Acts of Violets (25 page)

“
T
ell me what else you found out,” Marco said as we buckled ourselves into his Prius. “I’m guessing you had a chat with Reilly.”

“I did?” My thoughts were so wrapped up in the forthcoming dinner with his mother that I had totally spaced out. “Oh, right, about that. I know you told me to leave him out, but I ran into him at the Pickle Polka and somehow the subject of Snuggles the Clown just sort of, well, came up. Not that it put his job on the line or anything. He’s way too smart for that. But he did mention something I’d meant to ask you about before. Remember that scuffle you had with Snuggles at the end of the parade? What was that about?”

“It was about him being paranoid, that’s all. He spotted me in the crowd and came at me, raving something about me following him and being out for his blood. Luckily, one of the parade cops witnessed it and had him taken in.”

“Was he drunk?”

Marco glanced at me with one of his
get real
looks. “It
was
the Pickle Fest.”

“But you
were
following him.”

“I was looking for an opportunity to talk to him.”

“And you thought that opportunity would be at the end of a parade?”

“Do you always know when an opportunity will present itself?”

“You’re right. Okay, one more question, just so I can clarify this in my mind. Why did you end up confronting Ryson at his house?”

“It sure as hell wasn’t my idea. I’d hoped to catch him at a bar or a pool hall, or wherever he usually hung out. But for some reason, he hunkered down in that house the rest of the weekend. He came out only one time, and that was Sunday evening when he saw me talking to Trina.”

“Do you think he knew you were tailing him?”

“No way.”

“So you watched him from the time you saw him at the parade on Saturday morning until you left his house Sunday evening?”

“Except for about an hour Saturday afternoon, when I saw you and Nikki.”

We were two blocks from his apartment. I rolled my shoulders to ease the tension. Why had I agreed to this dinner again?

“What else did Ryson’s mother tell you?” Marco asked.

“That her son was a sweet boy who loved being a clown and always looked forward to the special cakes she brought him. I couldn’t believe we were talking about the same person. And here’s something else. She said Trina led Ryson on, as if she were asking for the harassment, and that she wouldn’t be surprised if Trina was in on the murder.”

“You’re kidding me. In on it with whom?”

“You. That was when she told me about her son’s so-called false arrest.”

“Do you know how long Mrs. Ryson has owned the bakery?”

“She goes by the name Eve Taylor. She’s owned the bakery less than a year, but she did some catering from the house she had out in the country.”

“Taylor. Hmm. Okay, anything else to report?”

“Let’s see. I also paid a visit to Eudora Mazella, Ryson’s next-door neighbor, a woman who is heavily into the paranormal. She tossed ashes on me, did a lot of chanting, and told me Dennis Ryson had an evil spirit. Did you know that Dennis is
Sinned
backward? Anyway, when I asked her if she knew who killed him, she freaked out. It wasn’t pretty.”

“What’s your take on her?”

“Eudora is a strange woman, but is she a killer? I suppose she could have gone off the deep end. Then there’s her husband, who
really
hated Ryson. Both of them had the opportunity to get into the house after you left, do the dirty deed,
then
call the cops. But I’m not sure she’s sane enough or he’s clever enough to pull that off.”

“It had to be someone Ryson knew,” Marco said. “According to Dave, the cops didn’t find any evidence of a break-in, which means that Ryson opened the door for his killer.”

“Unless someone had his house key—like a former girlfriend or his mother. I’ll check it out.”

We were moments away from his apartment, and I was starting to perspire. Why had I worn this shirt today? It looked horrible with my hair color and probably had ash on it. Oh, no! Was there ash on my face? I pulled down the visor to check the mirror. Okay, no ash, and my coloring wasn’t too high if I squinted to block out the freckles. Lip gloss would definitely be an improvement. I opened my purse and dug through it.

“You want to tell me about your lunch with Morgan now?”

I glossed my lips, pressed them together, then dropped the tube back in my purse. “Are you jealous?”

