Acts of Violets (19 page)

To think that for fifteen hours I had managed to block out my mother’s art projects. “We’re having a special sale on feathered items this week, Jingles. Would your wife like a pretty fan? Or how about a frame for that special grandchild’s photo? I can let you have one for a real bargain.”

He shook his head once to the right and once to the left. “No, ma’am, thank you anyway. My wife’s allergic to feathers. That’s why we got rid of our chicken coop. I sure do miss those fresh eggs, though.”

His shoulders went up, then down, in a silent sigh; then he returned to his task without another word. Jingles was not given to much chatter. I wished him a good day, unlocked the door, turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN (it was almost nine o’clock), and stepped into my rose-scented haven where, no matter how bad things got, I could share my worries with Grace and Lottie and find solace.

But today I didn’t feel like sharing, and that made me grumpy. Honestly, what would I tell them?
“Guess what? That hunk I’m crazy about has been keeping secrets from me.”
I didn’t want two of the most important women in my life to think badly of the most important man in my life. What if the women advised me to cut and run?

I forced a cheerful tone in my voice and called out, “Good morning, ladies.” A gust of wind swept in with me, causing various feathered objects to shiver off about a pound of colored particles before I could shut the door. I coughed as I made my way to the parlor, where Grace had my usual cup of coffee with a hearty shot of half-and-half waiting.

“Look. I brought a surprise for you and Lottie.” I put the white box on the counter, then accepted the cup and saucer and took a sip as Grace dabbed the corners of her eyes with a white handkerchief. “Are you all right, Grace?”

“I must be coming down with a cold. My eyes keep watering and my throat feels scratchy.”

It wasn’t a cold. It was the feathers, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Should I promise to get rid of the stuff and run the risk of permanently damaging my mother’s psyche, or say nothing and let Grace suffer? And what would I do with all those feathered objects, anyway?

As my conscience deliberated, Grace untied the string and peeked inside the box. “Oh, how lovely.”

“The flowers on top are edible.”

“Remarkable. Shall we save it for lunch?”

“Works for me.” I finished the last drop of java, put my cup in the sink behind the coffee counter and headed for the workroom, where Lottie was filling a wicker cornucopia with artificial fruit and silk flowers in the reds and golds of autumn.

“Morning, sweetie. What’s the news from the bakery?”

She smiled at me, and I had to look away on the pretense of putting my purse on my desk and checking the spindle for orders. I simply couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Marco’s subterfuge. “I bought a cake for you and Grace. You’ll have to go take a look. It’s decorated with edible flowers.”

“Well, isn’t that thoughtful? I’ve seen those cakes but never bought one. My boys would have it devoured before I got the string off the box. Now, you want to tell me what brought about that new wrinkle in your forehead?”

With my back toward her, I pushed against the tattle-tale crease between my eyes. “I didn’t get some information that I’d hoped for.”

“Well, like my mama always said, every path has a few puddles. You just gotta pull on your rubber galoshes and wade through them.”

If only it were that simple. I eyed the clock, wishing Marco would return my call.

Grace stuck her head through the curtain. “Sgt. Reilly is here to see you, Abby.”

For once that was good news. As I followed Grace to the parlor, she whispered, “I tried to seat him near the bay window but he insisted on a corner table.”

“It’s a cop thing, Grace. They like to keep their backs to the wall and their eyes on the room.” Plus, I knew Reilly was skittish anyway about coming to see me and would prefer to keep a low profile.

“Morning, Sarge.” I pulled out a chair and sat across from him. He was in his police uniform—a light blue shirt and dark slacks, his belt loaded with the standard police paraphernalia and his badge shiny above his shirt pocket flap. His face was smoothly shaved and, judging by the scent, splashed with a little Old Spice. His hat was hanging on his knee, which was bouncing up and down, probably due to nerves.

As Grace set out a basket of the light butter cookies she called biscuits, I said. “Reilly, what would you like? It’s on the house.”

“Coffee, please—black.”

I asked for an espresso—I was feeling the need for extra caffeine—and when Grace went to fill the orders, I pushed the basket toward Reilly. “Cookie?”

