Acts of Violets (13 page)

Simon, Nikki’s white cat, rose on his hind legs, sniffed at my paltry offering, and went to find a sunny corner to wash his face. He liked his peanut butter smooth.

Nikki came around the corner, sleepy eyed and with her hair sticking up at angles that even the best gel couldn’t duplicate. “He’s a cat, Abby. Did you really expect him to give you advice?”

“Hey, don’t knock him,” I said as she pulled out the carton of orange juice. “Simon is a good sounding board. So what are you up to? Another day shift?”

“Early dentist appointment. I have a tiny cavity”—she paused to stick a finger deep into her mouth—“ ’ack ’ere.”

“Ew. Sorry.”

She set the juice on the counter and hunted in the cabinet for a glass. Since most of them were in the sink waiting to be washed, it was a long hunt—more like a safari. “If you were
really
sorry, you’d go in my place.”

“They might suspect something when the X-rays didn’t match. Besides, I had my teeth cleaned two weeks ago.”

“I’m just saying.” She splashed juice in a shot glass and drank it down, then poured herself another. “What did I hear you telling Simon about Trina’s little boy—that you think he could be Marco’s son? Why didn’t you tell me this last night? You told me everything else—the weird neighbors, your conversation with Reilly, Reilly’s new girlfriend, Marco’s secret phone call and family emergency—so why not that?”

“It was a
personal
phone call, not a secret one, and a family
matter
, not an emergency—not that splitting hairs makes me feel better. I didn’t tell you the rest because it seems so, I don’t know—petty—worrying about whose son little Mark is when Marco’s life is at stake.”

“Totally petty, so knock it off.”

“Got it. Thanks for setting me straight. The thing is, Nik, little Mark looks a lot like Marco.”

Nikki took a seat on the stool next to mine. “A lot of people have an olive complexion and dark hair and eyes, Abby.”

“You’re right. I should totally drop it. But then there’s the name similarity and the fact that Marco knows Trina’s mother’s address.”

“Think of it this way. If Trina really wanted to establish her son’s identity as Marco’s child, she would have named him Marco Junior and had a paternity test. As for the address issue, you said Trina’s family and Marco’s family lived in the same neighborhood, right? And Trina is friends with his sister? So maybe the two families are still close and send each other Christmas cards or something. Okay, that sounds lame, but there could be a good reason why he knows Trina’s mother’s address. Stop nit-picking.”

I thought it over as I sipped my coffee, holding the warm mug between my hands. “I’ve always assumed Marco didn’t have any kids because he never mentioned it. But you know what
assuming
does.”

“Please don’t finish that. I’ve heard it, like, a thousand times.”

“Maybe I should adopt a policy that whenever I meet a guy I automatically ask if he has any children.”

Nikki gave me a knuckle rap on the top of my head. “Hello-o-o. Why would you do that? It’s not like it comes up in conversation. ‘Hi, I’m Abby. Great to meet you. Do you have any kids scattered around the country?’ ” She paused, her brow furrowing. “On second thought, that might be a good idea.”

Nikki had been hurt several times by guys who’d hid their wedding rings—and, in one case, two wives—from her. She swiveled to look at me. “Okay, here’s a question for you. What if Mark
is
his son?”

I took a bite of toast and pondered her question. The peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, so I had to swallow more coffee before I could reply. “I guess it wouldn’t matter, as long as he was honest about it. It’s not like we’re married, or are even considering marriage.” I sighed longingly. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be engaged? I’ve always wanted to hold my left hand up to the light to display the sparkle of a cute little diamond so everyone could ooh and aah over it.”

“You’re scaring me now. You’re sounding way too much like Jillian. And don’t bug your eyes at me, Abby. Just think about your last comment.”

Well, whose eyes wouldn’t bug out at being compared to Jillian? My cousin was a childlike, self-absorbed drama queen. She had recently wed Claymore Osborne, the younger brother of my former fiancé, Pryce, the chump who’d dumped me because I’d flunked out of law school. Jillian’s wedding ceremony had been a lavish Fourth of July garden spectacle timed to precede a splashy fireworks display, so the sky would explode as if the heavens were giving her a standing ovation. (She hadn’t counted on someone being murdered during the fireworks show, but that was another story.)

