I jammed both feet on the brake and brought my old yellow convertible to a screeching halt mere inches from the groin of a dragon. Okay, not a dragon in the fairy tale sense of the word. This dragon was the flesh-and-blood human variety – one Z. Archibald Puffer, a former JAG officer turned law professor who was often referred to as Puffer the Dragon. He was called that not just because of his last name, but also because of his ability to destroy the bravest law student in one fiery blast of fury.

My personal name for him was Snapdragon, because he had a habit of snapping pencils in two and hurling the eraser half at the head of the student whose answer had displeased him. He went through so many pencils that he bought them in bulk, made to his specifications -- glossy black barrels with his initials monogrammed in silver to look like bolts of lightning: ZAP.
I had been struck several times and even bore a tiny scar on my forehead from his last attack, which came with his pronouncement that I was never to step foot in his lecture hall again. That was followed in short order by my expulsion from law school, which, in turn, prompted my then fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, to break off our engagement and leave town until his humiliation over my failure had faded. His humiliation.

It had occurred to me back then that the old maxim of bad luck coming in threes was true. Now, as Puffer glared up the shiny hood of my reconditioned 1960 Corvette with his spiteful, ice blue eyes, and my heart pounded and my clammy hands clasped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt, my gut feeling was that the Rule of Three had begun again. Which meant I still had two to go.

The irony was that the only reason I had come to the law school – a place I tried my best to avoid -- was to deliver a flower that Professor Puffer had ordered. However, I didn’t think now would be the best time to hand it over. He might snap it off and chuck the vase at me.

“You red-headed fumigant,” he jeered, as college students gathered on both sides of the street, “You nearly killed me.”

I wasn’t sure what a fumigant was, but I knew it couldn’t be good. “Sorry,” I squeaked, slumping down as far as I could. Considering that I was short, it was pretty far.

Was it my fault he hadn’t used the crosswalk? Was it my fault he was talking on his mobile phone instead of paying attention to traffic? I didn’t think so. Had it been anyone else, I would have told him as much. But that steely glare brought back so many bad memories that all I could do was duck.

“Hey, there is someone inside,” one curious student said, coming up for a look.

I raised my head just enough to peer over the dash. Mercifully, Snapdragon had moved on, but not before stopping at the curb to deliver a parting shot. “Be expecting a call from the police,” he sneered, working his cell phone buttons. “I’m turning you in for reckless driving.”

Great. Just what I needed to make my morning complete. ZAP.

I knew what his fury was really about. Puffer was still indignant about the night he’d spent in the slammer over three years ago on a Driving Under the Influence charge. I’d had nothing to do with it, of course -- I was still downstate at Indiana University at the time -- but that hadn’t mattered to Puffer. What had mattered was that the dragon had been publicly disgraced by a Knight -- my father, Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, then of the New Chapel police department -- and once I stepped foot in his classroom and Puffer made the connection, he never let me forget it.

So it really shouldn’t have surprised me that this new trio of unpleasant events would begin with Snapdragon. In fact, my first clue should have been the strange order that had been waiting for me when I walked into my flower shop, Bloomers, this overcast Tuesday morning: one black rose suitable for funeral display, noon delivery, to Professor Z. Puffer, New Chapel University School of Law. I mean, who would order a single black flower for a funeral? Bugs Bunny?

Knowing my history with Puffer, my assistant Lottie had tried to talk me out of making the delivery. But no, I’d decided I needed to face the dragon to conquer those irrational fears I’d held onto way too long. After all, Puffer had no power over me now. I wasn’t that frightened first year law student any more. I owned a business, or at least I owned the mortgage for a business. It took courage to run a flower shop at the age of twenty-six. It also took money, which was something I hadn’t yet managed to produce in quantity. Which reminded me. I still had to deliver the flower and collect my money.

I glanced over at the dark red rose (the closest I could get to black since there was no such thing) in its slender chrome vase, the entire package wrapped in black-tinted cellophane, tied with a solemn black ribbon and wedged securely in a foam container in front of the passenger seat -- and tried to imagine Puffer’s reaction when he saw who the delivery person was. Maybe I should take Lottie up on her offer after all.

Horns honked behind me. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a line of cars waiting to turn into the law school’s parking lot, so I pulled into a visitor’s space, shut off the engine, and took deep breaths to calm my nerves. What was the big deal anyway? All I had to do was put the vase on Puffer’s desk and leave a bill. If I was lucky, he might even be in the cafeteria, in which case I could just give everything to his secretary Bea, who always ate lunch at her desk.

