To Catch a Leaf, page 16
part #12 of Flower Shop Mystery Series
“Sorry to keep you.” As he climbed into the cab of his truck, I said to Marco, “He knows more than he’s saying.”
“I suspect it’s all about staying employed.”
“And to stay employed, he has to protect someone in that family.” I watched Guy drive past us. “I know who it is.”
My cell phone vibrated. I was betting I knew who that was, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“What now, Jillian?” I answered sharply, as we headed down the driveway toward Marco’s car.
“This is the best tip yet, Abs. Cats don’t like water. Try flicking a little water on each of the Newports and see who reacts. Voila! Your cat burglar.”
“Seriously, Jillian, if I walked around the room flicking water, I would expect them all to react by sending me directly to jail or to a mental institution. This is not a movie set. This is a real-life crime scene, so stop it. I’m really turning off my phone now. Good-bye.”
“What’s wrong with Jillian now?” Marco asked.
“She heard about the art theft, so of course she thinks she can solve the case because she knows the movie To Catch a Thief by heart.”
“You’re supposed to flick water on people?”
“It’s really not worth going into.”
“Good. So tell me who Guy’s protecting.”
“It’s just a gut feeling, but I’ll start with what I learned from Mrs. Dunbar while you were escorting Lolita around the grounds.”
“You’re doing that Lolita thing on purpose, aren’t you?”
“Always trying to keep you on your toes, Salvare. Anyway, Mrs. D. said that on several occasions over the past month she heard someone deactivate the alarm and open the back door. This always happened very early in the morning, and she even heard it on the day of the murder. She wouldn’t name any names, but she did say that when she came into the kitchen a short time later, she smelled perfume.
“So the conclusion I came to, after having been around the women who live in that house, including Mrs. Dunbar, is that Juanita is the little sneak because she’s the only one of the three wearing perfume.”
“The only one wearing it today.” Marco opened the passenger side door for me. “Remember what I’ve said about jumping to conclusions?”
“So I shouldn’t conclude that Juanita was panting over you?”
Marco grinned as he closed my door. Two points for the redhead.
I waited until he was in the car, then said, “Guy told me that a few weeks ago, while on her way to see her lawyer, Constance told Guy that he was the only person she trusted. I’m guessing that was the day she had her will changed. Then I asked Guy if he’d heard anyone taking a car out of the garage early on any mornings in the past month, and he said no. But then he added that he wouldn’t have heard it anyway because he’s a heavy sleeper, which I didn’t buy at all. Can you figure out why?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Did you notice that there isn’t a finished ceiling in the garage? Think about how loud those garage-door motors are, Marco. And the bay where Juanita keeps her Porsche is right below his apartment. How could he not hear a door lifting?”
“I’m with you so far.”
“And when I questioned Guy further about Juanita, his ears turned red. That was when it hit me that maybe he was telling the truth about not hearing the garage door open because Juanita hadn’t used her car to meet her lover. She wouldn’t need to if she were having an affair with someone on the estate.”
Marco stopped for a red light. “You based this on his ears turning red?”
“Do you remember our first conversation with Guy? How he carefully avoided answering questions about Juanita? And then Virginia’s remark to her about her not being discreet? Then toss in Guy being asked to move out. Doesn’t it add up? I think she’s having an affair with Guy.”
“Back up, Sunshine. I can buy your conclusion about Juanita having an affair, but you can’t assume it’s Guy. It could be Griffin. Yes, I know he’s her stepson, but it happens. And there is the cost factor, Abby. They didn’t receive the large inheritances they were expecting, so maybe they decided they couldn’t afford him.”
“Or maybe Burnsy found out about Juanita doing the tabletop tango with Gorgeous Guy and wanted him tossed out. The others might not have agreed, hence the delay on the decision.”
“You realize that none of this matters unless we can tie Juanita’s alleged affair to the murder. Let’s go over everything at dinner. That’ll give us time to process all the information.”
“Speaking of information, what did you learn from Juanita, besides that she’s self-absorbed and has terrible taste in perfume?”
“Remember Grace saying she thought that Virginia had broken off her relationship with the art professor? Not so, according to Juanita. When I asked Juanita who she thought might be involved in the theft, she said I should check out Virginia’s boyfriend. I asked who she meant by boyfriend, and she said the art professor.”
“If that’s true, Marco—and considering the source, it could go either way—then I’ll bet that’s who Virginia was talking to in the sitting room.”
“I think it’s time to find out more about Professor Francis Talbot.”
“Did you learn anything useful from Reilly?”
“Nothing. They dusted for prints on all the forged artwork and the front and back doors, and that’s about all I could get from him. Were you able to get a look at the murder scene?”
“Reilly wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I’m not too concerned about that. Ultimately, it’ll come down to trapping someone in a lie.”
Marco’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen then handed it to me. “It’s my brother. Would you take it? I’m trying to keep my blood pressure down.”
I flipped open his phone. “Hey, Rafe, how’s the bar business?”
I could barely make out what Marco’s younger brother was saying. He was tending bar at Down the Hatch and even beyond the background noise, seemed to have a really bad connection. “Is Mar—com—ack soon?”