It hadn’t mattered to Jillian that her new hubby was a nervous nerd or that his family were snobs. What had mattered was that Claymore would one day inherit half the Osborne fortune. Thank goodness I had no such ambitions. I just wanted a hardworking, honest guy who loved me for my good qualities, accepted my limitations, and didn’t care that I was short, freckled, busty, and a bit feisty at times. And if that special guy gave me a ring, any ring, I’d love it no matter what its size.

“Wait, Nikki. I see a way out of this. Didn’t I say cute
little
ring? There you go. If I were making Jillian statements, I’d be talking carat size.”

“That’s true.”

Whew. I blinked a few times to make sure my eyeballs were back in place.

“But going back to my original point, Abby, if Mark is Marco’s son, and Ryson had been frightening Mark and stalking his mother, wouldn’t that give Marco an even stronger motive to get rid of Ryson permanently?”

“Don’t even think such a thing.” I shoved the last bite of toast in my mouth and chewed furiously so
I
wouldn’t think about it.

Nikki slid off the stool, rinsed out her shot glass, added it to the herd in the sink, then put a hand on my shoulder. “You need to have a talk with Marco.”

I knew she was right, but my mouth was stuck together again, so all I could do was nod.

“What’s this?” She reached for a square of paper that had been on the counter. “Juanita Lopez. New Buffalo, Michigan. Is that Trina’s mother?”

I rinsed the toast down with a gulp of coffee. “I’m going there this morning to check out Trina’s story. I want to hear it from the woman’s own lips that her daughter was there when she said she was.”

“You don’t trust Trina?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about checking alibis and eliminating suspects.”

She studied me. “Are you sure there’s not more to it than that?”

“All I want to do is prove Marco’s innocence and let the blame fall where it may.”

“Hey, maybe Mrs. Lopez will tell you who little Mark’s father is.”

“I’m way ahead of you on that one, Nikki.”

 

Wearing a long-sleeved, fitted white blouse, khaki pants, and a pair of tan ballet flats I’d found on a deeply discounted shoe rack at Target, with my hair pulled back in a brown plastic barrette, I took off for New Buffalo, Michigan, stopping at Bloomers first to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Whenever I had to question a woman I’d never met before, I’d found it advantageous to dress conservatively and carry flowers. After all, was there any better way to disarm a female than to present her with a handful of lovely, fragrant blossoms? I called it my Investigator’s Tactic Number One.

After leaving a note for Lottie and Grace, I headed north on I-49 as far as I could go, then east around the lower end of Lake Michigan. The trip to the tiny tourist town of New Buffalo normally took an hour and ten minutes, but in my Vette, I was there in fifty-five minutes flat. It was a scenic drive that I’d made many times, but when it came to finding the address on the slip of paper, I turned to the Yahoo driving instructions I’d printed out.

Juanita Lopez lived a mile from the lake, in a narrow, two-story duplex in a new neighborhood of identical aluminum-sided patio homes, with garages in the middle and little pockets of lawn in the front and back. I rang the doorbell and a woman in a baby blue terry cloth jogging suit answered it. She was an older, heavier version of Trina, her dark hair threaded with white.

“Mrs. Lopez?”

She took a look at me, then at the flowers in my hand, and her eyebrows drew together.
“Sí?”

Spanish. Yikes. I hoped she spoke English, too, because my Spanish was limited to a few cuss words, a body part or two, and a working knowledge of Cuban and Mexican food. “I have a gift for you.” I held out the bouquet with a smile.

Her eyebrows relaxed and her mouth curved upward. “Really?”

That sounded English enough. She opened the screen door and took them from me, then proceeded to search for a gift tag.

“There’s no tag. The flowers are from me. I’m Abby Knight from New Chapel and I own Bloomers Flower Shop on the square. Did Trina mention that I might be coming up here to talk to you?”

The eyebrows resumed their knitted position. “No.”

Perfect. I liked the element of surprise. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the death of her neighbor, Dennis Ryson.”