A car pulled into the space to my right. I glanced over at the metallic green Mini Cooper and saw Professor Carson Reed at the wheel. Great. Of the hundreds of people I could have seen at the college that day, I had to find the only two on campus who held grudges against me.

From the corner of my eye I watched Reed polish off the last of a burger, crumple the wrapper, check his teeth in his rear view mirror and get out. He eyed my Vette but ignored me as he strode off, briefcase in hand.

Professor Reed was a tall, vain, handsome, single man in his late thirties with a fondness for poetry and black clothing (including a black eyepatch and cape, if he was feeling particularly dashing). He thought of himself as a modern day Lord Byron and frequently could be seen strolling the campus grounds reciting odes to the starry-eyed female students that seemed to follow him everywhere. Sad to say, Reed enjoyed the benefits of having his own fan club and had left many a broken-heart in his wake.

However much I found his behavior offensive, Professor Reed had been one of the few teachers whose lectures I’d actually understood, even if I hadn’t always passed his exams. Plus he’d written papers and often spoke on the importance of taking a stand against injustice – a subject dear to my heart. I’d even memorized his favorite Byron quote on that subject:

“As the Liberty lads o'er the sea,
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free . . .”

Then Reed became the legal advisor for Dermacol, a new cosmetics laboratory in town, and suddenly his poetic ideals were replaced by dollar signs, causing my respect for him to take a nose dive. Dermacol tested products on animals kept in wire cages, something I couldn’t -- make that wouldn’t -- tolerate. In fact, just a week ago, during a demonstration to protest Dermacol’s policies, I was arrested for obstruction. Apparently, Reed hadn’t welcomed the picket line I’d organized to block the entrance gate and had called the police.

As I was being led away in handcuffs, I told him in a voice loud enough to carry to the reporters on hand that I’d do it again if it meant saving the lives of innocent creatures, and I’d take on anyone who advocated torturing helpless animals -- including him. Then I called him a hypocritical snake-in-the-grass for selling out to corporate greed. The local newspaper even quoted me on that.

Needless to say, Reed was no fan of mine, especially since photos of the protest made the front page of the New Chapel News, and the accompanying article painted him in a particularly unflattering light. For a man with Reed’s arrogance, I didn’t imagine it had been an easy pill to swallow and I was certain the less he saw of me the better. Then again, I wasn’t in any rush to see him, either, but since his office was next to Puffer’s, the odds of it were high.

I toyed again with the idea of letting Lottie come back with the flower, but that just wasn’t my style. I’d never shied away from a challenge before -- my parents would attest to that. To hear them describe it, they’d stumbled around in a zombie-like stupor for the better part of a decade due to their sleepless nights of worrying about me.

My cell phone rang, so I looked at the screen, flipped it open and said, “Nikki, I’m so glad you called. You’ll never believe what happened.”

I knew I’d get lots of sympathy from Nikki. She was my best friend, confidante and roommate. We had a bond so strong that when one of us was in distress, the other felt the pain.

“I don’t have time for that right now, Abby. I’m standing here on the curb waiting for a guy from the gas station to put a spare tire on my car so I can make it to work this afternoon. And do you want to know why he’s putting on a spare tire? Because your cousin Jillian punctured my Toyota’s good tire. That’s why.”

Obviously there were times when Nikki’s distress and my distress canceled that whole share-the-pain thing. “To be fair, Nikki, Jillian didn’t puncture your tire. Something sharp punctured it.”

“Why did it get punctured in the first place, Abby? Why?”

Two professors strolled past my car, so I whispered, “Can we discuss this later?”

“Here’s why. Because Jillian parked her car in my designated space, forcing me to leave my car on the street in front of the house that’s being remodeled.”

For someone who didn’t have time to talk, she was doing a good job of it.

“Jillian has also taken over one of my shelves in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and that’s just unacceptable.”

“At least you’re not the one sleeping on the lumpy sofa.”

“Whose fault is that?” she snapped.

There was a protracted silence on both ends. Nikki and I had been friends since third grade -- nothing had ever come between us -- yet in the short time my cousin had squeezed herself into our lives, we were reduced to taking pot shots at each other. Truthfully, if Jillian hadn’t been a blood relation -- first cousin on my father’s side -- I wouldn’t have defended her. But having shared many sister-like experiences with her, such as first bras, bad vacations and painful sunburns, I felt duty-bound.

“She has to move out, Abby. That apartment is not big enough for the three of us.”

“I absolutely agree with you, and she will -- soon. I promise.”

“That’s what you said weeks ago.”