He took one and munched on it. “Very good,” he mumbled, brushing crumbs off his mouth. He finished the treat, then glanced around as though he were looking for an escape hatch. “I wish to hell I knew what I was doing here.”

The parlor was empty, so I didn’t have to lower my voice. “You’re here to save your friend’s skin, that’s what.”

“I’ve already told you I can’t get into the file. I don’t know what more I can do.”

“Come on, Reilly. You didn’t stop by here just to tell me you can’t help.”

He scowled at me until Grace brought our coffees; then he took a sip and his face smoothed out. “This is really good.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Grace beamed proudly as she headed for the shop in response to the jingle of the bell over the door.

Reilly put down his cup, crossed his arms over his chest, and resumed his scowling. “I came here out of courtesy to you, Abby. That’s it.”

“I appreciate the courtesy, but I need more than that. I found out this morning that Marco has a history with Ryson, and now I understand why he’s the focus of the investigation. Would you please tell me about the convenience store robbery and Ryson’s arrest?”

He rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. “Why don’t you ask Marco?”

“I’d like to get your take on it first.”

Reilly peered at me over his thumb. “You don’t think he’ll tell you, do you?”

“Of course he’ll tell me. It’s not that. I just can’t figure out why he didn’t level with me right away.”

“There could be a number of reasons he didn’t want you to know. Marco always plays it close to the chest—you know that.”

“Yeah. The strong silent type—not always a plus. Would you please tell me what happened?”

Reilly picked up his cup and sipped his coffee for a moment, as though trying to refresh his memory. “I’m not sure of the details anymore, but this is how I remember it. We got a ten-forty from a store and Marco was the first responder. He called in that he’d sighted a perp in a ski mask run out the door and head east carrying a paper bag. Marco gave chase on foot and finally caught up with him in the woods east of the university campus, where the perp gave him a full confession, even telling him where he dropped the sack of cash.”

“The perp was Dennis Ryson?”

“Right.”

“Then it wasn’t a false arrest?”

“Who told you it was?”

“Ryson’s mother.”

“His mother is living?”

“Since I don’t regularly communicate with the dead, yes. She lives right here in town, as a matter of fact.”

“If you say so. I don’t remember any family members in that case.”

“Who’d lie about being Dennis Ryson’s mother? Her name is Eve Taylor—that’s her business name. She owns the Icing on the Cake. I just talked to her this morning.”

“Like I said, my memory isn’t that great. But I can tell you for sure, it wasn’t a false arrest. Marco didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.”

“Was Ryson convicted?”

“It never went to trial. There were no witnesses who could identify him, and since Marco didn’t have anything for Ryson to sign to verify his statement at the time of the arrest, the prosecutor wouldn’t touch it.” Reilly’s lips pressed into a hard line; he was obviously still angry about it. I could only imagine how Marco had felt.

“Then that bastard had the nerve to sue,” Reilly continued. “He claimed he hadn’t confessed to anything or had his rights read to him.”

“That’s crazy. Marco wouldn’t have forgotten to read him his rights.”

“Of course it’s crazy. So was Ryson—crazy like a fox.”

“Why would the prosecutor take his word over Marco’s?”

“Come on, Abby. You know Darnell. He’s one of those sticklers for detail who has to have every
i
dotted and
t
crossed. Plus, Ryson claimed that Marco broke his jaw and a few of his ribs, and you know how people react to any hint of police brutality. So they settled with him out of court.”

“Did you see Ryson when Marco brought him into the station? Did he look like he’d been beaten?”

“I wasn’t on duty that night.” Reilly shifted in his chair. “You have to understand, Abby; sometimes it takes a little force to subdue a perp.”

“Broken ribs and a broken jaw are not the result of a
little
force. That’s not something Marco would do.”