I stuck my finger in my other ear to block out the street sounds. “If you’re wanting to know when we’ll be back, we should be there in five minutes. Any messages?”
“Rep—tal—beer.”
“Okay, I’ll pass that along, Rafe. Ciao.” Then I handed the phone back. “Rafe said something about beer.”
“That was helpful.” Marco slid the phone back into his shirt pocket.
“Do you think Rafe will be ready to take over managing the bar for you in September?”
“That’s over four months from now. I hope Rafe has a handle on it by then. Any word from Grace or Lottie on how things are going at Bloomers?”
“Not a peep. Everything must be running smoothly.”
Just to make sure, I pulled out my cell phone, turned it on, and saw that I had four messages, every single one from the flower shop. I dialed the shop and got Grace.
“We have something of a situation,” Grace said in her understated way. In the background I could hear a woman shrieking and a small dog barking. “Hurry, dear.”
When I opened the yellow-frame door and stepped inside Bloomers, what I saw looked like something from a disaster movie. A wicker bench was lying on its side, a plant stand was upended, and potted lilies, hyacinths, tulips, and miniature roses lay tipped over onto the floor, their petals strewn about like confetti, with black soil everywhere. In the midst of this debacle stood Mrs. Dobbins, one of our regular customers, plump hands pressed against her heart, as though she expected it to stop at any moment, watching with a horrified expression as Lottie ran around the shop with a broom, trying to corner Mrs. Dobbins’s barking Chihuahua, Booboo.
Customers who had fled to the coffee-and-tea parlor to escape the chaos were watching from the doorway, afraid to make a dash for the front door lest the incensed pooch turn on them. So naturally, when the dog saw me, he went straight for my ankles.
“Get behind me!” Lottie yelled, using the broom to stave off the dog so she could back me behind the cashier’s counter.
“Booboo isn’t usually like this,” Mrs. Dobbins cried. “How do I make him stop?”
“Take off your coat, Mrs. Dobbins,” Lottie yelled. “Get ready to toss it over Booboo.”
Somehow Lottie managed to hold the frenetic canine down with the broom long enough for Booboo’s jittery owner to gather him up in her green spring coat. Hugging the dog against her chest, Mrs. Dobbins apologized profusely, then turned and scuttled out of the shop.
Lottie leaned against the broom and wiped her brow. “What a day.”
“What happened?” I asked, righting the overturned pots.
“That’s what happened.” She pointed to the top of the armoire, where Simon sat on his haunches calmly watching us. “That little fiend sprang out from behind a plant and pounced on Booboo, scaring the little yap-per out of a year’s growth.” She shook her finger at Simon. “Yes, I’m talking about you! And stop your smirking.”
Simon did indeed seem pleased with himself. “I’m so sorry, Lottie. There’s a Chihuahua that lives across the hall from our apartment that Simon detests.” I paused to greet customers filing past. “Hello. Nice to see you again. Thanks for coming in. Sorry about the mess. Please come back.”
“You’re gonna have to do something about Simon, sweetie,” Lottie said. “We can’t let him scare off our customers or ruin our flowers.”
I scooped dirt into a pot and pressed it firmly around the bulb end of the lily to secure it. “Maybe I can talk Marco into taking him back to his apartment for a few days. Where’s Grace?”
“She’s on the phone with our supplier, trying to have flowers overnighted. We got in seventy-five orders for the Newport funeral, and the viewing starts tomorrow at one o’clock.”
“Seventy-five orders?” I could almost feel my bank account swelling even as panic set in. “It’s going to be a late night, Lottie.”
“We have enough stock on hand to do about forty arrangements if we work all evening. My boys are coming in after basketball practice to deliver the orders to the funeral parlor as we get them done. I’ll also have them finish cleaning up this mess. Your niece Tara said she and a friend would come in to handle ribbons and cards.”
“Lottie, you are amazing. How can I ever thank you?”
Lottie gave me a sheepish look. “By forgiving me.”
“For what?”
“I accepted help from someone else, too.”
“Please tell me it’s not Jillian.”
“It’s not Jillian.”
That was a relief. My cousin had volunteered to help make arrangements when I was in a bind once, but every order came out looking identical to a painting on her dining room wall.
“Is it my mom?”
“You’re getting close.”
At that moment, the purple curtain parted and Marco’s mother walked through the doorway, a green bib apron tied around her black sweater and slacks. “Abby, bella! You’re back. Now the party will really get started, no?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Forgive me?” Lottie whispered, as Marco’s mom headed back to the workroom.
Being in a state of shock, all I could do was nod.
“Good, ’cause there’s more. Your mom will be here at four o’clock.”
The nightmare had only just begun. And there went my dinner with Marco, too.
I dumped pieces of a clay pot into the trash can behind the counter. “It’s a good thing I gave Miss Sea 3PO a makeover this morning. Mom would have been crushed to see the damage Simon caused. I don’t suppose we were lucky enough to sell any sea glasses.”
“Did you look in the window?” Lottie asked.
I glanced at the bay, but there was no manikin in it. “Oh, Lottie, please don’t tell me Simon destroyed Mom’s head again.”
