Acts of Violets (16 page)

Cobra Man rubbed his whiskered chin. “Tough dude. He busted my chops a few times.”

“Salvare was okay,” Gold Finger said to him. “He was on the up-and-up.”

“That’s exactly why I’m investigating. Why would someone like Salvare commit a cowardly act of murder?” I let them digest that a moment. “It sounds to me like he’s being railroaded. You guys know how the system works. The DA finds a guy to pin it on; then he doesn’t have to look any further.”

“Yeah, but the newspaper said Salvare was at Denny’s house right before the cops got there,” Cobra Man pointed out.

“It’s circumstantial, guys. That doesn’t mean he killed Denny.” I did a quick check of the time—yikes, it was almost eight o’clock—and forged ahead, talking fast. “You know, if Denny were my friend I’d want to see justice done. I mean, think about it. If the prosecutor indicts Salvare and they put him away because of some flimsy, circumstantial evidence, someone out there is going to get away with murder. So, come on, help me out. Is there anybody you can think of who might have had a beef with him, like a former girlfriend, or an angry customer . . .”

“Well . . . there was this chick who came to see Denny at work last week,” Gold Finger said. “She was really pissed off at him.”

Hmm. The mystery girlfriend, perhaps? “What day was that?” I asked him.

“Last Tuesday. Denny and I stayed late to work on a ’ninety-five Harley. So this chick comes tearing into the garage in these boots with, like, five-inch heels—man, one kick with those suckers and you’d be singing soprano. She cussed Denny up one side and down the other. Said if he ever came near her again, she’d kill him.”

“Did you get her name?”

He scratched a thick sideburn. “I think Denny called her Trina. Yeah, that was the name.”

Trina had confronted Dennis Ryson, the man she feared? Why hadn’t she told me?

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Max at the front of the room getting ready to start the service. I pulled more business cards out of my purse and passed them around.

“You guys have been great. If you think of anything else that might help me crack open this case, or anyone who might have had a grudge against Dennis, will you let me know?”

Cobra Man tucked the card in his pants pocket. “Yeah, we can do that. And next time you need a tune-up, you come see me.” He gave me a lecherous wink, then followed his buddies into the back row of folding chairs.

Right. Like I’d let him touch
my
spark plugs.

As I headed toward one doorway, four women entered the parlor from the other and lined up in front of the casket. They all wore dark dresses, two had on black hats, and one had covered her head with an old-fashioned scarf—what Nikki’s grandmother always called a babushka. I was guessing one of the ladies was Ryson’s mother, but none of them stood out as the obvious choice. No one began to sob or did anything else that might be expected from a mother who’d just lost her son. Instead, they turned and took seats in the front row.

Max cleared his throat, darting a glance my way, as if to say,
“If you’re going to stay, please take a seat.”

As much as I would have liked to stick around to question Ryson’s mother after the service, I couldn’t bring myself to put her through such an ordeal. I walked up the hallway and into the reception area just as the front door opened and two men in their late twenties or early thirties hurried in. They nodded to me as they passed, then slipped into parlor B.

I headed for the small front foyer and pushed on the old wooden door to go outside, but it wouldn’t budge. That was odd. It had worked fine for the two who’d just entered. I grabbed the handle with both hands and tried again, but it still wouldn’t give, so I stepped back, hit it with my shoulder, and—
bang
! The door flew open and I stumbled outside, nearly falling over a young woman who sat on the sidewalk gaping up at me, legs sprawled, as if she’d fallen backward.

“I’m so sorry,” I cried, helping her to her feet, which was more of a task than I’d imagined. She was very solidly built. “I thought the door was stuck.”

She laughed, then in a soft southern drawl said, “Ah did, too.”

She had a wide, square face, upturned nose, and big, expressive brown eyes. Hmm. Young woman . . . Ryson’s funeral . . . his ex-girlfriend? She straightened her navy jacket and brushed off the back of her navy skirt.

Her face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Do I know you?”

She gave me an skeptical look. “Ah don’t remember ever meetin’ y’all.”

“I’m Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop on the square.”

I was hoping she’d reciprocate with her name, but all she said was, “Ah’ve been there a few times. Pretty little shop.”

“Thanks.” I stood directly in front of her, blocking the path to the door, hoping I could get more information before she went inside. “Are you here for the Ryson funeral?”

She grimaced as though the subject was distasteful. “Ah sure wish Ah could say no to that.”

“Were you a friend of Dennis’s?”

“Now, there’s a
no
Ah’m delighted to say.”

She wasn’t a friend, and was quite glad of it, yet she’d come to his funeral service. Sounded like an ex-girlfriend to me. The test would be the car in the parking lot, but, as I discovered when I glanced to my right, I couldn’t see the lot from where I stood.

She checked her watch as though she was in a hurry, so I said, “I’d better let you go inside. The service is about ready to start.”

“Oh, no. That’s all right. Ah’m waitin’ for someone. Ah hope he gets here soon. Ah hate funerals enough as it is.”

“So, how did you know Dennis?”

“Ah worked with him,” she said vaguely, glancing toward the parking lot.

“At the motorcycle shop?”

“No, as a performer.”

A performer? Aha! I had it. She was in the clown troupe. And since there’d been only one female clown, I knew exactly who she was. “I saw you last Saturday in the parade. You had a purple lily on your hat.”

“Ah surely did. How quaint that you remembered my hat.”

“I never forget a flower.”

She laughed, a deep throaty laugh, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. Over her shoulder I saw a tall man come striding around the corner from Franklin Street. “Lily!” he called.