“So now it’s even sooner. Don’t hiss at me, Nik. You know Jillian is coming out of a severe depression. How many girls get jilted on their honeymoon?”

Nikki couldn’t argue that. However, she could have pointed out that not many girls had jilted four men at the altar, either, which had been a hobby of my cousin’s until her recent marriage. “Fine. But promise me you’ll talk to her tonight about getting her own place, okay?”

“Okay. Now do you want to hear what happened?”

“Make it fast. The guy is almost done.”

As I rattled off the story I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a squad car pull up behind me. “Oh, great. The cops are here. Puffer called them after all.”

“Get a hold of your dad, for Pete’s sake, and let him handle the cops.”

I’d already thought of calling my father but somehow, being almost twenty-seven years old, I felt foolish asking him to haul me out of a scrape, especially one as silly as this. Besides, I’d already tapped him to get me released from jail after the protest march. I didn’t think he’d be too pleased to receive another call.

“Well, well. Would you look who we have here?” a droll male voice to my left said.

Resigning myself to embarrassment, I stowed my phone, got out of the Vette and turned to face my bud, Sgt. Sean Reilly, a good-looking, forty-year-old, Irish-American police officer with intelligent brown eyes and a perturbed scowl. Okay, we weren’t exactly buddies, but over the past several months we had come to a point of mutual respect. . . I hoped.

“Top o’ the lunch hour to you,” I said, trying to prompt a smile. It didn’t work.

“It’s not the top of my lunch hour,” he grumbled.

“I’d say not, if they have you making routine traffic stops.”

My second attempt at humor didn’t work either. Reilly planted his hands on his thick black leather belt. “I don’t make routine traffic stops. I heard dispatch read your license plate number and volunteered to take the call as a favor to you.”

Ouch. And Nikki had laughed when I’d paid extra for a vanity license plate that read: PHLORIST R ME. “Gee, that was really sweet of you, Reilly. Does that mean I can go?”

“No. It means you can tell me why you tried to run down Professor Puffer.”

“Let’s clear up that misconception right now. I didn’t try to run him down. He stepped out in front of me.”

“He said you came within an inch of taking his life.”

“Pfft. It was at least two.”

Reilly’s scowl deepened.

“He’s a drama queen, Reilly. Okay, so maybe I was fiddling with my radio for a second. That’s beside the point. The point is, he has it in for me because my father hauled him in on a DUI once.”

“Did you, or did you not, almost hit him?”

I scratched the end of my nose, trying to think of a way around the question. Clearly, I should have paid more attention in those law classes. “Yes, I almost hit him but--”

“Uh-uh,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “No buts.”

“Mitigating circumstances!” I cried. Wow. I had remembered something. “Puffer walked out from between two cars blabbing away on his phone and never checked to see if anyone was coming.”

Reilly studied me for a long moment, then finally growled, “All right. Get out of here.”

“I’m free to go?”

“On one condition. That I don’t get any more calls about your driving. Got it?”

“You bet.” I blew him a kiss, then checked the time, saw I had five minutes to get the flower up to Puffer’s office and scrambled for the package.
#

A knot of fear the size of Rhode Island took over my stomach as I tucked the wrapped rose in the crook of my arm and headed toward the stately, two-story brown brick building that housed New Chapel University’s law school. The university covered an area approximately fifteen square blocks, encompassing ten buildings, three dormitories, and a handful of Greek houses. It was a small, private college, but it had an excellent reputation, and its law school held its own with any in the country -- not that they could prove it by me.

I paused at the curb to let a white Saab pass. I recognized the car as belonging to Jocelyn Puffer, Snapdragon’s wife, a subdued woman who seemed the exact opposite of her belligerent husband. Rumor had it that Jocelyn had come from a well-to-do Connecticut family that had disowned her when she married Puffer, not that I ever trusted rumors. Jocelyn wasn’t beautiful, but she knew how to dress and was always courteous whenever I met her in town, usually at the used book store where she worked. It was unusual to see her at the university. Then again, if I were her, I’d do my best to avoid Puffer, too.

I took a breath and continued on toward the double glass doors, but as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall and saw the sights and smelled the smells that had greeted me every day for nine miserable months, I broke out in a cold sweat. Focus on the flower, Abby. That’a girl.

Straight ahead was the student commons -- a small area with a grouping of worn sofas, a few round table-and-chair sets, a long table against a wall that held a big coffee urn, a stack of paper cups and other coffee supplies, and a bottled water/soft drink machine. To my right was a hallway that led to the lecture halls, and to my immediate left was a wide, stone stairway that led up to the professors’ offices -- the only access other than a private elevator farther down on the right that was strictly for the use of the three professors on that side of the building. (Apparently, before six more offices had been squeezed in, everyone had been able to access it, but not anymore.) Beyond the stairway was a law library that didn’t get much use now that everything could be found on the Internet.

