of anthrax or a poison? Granted, Lisa admitted these were unlikely possibilities. But wasn't it also unlikely for her to be seated on a plane next to an assassin who wanted her to change someone's room so that person could be killed by a missile launched from a yacht?
Lisa stared accusingly at the carnations. They faced back at her innocently.
Lisa walked quickly back into the dining room where she'd left the wrapping paper. If something was on the flowers, it would've had to have gotten on the tissue paper.
She walked over to the cabinet and looked at the paper lying on top. She carefully spread it out, exposing all of the paper that had touched the flowers. She had brought a magnifying glass from her desk drawer. She bent down with it, examining every inch of the paper. At first she saw nothing, no odd powders, no oils or other liquids soaked into the paper. But then her heart sank as she spotted a dark spot. But she looked closer… No, wait, it was on the other side. They were words, stamped in bold, curly letters.
Lisa flipped the paper over, reading the green stamp: 'Floridian Florists' and in smaller letters underneath: 'Flower Arrangements and Deliveries'. Lisa felt relieved. There was nothing wrong with the flowers. They'd been delivered by a real florist company, who was probably not in the habit of poisoning their bouquets.
Well, that took care of that problem, but the mystery still remained: who had sent the flowers?
Lisa checked the wrappings again, but this time she wasn't rewarded. No phone number or address. Oh well, she'd check the yellow pages for them later. Then she'd ask for the sender. It was that simple.
Or was meant to be.