Her name was Lily? Well, that explained the flower.

The young woman turned toward him, hands on her hips. “There you are, Trent! Ah’d just about given up on you.”

“Sorry I’m late. Are Gil and Brad here?”

“Their cars are here,” she replied. “They must be inside.”

I was guessing she meant the two guys who’d arrived earlier. Maybe they were also in the troupe.

“Pleasure to meet you, Abby,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying away.

“Same here, Lily.”

I immediately headed for the parking lot, where I found five gleaming Harley-Davidsons and a few nondescript older cars—but not a rusty white Mustang in sight. Damn.

Sitting in my Vette, I checked my cell phone for messages and was disappointed to see that neither Dave Hammond nor Marco had called. I’d been hoping Dave would have phoned with the autopsy results, and of course I always wanted to hear from Marco. I hit Marco’s speed dial button but got his voice mail, so I headed for Down the Hatch to try to catch him there.

“He went home,” Chris told me when I dashed in. “Said he had to handle a family matter.”

Another family matter? What was going on?

Hmm. There was one sure way to find out.

M
arco lived in an apartment above a white aluminum-sided home on Napoleon, a quiet, tree-lined, residential street near the town square. The house had a big screened-in porch across the front and a garage in back for the landlord’s use only, so I could tell immediately that Marco was home because his black and silver Toyota Prius was there. As I got out of the Vette, I noticed a 2001 Buick LeSabre parked almost nose to nose with the Prius. Did he have company?

Inside the long porch, I checked the name above the buzzer beside the first door—it wasn’t Marco’s—then went to the second door, saw SALVARE, and pushed the button. I had never seen the inside of Marco’s apartment for the simple reason that he had never invited me there, and I wasn’t one to drop by someone’s place unannounced. Blame it on my upbringing.

I wasn’t sure
why
Marco had never invited me to his place, unless he was one of those clothes-all-over-the-floor, dirty-dishes-in-the-sink types. Somehow I couldn’t see him being that way, but who knew?

After a moment I heard footsteps pounding down the stairs; then the door opened and Marco stood there in all his hunkiness—snug-fitting, ribbed navy tank top that showed off those rippled abs, tan cargo pants that rode low on his hips, and bare feet.

I lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, there.”

He gazed at me as if I’d just flopped out of a fish tank dripping green algae. Obviously he wasn’t as pleased to see me as I was to see him. He stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s been a long day.”

“No problem. I just came from the funeral home and thought I’d report in.”

He hesitated. “Sure. Okay. I’ll get my shoes and be right down. We can go get coffee or something.”

“Or we can just stay here and talk.”

He started to say something, then signaled for me to wait a minute, slipped back inside the door, and shut it behind him, as though afraid I would try to follow. Feeling a little hurt, I left the porch and went to wait by my car. As I cut across the lawn I spotted that LeSabre again and detoured around it to check out the license plate. Ohio. Hmm. Hadn’t Marco told me his mother had moved to Ohio? But if she was staying with him, why wouldn’t he want me to know?

I had just slid into the Vette when Marco came jogging out, a denim shirt thrown over his navy tank and a pair of black flip-flops on his feet. He climbed into the passenger side, fastened his seat belt, and glanced at me. “All set?”

“All set.” I started the engine. “Do you have company?”

“Why?”

I hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “That Buick with Ohio plates.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s my mother’s car.”

“Your mother is visiting? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’d want to meet her, and now isn’t the best time. My sister Gina is there, too, and things are a little tense between them. Gina hasn’t been feeling well, and Mama thinks she should step in—confer with the doctor, order tests—you know how heated those mother-daughter conflicts can be.”

“Gee, no. Tell me about it.” I pulled away from the curb and headed for the Daily Grind coffee shop about five blocks away. “Is that the family matter you left work to handle?”

“That’s one of them.”

“The other one is your situation?”

“You got it. Mom says they’ll arrest me only over her dead body. Try to imagine what your mother would be like, then add a dose of Italian passion.”

I couldn’t help but shudder. Marco had my sympathies.

On the short trip to the coffee shop I gave him a rundown of my conversation with the five grease monkeys, ending it with the startling revelation of Trina’s visit to Ryson at the motorcycle shop. I pulled into a parking space along Lincoln and turned off the motor, then sat there waiting for Marco’s reaction, but he merely opened the door and got out. That was odd. Surely he had to be somewhat astonished.

Inside the brightly painted coffee shop, with its mismatched wooden tables and chairs, soft lighting, and crowd of students from the university campus, we found a table in the back; then Marco went up to place our order and came back with two steaming cups of coffee. “Did you learn anything else?”

Still no comment about Trina’s behavior. As I stirred sugar into my coffee and dumped in two of the tiny thimbles full of half and half, I told him about meeting Lily outside the funeral home.

“Sounds like Lily needs further investigation,” Marco said. “It’ll be interesting to see if she owns that white Mustang.”

“That reminds me. I haven’t heard back from Eileen at the DMV.”

“She’ll call soon. She always comes through for me. Do you know the name of the clown troupe?”

“Clowns-on-Call.” I blew steam away from my cup, then took a drink. “So what do you think about Trina’s visit to the motorcycle shop?”

He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “You’re itching to pin this on her, aren’t you?”

My cheeks instantly grew hot. “That is totally untrue. I don’t care who the suspect is as long as it’s someone other than you. And please, you have to admit it’s odd that she would seek out Ryson and threaten to kill him when she claimed to be scared to death of him. Add that to the puzzle of why she waited so long to leave her house Sunday night—and tell me I shouldn’t be suspicious.”