“It’s about the only thing Simon didn’t destroy. A group of college girls was passing by the window at lunchtime and spotted the display. They bought the entire lot to give away at some kind of sorority function. They thought the glasses were janky, whatever that means.”
“That’s great news. No more sea glasses! Why are you making a face?”
“Think about it, sweetie. Won’t that encourage your mom to make more?”
Way to rain on my parade, Lottie.
To my relief, Francesca Salvare was a genuine asset that afternoon. She pitched in to help prepare the stems, place wet foam in the containers, and clean up after us as Lottie and I put together one arrangement after another. She even brought in appetizers that she’d whipped up that morning, made with only the freshest ingredients, she’d reminded us. She stayed until five, when she sailed off to cook supper for her daughter’s family, still looking as fresh as when she’d arrived. I, on the other hand, looked as wilted as a two-week-old rose.
My thirteen-year-old niece Tara and her friend Dana came in at three thirty and quickly mastered the art of bow-making, as well as tagging all the arrangements with signature cards. Then my mom arrived at four to take care of customers in the shop, leaving Grace to tend to the parlor. We were quite a team.
However, as Lottie had predicted, when Mom learned that her sea glasses had sold out, she instantly made plans to produce more. And what were the odds that another sorority would happen by and want all of them?
At five, just as we closed up shop for the day and turned our focus to making arrangements, Lottie’s seventeen-year-old quadruplets showed up. We put Jimmy and Joey in charge of cleaning the floor, while Johnny and Karl began delivering arrangements to Happy Dreams Funeral Parlor.
At six o’clock, I had four large pizzas brought in, and everyone stopped to eat. Marco took a break from the bar to come down and join us, and then it did seem like a party, especially when Francesca returned with platters of cannoli. When had she found time to make them?
The only person not in a partying mood was Grace. Instead of joining us, she busied herself cleaning out the coffee machines in the parlor.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.
“I’m not much in the mood actually. But thank you for inquiring.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
She paused in her cleaning. “There is one thing. Would you mind telling me what you learned from your visit to Connie’s house?”
“I’m sorry. I should have filled you in sooner.”
“It’s fine, dear. We haven’t had a minute to breathe, have we? Did it go well, then?”
“We were able to interview most of the people on the estate, starting with Guy Luce. He was packing up to move out because he doesn’t know if he’ll be asked to stay on.”
“Because of the cost?” Grace asked.
“That’s what Marco thinks.”
“Is Mrs. Dunbar’s job in jeopardy as well?”
“She hasn’t been let go yet, and she’s really hoping it doesn’t happen.”
“The poor old thing probably doesn’t have much in the way of retirement funds.”
“But here’s the big news, Grace. While we were talking to Mrs. Dunbar, the art appraiser announced that a number of the Newports’ valuable paintings had been removed from the house and replaced with forged copies. If we can tie that in with the murder, there is no possible way the police can believe you’re involved.”
I waited for a look of relief. Instead, Grace merely sighed as she put the espresso machine back together. “I hope you’re right, dear. My nerves are in a terrible state.”
“Grace, please don’t worry. Marco is a smart guy, and I’m not so bad at this myself.”
She said nothing, only gazed at the countertop forlornly. This was so unlike Grace that all I could do was give her a hug. She hung on tightly for several moments, then, sniffling, said, “Dave called this afternoon, Abby, and I’m afraid the news is rather discouraging. It seems the detectives interviewed Mr. Duval, the estate lawyer. Apparently when Connie went to see him to have her will changed, she told him it was at my suggestion.”
“There’s nothing wrong with advising a friend to see a lawyer, Grace.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not all Connie said. She told Mr. Duval that I had advised her to cut her family out of the will and put the bulk of her estate in a trust fund for Charity—to be administered by me.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Why would Connie make up such a ludicrous story?”
“Ever since Dave’s phone call, I’ve gone over and over my last conversation with Connie. Other than offering some helpful quotations, I would never presume to tell her what to do with her money.”
“Do you recall the quotes?”
Grace sat down across from me and folded her hands on the table. Normally, this was a gesture of her serene state, but now I could see that she was pressing her fingers so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white. “The first was by George Eliot. ‘One must be poor to know the luxury of giving.’ This was after Connie had complained about her children’s selfishness. The other was”—she sat back suddenly—“oh, dear! I think I see the problem.”
“What was the other quote, Grace?”
“It was from Oliver Wendell Holmes. ‘Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.’”
Oh, dear, was right. Those two pieces of advice had undoubtedly been misconstrued by the distraught dowager, and, unfortunately, could now be used by detectives looking to make a stronger case against their number-one suspect. It could be the last piece of damaging information the chief prosecutor would need to indict Grace.
I was really worried now, but I didn’t want Grace to know that. “They’re just quotes, Grace. I’m sure Dave can clear it up.”
She gazed at me briefly, but it was long enough to see the look of fear in her eyes. She knew I was putting on a good front. “I’m sure you’re right, love. Run along and have your pizza before it gets cold.” Then she went back to the counter and began polishing the stainless-steel coffeemaker.
