Acts of Violets (14 page)

“No, she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Has she ever mentioned a neighbor by the name of Ed Mazella?”

“Oh,
sí
. Señor Mazella has been so kind to her. He even takes little Mark to play at the park. Little Mark calls him
Abuelito
—Grandpa.”

That was so not the picture I had of Ed. “What about Mrs. Mazella?”

Mrs. Lopez tapped the side of her head. “Trina said she’s
loca
.”

Crazy. That was one Spanish word I knew. “Is your daughter divorced or widowed, Mrs. Lopez?”

“She is a widow. Why?”

“I was just wondering if there was an ex-husband in the picture—someone who might have been angry about the way Mr. Ryson was treating her.”

She made the sign of the cross again. “Luis was killed in a car crash over a year ago. She didn’t tell you?”

No
one had told me. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard. How awful for Trina. And Luis was little Mark’s father, right?”

Whew. That was one question that I was very glad to have out of the way. “How long were Trina and Luis married?”

She had to think about it, counting back on her fingers. “It was four years ago that they got married. Such a beautiful ceremony, too.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, little Mark looked about three years old. Hmm. Had Marco been around then, or were those his Army Ranger years?

I glanced around, spotted a group of framed photos on an end table, and got up to look at them. Two were snapshots of Trina and her son, one was of Mrs. Lopez with Trina and Mark, and one was a posed photo of Trina, Mark, and a man who had an olive complexion, curly dark hair, and dark eyes—a grown-up version of little Mark. I picked it up. “Is this Luis?”

“Sí.”
She sighed longingly. “He was such a good man, and a handsome man, too. Luis, he was good to my Trina. He did everything for her. Now she must do it all herself. I hope someday she will find another man like him.”

I wondered whether either she or Trina was picturing Marco in that role. I set the frame on the table beside the others, satisfied that the names Mark and Marco were merely coincidence—plus I couldn’t think of any way to question her about it that tied into the murder investigation. “You have a beautiful grandson, Mrs. Lopez. He’ll grow up to be a fine man someday.”

As I drove back to New Chapel, I made a mental list of what I had learned from Juanita Lopez that would need further investigating and came up with a whopping two items. One: Trina hadn’t reached her mother’s house until after ten o’clock. Two: Trina was upset when she arrived. I wasn’t sure whether item two was even a legitimate concern. I would have been upset, too, if a friend of mine was putting himself into danger for me.

Item one was the clincher. Why had Trina waited so long to leave home?

T
here were a handful of customers shopping at Bloomers when I got back, some browsing the silk floral arrangements scattered throughout the store, one paying for a purchase, and one brave woman trying to convince the gentleman with her that she really needed a feathered fan. There was also a coating of neon-colored down on the floor, making the waxed wood as slick as an ice-skating rink, which I discovered when I slid from the door to the cash register. As my arms windmilled to keep my body upright, one thought screamed through my head—
lawsuits
! I had to get that floor cleaned before a customer took a nosedive.

Lottie didn’t even blink when I collided with the counter. She was busy ringing up a twig garland entwined with moss, cones, fungi, catkins, and bright pink heather for a young woman holding a four-year-old girl by the hand. The little girl had several bright green feathers clutched in a chubby fist and was using them as tiny whisk brooms to sweep out the contents of her nostrils. She and her mother seemed startled by my dramatic entrance.

In the parlor, Grace was pouring coffee for a group of women seated at a table in front of the big bay window, her nose screwed up as though she smelled something distasteful. Had something died behind the coffee counter overnight? It was an old building, but I thought my pest control was up-to-date.

I was about to glide across the room to investigate when I saw her put the pot back on the warmer, then scurry past me, through the shop, and into the workroom. I followed her, curious as to what she had smelled, only to find her blowing her nose. She threw the tissue in the trash can and turned toward me with a sigh. Her eyes were red, her nose was red, and she looked miserable.

“My sinuses are acting up today. There must be rain coming in.”

I was afraid what she really had was a case of featheritis, but I didn’t want to put any ideas in her head. “I’m sorry.”

Grace took her purse out of a cabinet over the work counter, pulled out a bottle of antihistamine, and proceeded to dispense two tiny red pills from it. “Perhaps this will solve the problem. I should have taken them earlier.”

She blew her nose again, then went to the kitchen to wash her hands, while I got a damp mop to clean the floor in the shop. I was going to have to do something to end Grace’s torture and eliminate any risk of customer injuries, but what was I going to do with all those fans and frames?

Once the floor was feather-free, I tackled the stack of orders on the spindle. Four were for Dennis Ryson’s funeral service that evening at the Happy Dreams Funeral Home. Wait. That evening? Could that be right?

I found the newspaper and checked the obits. The viewing was scheduled for seven o’clock with the service to start at eight. Wow. Someone was in a hurry to get Ryson buried. His mother? I’d have to check with the funeral director. Also, since the body had been released for burial, that meant the autopsy had been done, so hopefully Dave would have the results soon.

In the meantime, I had to get busy so I could get the arrangements delivered before Ryson’s friends and family arrived at seven. Hmm. Friends and family. A potential source of information. In fact, maybe that group would include former girlfriends. I’d have to drop by during the visitation to pay my respects—and see whether any young females driving a 1991 white Mustang with local plates had the same idea.

I checked the names on the four orders. The casket blanket had been ordered by Eve Taylor. The other arrangements were from “the gang at the motorcycle shop,” the Icing on the Cake Bakery, and someone who wanted the card signed, “Clowns-on-Call.”