Reilly’s whole body tensed up as if I had just insulted him. “I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is that sometimes extra force is necessary for the perp’s protection as well as for ours. You know from hearing your dad’s stories that these jerks can get so wacked out they’re dangerous. Now, whether the battery charges were valid or not, I can’t tell you because I didn’t see Ryson until after he’d spent the night in jail. It wasn’t his first time there, either, by the way. He could have got into it with his cell mate that night, or maybe he started something with Marco and they both ended up with broken ribs. Remember, the guy was a punk, a troublemaker from day one.”

Reilly certainly painted a different picture of Ryson than Eve had. Then again, she was his mother. Her version had Dennis as a sweet boy who liked cakes and clowns. “What was Ryson’s defense?”

“That he had walked in on a robbery in progress, and when the alarm went off, the robber shoved the bag at him and fled. Ryson saw the cop car pull up and thought he’d be blamed because of his priors, so he took off.”

“How did he explain his ski mask?”

“The mask was never found. So Ryson, who had a rap sheet as long as my arm, walked.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the way the legal system works, Reilly. Look what happened to my dad.”

“Yeah, well, it still sucks.”

“I won’t argue with you there. But if the arrest was a valid one, why was Marco kicked off the force?”

“Did Ryson’s mother tell you that, too? Marco wasn’t kicked off . . . but he might as well have been. Kellerman gave him a reprimand and it cut his heart out. Two weeks later, Marco turned in his badge and gun and disappeared for a few months. Next thing I know, he’s back in town working as a PI. Then he bought the bar and you know the rest.”

Reilly paused for another sip of coffee. “The whole thing is a crying shame. Marco made a damned fine cop. He would’ve had quite a career ahead of him, but one scumbag ruined it all.”

“Are you talking about Ryson or Kellerman?”

Reilly glanced at me but didn’t answer.

“Okay, tell me about Chief Kellerman.”

“I thought you knew all about him.”

“Not about his relationship with Marco.”

Reilly leaned back, his leather belt creaking. “Kellerman was Marco’s watch commander at the time of the robbery. They were always butting heads. Marco hoped to eventually make detective, but he wasn’t one for rules, as you know, and Kellerman seemed to get a lot of enjoyment out of sending Marco on the worst assignments, always trying to push his buttons.”

“Why?”

“Could’ve been some jealousy behind it. Marco was well regarded and Kellerman was an ass. Still is, for that matter. Don’t forget, Marco had been a Ranger, and everyone looked up to him. Maybe Kellerman was afraid Marco would make detective before he did. All I know is that there was no love lost between them.”

I finished off my espresso and put the cup and saucer to the side. “Do you think one reason Marco is a suspect is because of Kellerman’s dislike of him?”

“I can’t answer that because I don’t know what evidence they have on him.”

“According to Dave, it’s circumstantial at this point, but there’s a lot of it. He was seen at Ryson’s house and freely admitted he and Ryson got into it—and has the bruises to show it. Then there’s the scuffle they had after the parade.”

“That damned scuffle. You know how bad that looks? First thing a detective would think is that Marco went back to finish what he started at the parade.”

Another strike against Marco. “Are they looking at any other suspects, Reilly?”

“I don’t know.” His knee started to bob again.

“Any way you can find out?”

“Not if I want to keep my job.”

“Have you been out to Ryson’s house?”

“Yeah, I was there when the crime scene team went through.”

“Did you see anything that might point to someone other than Marco being there?”

“That’s not my area of expertise.” He glanced at his watch, downed the last drop of his coffee, and rose, settling his hat on his head. “I’d suggest checking with your friend in the prosecutor’s office.”

As much as I disliked the thought, Reilly was right. It was time to bring Greg Morgan onto the team. I just needed to figure out how.

In high school Morgan had been the star quarterback on the football team, endowed with the prerequisite agility and speed, along with dimples, blue eyes, and a cheerleader-girlfriend, while I had been a short, flatchested, freckle-faced redhead who couldn’t have coordinated two pom-poms to save my life. Back then he had treated me as if I didn’t exist, but now, for some reason, he had developed an interest in me. I wasn’t sure why—after all, other than my chest measurements, what had changed? Nevertheless, I milked that interest whenever I needed his help. I figured it was payback for all those snubs I’d gotten from him.