Acts of Violets (21 page)

“My point is, Trina could have killed Ryson, then raced up to her mother’s house.”

“So she left her son home alone, watched for Salvare to leave, snuck into Ryson’s house and struck a fatal blow, then ran back across the street to get her son and drive up to Michigan?”

“Why not?”

“When the cops got there, the front and back doors were locked. How did she get in?”

“Maybe she knew where a key was hidden.”

He scoffed at me. “Completely implausible, Abby. There’s simply no evidence to support her being there.”

“I’ll just have to get the evidence, then, won’t I?”

Morgan had been about to take another bite, but at that, he put down the burger. “I get it now. This isn’t about satisfying your curiosity. You’re working for Salvare.”

It had taken him long enough to figure that out. Then again, no one had ever accused Morgan of being quick. If I’d wanted to, I could charm my way out of it again, but I was tired of making excuses. “You know how strongly I feel about justice, and if there was ever a time I’d fight for it, this is it.”

“If I were you, I’d tread carefully, Abby. You know the law.”

How many times was I going to hear that? “Marco is innocent, Greg. I’d bet anything on it. He went to Ryson’s to have a friendly chat with him because a childhood friend was being harassed. That doesn’t make him a killer.”

“He might not have intended to kill Ryson, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t deliver the fatal blow.”

“No way. Ryson was alive when Marco left.”

“Have you considered that he might have died
after
Salvare left?”

“Of course I’ve considered it. I’m not stupid. All I’m saying is that the prosecutor can’t rule out other suspects. It’s too early. Can’t you quietly tell the detectives to at least take another look at the next-door neighbor?”

“I can’t, Abby.”

“Why not?”

“Short answer?” He glanced over his shoulders, then leaned in close. “Martin Kellerman.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him, too. What kind of hold does this man have on everyone, Greg?”

Morgan turned red in the face. “He doesn’t have a hold on me and I’m not afraid of him, but I’m not an idiot, either. Look, if you can bring me some concrete evidence, I’ll make sure it gets to Mel, but that’s all I can promise. And the sooner you do it, the better.”

I jammed one last fry in my mouth, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table, and stood up. “Fine. I’ll see you in a few days, Greg,
with
the evidence.”

F
ifteen minutes later, I parked the Vette in front of the Mazellas’ tidy, white-frame two-story and got out. From that vantage point I had a clear view of Trina’s house, driveway, and garage—and that meant Ed and his wife would have, too. Perfect. Hopefully, one of them had seen Trina leave her house Sunday evening and noted the time. Also perfect was that Ed’s black tow truck wasn’t in the driveway. As soon as I talked to Trina, I wanted to question Eudora without Ed there to protect her.

With my purse over my shoulder, I got out of the car and headed toward Trina’s house. I had barely stepped onto her front porch when the door opened and Miss Split Ends herself stepped out, spitting mad and ready to do battle with me.

“You had the nerve to question my mother?” she hissed in my face, pulling the door shut behind her as tiny tots in the background began to howl. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea how upsetting that was for her?”

“I didn’t say anything to upset her, and she was very gracious. I explained that it was just part of the investigation, nothing personal. She was fine with that.”

“Nothing personal? When you harass my mother
I
take it personally. Next time you want to know something, you ask
me
, got it?”

Boy, did she set herself up, or what? “Got it. So how about telling me what time you really left to go to your mother’s house Sunday night?”

She drew back, blinking in surprise.”I told you it was around seven thirty.”

“
Around
seven thirty?”

“When Marco told me to leave I wasn’t exactly thinking about the time. I was thinking about getting my son away before something happened. In case you haven’t figured this out already, Ryson was a dangerous, demented freak.”

“Okay, let’s say it was seven thirty. You didn’t arrive in New Buffalo until after ten o’clock, which would be after nine o’clock our time.”

“So?”

“It took you an hour and forty minutes to drive there?”

She blinked again, clearly flustered. “It might have. My engine light came on, and I had to find a gas station that was open on a Sunday evening to have it checked out.”

Not very original as far as excuses went. “Do you remember the name of this station and where it was?”

“What is it with you? Are you trying to blame me for Ryson’s murder?” She pointed to herself. “
I’m
the victim here.
I
asked Marco to take care of Ryson because I was afraid of the bastard. Do you actually think I’d be stupid enough to try to deal with that creep myself?”

“But you did try, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“You went to the motorcycle shop and confronted him. The guys he worked with told me about it.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, I went there—during the day, when lots of people were around. What does that prove?”

“Actually, it was after five o’clock, when most of them were gone for the day.”

“I couldn’t go earlier,” she sneered. “I had to wait until my kids’ parents had come for them.”

“Did you tell the police about your confrontation?”

“They never asked.”

Gee, there was a surprise.

With a furious scowl she stepped back inside and closed the door in my face. Well, tough luck, toots. It would take more than a door to stop me. I turned to walk away, then heard the door open again.

“It was Jake’s BP Amoco.” This time she not only shut it, but kicked it as well. That was quite a temper she had.

“I’ll check it out,” I called, pulling out my cell phone.

As I headed across the street I dialed Bloomers and got Grace. “Would you find the phone number and the location of a gas station called Jake’s BP Amoco, please, and see if they have any records of servicing a car for a Trina Vasquez on Sunday night? I’m not sure where the station is. Somewhere between here and New Buffalo.”

“Certainly, dear. I’ll get right on it.”