By noon we had the arrangements ready to deliver. While Lottie loaded our rental van, I placed a phone call to the license bureau to talk to Eileen. After working my way through a confusing automated menu (I didn’t know anyone’s extension number; I didn’t want to hear anything in Spanish—unless they were teaching new cuss words; I didn’t want to report a lost license; and I certainly didn’t want to schedule a driving test), I finally reached a live person.

Fearing I’d be transferred back to the menu or put on hold, I said quickly, “Hi, I need to speak to Eileen. I’m a friend of hers and this is really important.”

“Eileen who?” a bored female asked.

“I don’t know her last name. How many Eileens work there?”

She stopped doing whatever was making a rasping noise, possibly filing her nails. “One.”

“That should make it easy, then, shouldn’t it?”

She didn’t seem to find that amusing. “Hold plea—” She punched a button before she’d even finished her sentence.

I stood up at my desk and reached for the cup of coffee on the worktable about two feet away from my fingertips. I stretched the cord as far as it would go, sliding the phone precariously close to the edge of the desk, and still no luck. I had just put down the handset when I heard, “This is Eileen. How may I help you? Hello?”

“Don’t hang up,” I yelled, grabbing the handset. “I’m here. Hi, Eileen. My name is Abby Knight, a friend of Marco Salvare’s. I own Bloomers—”

“On the square. Sure, I remember you. I worked here when your Corvette was in a hit-and-run accident last June.” She cupped a hand around the mouthpiece and whispered, “I got the information for Marco on the SUV that hit you.”

Good memory. And she’d heard of Bloomers, too. I liked this friend of Marco’s. “That was really super of you to help us out, Eileen. We were able to solve that case thanks to your information. And now I’m hoping you’ll help again.”

She whispered, “Is this for Marco?”

“Um . . . Well . . . I can’t really say. So let me just ask if you read about the Ryson murder in the newspaper?”

“Yes, and I saw Marco’s name in it. I think it’s terrible that the cops questioned him. He’s such a sweet guy.”

“So do you think you could give me a little help, like by looking up a car registration?”

“Hold on.”

I heard someone speaking to her, and her reply of “Okay, in a minute,” then she whispered again, “What do you need?”

“The names of everyone in the county owning a nineteen-ninety through ninety-two white Mustang.”

“It might take a few days. Is that okay?”

“The sooner the better, but whenever you can get to it is fine.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up. Give me your number, Abby.”

I rattled it off and listened as she repeated it. “That’s it. Thanks, Eileen. This could help me make a breakthrough on the case.”

“Tell Marco a lot of us are pulling for him.”

Wonderful. Marco had a fan club. As I hung up, Grace poked her head through the curtain. “Line two, dear. It’s Marco.”

Speak of the devil. If only I had some good news for him. I punched the button and forced a cheerful tone. “Hey. How’s it going?”

He grunted. That wasn’t a good sign. Neither were his brusque words. “Anything new to report?”

“I just talked to Eileen at the DMV and she’s going to do a database search on the Mustang. She said to tell you she and many others are pulling for you.”

“Did you get up to New Buffalo?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Mrs. Lopez is a very nice woman, and I got to see photos of Trina’s husband, Luis, who I was not aware died last year.”

“What about Trina?”

Marco had always been a cut-to-the-chase guy, but never more so than now. “One interesting item turned up. She didn’t arrive there until after ten o’clock Sunday night. So if she left her house around seven-thirty, why did it take her until ten o’clock to make an hour-and-fifteen-minute trip?”

“You’ll have to ask Trina. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

“It’s on my to-do list. I’m also going to pop into the Ryson funeral service this evening to see who turns up.”

“Good.”

“I’ll report back afterward.”

“Sure.”

The conversation was stilted and Marco seemed distant. It felt as though someone were sliding a wedge between us, and I didn’t like that at all. “Marco?”

“Hmm.”

“I need a little sunshine.”

“What?”

“You know . . . Sunshine?”

“I’m not getting it, Abby. What are you saying?”

Men. They can be so dense at times. “I’m sending you a metaphorical message. You haven’t called me Sunshine lately.”

There was a long pause; then he said in a discouraged voice, “I met with Dave today, and things aren’t looking good. The prosecutor isn’t even trying to find another suspect. It’s like the entire force of the government is focused on one guy—me. I honestly don’t think I have a fighting chance, Abby.”

I’d never heard him sound so down before. Marco had always been solid, confident—my rock. It tore at my heart. “Marco, you
do
have a fighting chance. You have me. I know you didn’t do this and I’m going to find the person who did. Just keep your hopes up.”

“I know how the system works, Abby. We have only a few days until the grand jury meets and not one good suspect has turned up.”

As if I needed a reminder. “I’ll come through for you. Just try to relax, okay? Remember this song.” I cupped my hand around the phone and crooned softly, “
I’ve got sunshine—on a cloudy day . . .
”

“It’s hard to find the sunshine when the clouds are so thick.”

Proving that he could make metaphors, too. “I’m right here, Marco.”

“Hang in there with me, okay? This isn’t easy.”

“Of course I’ll hang in there. You’ve been there for me, haven’t you? I believe in you, Marco. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I hope
you
never forget it.”

It was my turn to pause. “What?”

“I’ll call you.” He hung up, leaving me to puzzle over his words.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lottie said, coming through the curtain. “Why is that wrinkle in your forehead back?”

“Because I’ll never understand men.”

“Sweetie, join the club.”

We both had a laugh at that, only mine was forced because inside I wasn’t laughing at all. What had Marco meant? Was there a reason I might stop believing in him?