I trudged slowly up the steps, berating myself for letting my fear of a bully like Puffer get such a grip on me. I was making a delivery, for heaven’s sake, not taking an oral exam. At the top I entered the large, central secretarial pool that served the nine offices around it, three on a side, plus a computer lab, washrooms, and a conference room. To my right were the offices with the most prestige, having access to a private elevator through a shared vestibule in the back -- Myra Baumgarten’s, Carson Reed’s, and Puffer’s. To my relief, no light showed through the glass in Puffer’s door. In fact, the entire floor seemed to have emptied out, except for Professor Reed and the one person I’d been hoping to find there -- Beatrice Boyd.

Known as Aunt Bea by those of us she’d consoled after we’d limped out of Puffer’s inner sanctum emotionally bruised and verbally beaten, the fifty-something secretary worked for two of the full-time professors, Puffer and Carson Reed. Originally from Seattle, Bea was a product of the hippie generation and still dressed in long, colorful, cotton skirts and full, gauzy blouses belted at the waist by a fringed leather sash. She wore silver hoop earrings and turquoise rings, but never used make-up. Fortunately, her smooth complexion and big blue eyes were attractive enough without them. Her hairstyle was another throwback to the sixties -- a waistlong, heavy braid of gray-brown hair, usually with a yellow pencil stuck through the base like a hair pick.

I’d always thought of Bea as the ultimate earth mother, yet she’d never had children. I wasn’t even sure she’d ever married, although photographs of herself with a man named Zed taken on various back-packing adventures sat on her desk. Seeing her now, I remembered the last time she’d come to my aid -- when I’d learned that I’d been booted out of law school. She’d held me when I cried, wiped my tears, bundled me into her car and shuffled me to a coffee shop, where I’d drowned my sorrows in her favorite remedy -- hot, spiced soy chai tea.

It was Bea who’d urged me to forget the law and search my soul for what I truly wanted out of life. She’d encouraged me to explore the idea of buying the floundering Bloomers, a place I’d worked during the summers of my college years. It had been the best decision of my life and I’d thanked her many times over for her guidance.

Unaware of my approach, she took a woven leather drawstring purse out of a file cabinet drawer and rose, a distracted look on her normally serene face. When she saw me she gave a little gasp, then covered it with a forced laugh. “Abby! You gave me a start.”

“Sorry. Guess what I have? A delivery for Professor Puffer.” I held up the wrapped rose and scrunched my nose to show my displeasure.

“He’s not in,” she said, backing toward the stairs. “Just set it on his desk and leave the bill beside it. I wish I had time to chat but I have an appointment.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll catch you later.” I watched her hurry off, hoping everything was all right -- it wasn’t like her to be so agitated -- then I remembered my reason for being there and turned to gaze anxiously at Puffer’s closed office door. Okay, I could do this.

Holding the package in front of me like a shield, I walked toward the dragon’s lair, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. As I passed Professor Reed’s office I could hear him talking in a sharp, but hushed, voice. No one answered him, so I figured he was on the phone, and from the sound of it, he wasn’t a happy camper.

I stopped at Puffer’s door, knocked, waited a few moments, then took a deep breath and stepped inside, extremely relieved to find that Bea was right. The dragon was gone.

His office was just as I remembered it, even down to the smell of pine disinfectant. It had a wall of shelves with the books arranged not only by color, but also by size; another wall of awards, photos, and mementos from his JAG days; a small table that held a battlefield map covered with tiny soldiers and cannons; a desk with metal legs; a high-backed swivel chair; a door at the back that led to the elevator vestibule; and, finally, the small, wooden chair upon which I had sat many times, fighting back tears while he ridiculed my papers.

The memory brought an angry flush to my face, which, on a redhead’s fair skin, was bright enough to look feverish. I plunked the flower on the desk, next to his computer monitor, propped the bill beside it, and was ready to leave -- then I spotted the can of glossy black pencils sitting on the far side of his desk and couldn’t resist the temptation. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was there, then snatched one of the sleek tools and held it as if I were going to snap it in two, imagining the satisfaction of hurling the eraser end at Puffer’s head.

Suddenly, the rear door opened and in charged the dragon in all his intimidating glory -- head up, shoulders back, spine stiff and nostrils flaring, as if he were a general in the military embarking on a war campaign.

And there I stood like an enemy soldier within firing range, holding his pencil.