Take that, Trina.
I put the phone away and stopped at my car to retrieve the bouquet of white and yellow mums that I’d picked up at Bloomers earlier. Now to see whether the reclusive Eudora would talk to me.

Making sure the flowers were visible, I rang the bell and caught a ripple in the drape at the front window. Was she watching me? I waited a moment, rang again, then rapped the wood with my knuckles. “Mrs. Mazella? I have a flower delivery for you.”

Nothing. Maybe she’d be more favorable to visitors at the back door.

I walked around the house and knocked again. “Mrs. Mazella, I’m Abby Knight from Bloomers Flower Shop. I brought you some beautiful mums.”

Inside, I heard a soft flutter of cloth, as though someone had shaken a sheet. Then a muffled voice said, “Why?”

“I was hoping you could answer some questions about your neighbor, Trina.”

“Is she in trouble?” This was asked more in curiosity than concern.

“No, Trina is fine, but there’s some discrepancy about where she was Sunday night. I thought maybe you’d recall what time she left her house.”

She muttered something, but I couldn’t make out the words.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Maybe if you’d open the door?”

“Are you clean?”

What did that have to do with anything? I checked my clothing for soil smudges, then my hands, to make sure I didn’t have ketchup on my fingers. “Yes. All clean.”

The door opened a crack, sending a waft of sage-scented air my way; then a muted voice said, “Turn around.”

I obliged, holding my arms away from my body.

“Step inside,” the voice commanded. “Hurry. Before they come.” The door opened just enough for me to squeeze through.

Before
they
come? Feeling as though something was about to attack me from behind, I walked into a kitchen that was shuttered from all daylight. Around the room, tall white candle pillars flickered from the sudden movement of air, casting wavering shadows on the walls and filling the room with the scent of hot wax. A long plant light beneath a row of cabinets hummed as it diffused a blue-white glow on clay pots overflowing with herbs. I spotted basil, oregano, parsley, thyme, and sage among them.

Beyond the plants sat a row of small glass jars filled with what appeared to be dried herbs, and a stainless steel mortar and pestle, possibly for pulverizing the herbs. More bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling in various stages of drying. An enormous schefflera stretched over the top of an old white refrigerator, completely filling one corner of the kitchen, and a treelike plant of another sort—maybe an aralia—filled the opposite corner, its big, multifingered leaves trembling from the disturbed stillness in the room.

Hearing the door shut and a bolt slide into place, I spun around and immediately stepped back with a gasp. If this was Eudora Mazella, Trina had been right about her. She was definitely odd, starting with her huge wooden mask painted with a frightening, warriorlike face. If that wasn’t eerie enough, she also had on a white, ankle-length, terry cloth bathrobe—worn backward and tied at the waist—with two heavy gold pendants around her neck, one with a Celtic cross on it, the other one the yin-yang symbol. Her feet were protected by soft white shoe covers, such as hospital workers used, the total outfit shielding her from the top of her skull to the bottom of her feet.

At once she tossed something ashy over me. I coughed and blinked, brushing pale green particles from the front of my shirt, then lifted my fingers to sniff them. Sage? She circled around me, chanting something in a language that sounded like Latin as she waved a smoking bundle of herbs in the air over my head.

Maybe I should have stayed outside.

I inched closer to the door. “You know, if this isn’t a good time to talk, I can always come back later.”

Her incantations halted. She thrust a long index finger toward her kitchen table. “Have a seat.”

Figuring I had nothing to gain by running away, I perched on a straight-backed oak chair and pushed the bundle of flowers toward the middle, as though I were offering up a sacrifice. She stretched a robed arm around me, plucked the bouquet from the table, and held it up to the eye holes on her mask. Satisfied, she took the flowers to her sink and began to chant softly as she filled a vase with water.

“Nice selection of herbs you’re growing over there,” I commented.

She brought the vase to the table and took a seat opposite me, where she watched me silently, making me feel like a bug in a jar.

“Your schefflera is certainly a fine specimen. You must have a green thumb.”

Silence.

“Is that other plant an aralia? I’m not familiar with it.”

“Castor bean.”

“Interesting. I’ve never seen a castor bean plant up close.” I turned for a better look. I’d never heard of a castor bean plant being grown indoors. The shrubby foliage was usually found in a landscape setting, and even then, people tended to remove them because of the danger of a pet ingesting the toxic seeds. The oil from the bean, however, was very useful, although Grace had told me a few horror stories from her childhood about being dosed with castor oil to clean out her insides. The weekly purging, she had called it.

I folded my hands on the table, not sure what to say next. Trying to talk to someone wearing a tribal mask was disconcerting to say the least, and the mask was proving to be the proverbial elephant in the room. Did I pretend it wasn’t there or ask why it was?

What the heck. “That’s quite a mask you have on. Is it African?”

She said nothing. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to notice.

“Anyway, the reason I’m here—”

“You have a healthy aura.”

I blinked several times. “I don’t get that often, but thanks.”

“Not many people have a healthy aura.”

“I see. Well, that’s good to know.” I waited a moment to be sure she was finished. I had a feeling my chances of having a normal conversation with her were remote. “Okay, then. Can you tell me if you saw Trina leave her house Sunday night?”

“Trina has a disruptive aura.”

“You know, I sensed that about her.”

“She’s not good for that little boy, either. Mark would better off with his father, Luis.”

“Please correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Luis, well, dead?”

Through the holes I saw Eudora’s eyes crinkle and knew she was smiling. “Luis is here with us right now.”