“And I’m sure you remember Marco Salvare. Did you know the police are investigating him as a suspect?”

A pause, and then another hesitant,
“Sí.”

“Mrs. Lopez, I don’t believe for a minute that Marco killed Mr. Ryson, and I don’t want him to be blamed for something he didn’t do, so I’m trying to gather as much information as I can to prove his innocence. Would you like to help?”

“How do you know Trina?”

She was still skeptical, so I commenced Investigator’s Tactic Number Two: flattery. “I was fortunate enough to meet your lovely daughter through Marco. Trina is also very concerned about Marco, which I’m sure she told you. And I must say, your grandson, little Mark, is a real cutie. He certainly takes after his mother in looks.”

Her grandmotherly pride finally overcame her wariness. “He’s a handsome child, and very smart, too.”

“Yes, I saw that right away.” I paused a moment. “I understand you knew Marco when he was a boy.”

“I have known Marco since he was five years old.”

“So you know what a good person he is.”

“
Sí
. He’s a good man, just like his papa was.”

“Can I count on your help, then, to prove Marco’s innocence?”

Her mouth shifted to one side, as though she were thinking about it. Maybe Investigator’s Tactic Number Three would help her decide: guilt.

“If Marco were to be convicted, he’d get life in prison, Mrs. Lopez. I’m sure you can imagine the pain his mother would feel if her son went to prison. Imagine your grandson in that situation. Wouldn’t you hope someone would step forward to help him?”

Mrs. Lopez made a quick sign of the cross. “
Madre de Dios
, it is too horrible to think about. But I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“How about if I ask you a few questions, and we’ll see. You might have some answers that will clear up the situation right away.”

She studied me for a moment, then opened the screen door and let me in, showing me in to a tiny living room decorated in shades of blue, with a fishbowl full of seashells on the coffee table, and an ornately framed print of the Last Supper over the blue crushed velvet sofa. I took a seat at one end of the sofa while she settled at the other end. She motioned for me to start.

This was the tricky part—winning her cooperation without letting on that her information might make her daughter a suspect. “I’m trying to get an idea of what Dennis Ryson was like. Had you ever met him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t get down to New Chapel much anymore, but Trina told me about him plenty of times, how he was always hitting on her and scaring little Mark and the children in her day-care class. The police, they weren’t much help. They had her fill out a paper. What good is a paper? So she asked Marco to make him leave her alone.”

“Do you know how Marco tried to do that?”

She pushed the tip of her index finger against her lip. “I think it was last Friday that Trina called him. She said he agreed to help her; then I didn’t hear from her until Sunday evening when she called to tell me she was coming up here with little Mark.”

“Did she tell you why was she coming?”

“
Sí
. Marco wanted her and little Mark away from there in case there was trouble. I was very frightened when she told me that, but she said Marco knew what he was doing.”

“Do you remember what time she got here?”

“Let me think . . . it was late. My program had already started, so probably ten minutes after ten o’clock.”

I did some quick calculations. Allowing seventy minutes driving time, that meant Trina wouldn’t have left New Chapel until around nine o’clock. Yet Marco had gone to see Ryson at approximately seven thirty. If she was supposed to get out of town for safety reasons, why had she waited so long to leave? Did Marco know she was still in her house when he went to see Ryson? Could Trina have stayed behind so she could slip into Ryson’s house to finish him off after Marco left?

I instantly saw two problems with that. First, the only way she would have braved entering Ryson’s home was if she knew she wouldn’t be in danger. But how would she know that unless she had watched the fight through Ryson’s window and saw that he had been hurt? Or could she have had someone watching for her? A neighbor, perhaps?

Second, she would have had to deliver a fatal blow to Ryson’s head, which meant she’d either grabbed something heavy in his house or brought a weapon with her. I needed to know what had been used to kill Ryson and whether Trina had access to such a thing. Maybe I could get Reilly to tell me.

“Was Trina upset when she arrived here Sunday night?”

“Very upset. That man—Ryson—she knew he could be dangerous, and Trina didn’t want anything bad to happen to Marco.”

“Has Trina said anything about who she thinks might have killed Mr. Ryson?”