Marco made a little grunting noise. Obviously, he was burning up with jealousy.

“I finagled that lunch invitation to see what information I could get out of him. But I suffered for nothing. He didn’t have anything new to offer.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell Marco that Morgan had confirmed that they had stopped looking for suspects.

We turned another corner and there was the big, white two-story house. My hands grew so clammy I had to wipe them on my pants. “Maybe you should take me home so I can change into something nicer.”

“We’re here, and you look fine.”

Marco parked the car along the curb, then came around to open my door. My insides shook as I followed him up the driveway. This was just his mother, for pity’s sake. I had a mother, didn’t I? Nothing scary about that.

Marco unlocked the door on the far side of the screened porch, then stepped back so I could enter. I glanced up the flight of stairs and swallowed. “You go first.”

“Abby, she won’t bite you.”

“Please?”

“Fine.” He jogged up the steps ahead of me, while I took them one at a time. Why did I feel like a prisoner on her way to an execution?

The staircase opened onto one corner of a large, airy, carpeted room that ran the width of the house, with double-hung windows at each end covered by white wooden blinds. There was a poker table and five club chairs in front of one set of windows to my right, then a hallway that lead toward the rear of the apartment, then the living room that contained a flat screen television, two recliners, and an overstuffed tan sofa. A door in the center of the front wall was ajar, and inside I could see a double bed covered by a blue comforter, a row of windows overlooking the street and—were those African violets on the window ledge? Surely not.

“Ah, here you are, Marco!” I heard a woman say, rolling the
r
in his name. “The lasagna just came out of the oven. Where is your guest?”

Hiding.

Marco suddenly noticed I wasn’t standing beside him and stepped aside to allow her full view of me. “Mama, this is Abby Knight.”

I gave a little wave. “Hello.”

“The little flower bambina?” She opened her arms wide. “Welcome, Abby!”

Wow. She wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Francesca Salvare was a tall, beautiful, vibrant woman with an hourglass shape—how did she keep her narrow waist?—bouncy, shoulder-length hair in a rich walnut brown highlighted by natural silver strands, high, prominent cheekbones, the same soulful brown eyes Marco had (only covered by oversized, tortoise shell-framed glasses), a wide, full mouth, and a generous, warm smile.

She had on a black print silk blouse and black trousers, with classy black flats, not an old-fashioned dress with an apron, as I’d pictured. In fact, she reminded me very much of a younger version of the actress Sophia Loren.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Salvare,” I managed as she folded her arms around me. She even smelled good—like oregano and basil and Parmesan cheese.

She held me at arm’s length so she could survey my face and body, turning me as though I were on a spit. “Bella, Abby. You have a womanly figure. Not so skinny like a twig, eh, Marco?”

Umm . . . was that a compliment?

“How much do you weigh, Abby?”

My face flooded with heat. She didn’t really expect me to answer that, did she?

“Ma,” Marco said sharply, giving her a warning glance, “time for dinner.”

“In a moment. Do you like Italian wine, Abby?”

“I
love
Italian wine.” Had I said that too eagerly?

A toilet flushed somewhere in the apartment. Marco glanced around. “Is Gina still here?”

“Yes, and she has a surprise for you after dinner.”

His sister was eating with us, too. Great. Two Salvare women to size me up. A moment later, a younger, slimmer version of Francesca strolled into the room, looking just as chic as I remembered. Gina and I had never actually been introduced, but I had seen her before . . . well, okay, spied on her, but only because I thought she was Marco’s girlfriend.

She held out her hand with a friendly smile even as she checked me out. “You must be Abby.”

“My sister, Gina,” Marco said belatedly.

“Nice to meet you at last,” I said.

“Same here.”

“Let us eat,” Francesca said, and shooed us toward the hallway.

Gina linked arms with me as we headed for the kitchen. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I knew I was blushing. “I hope Marco was kind.”

“Actually, it was Trina.”

“Then I hope
she
was kind.”

Gina gave a light laugh, as if to say,
“Like that’s a possibility.”
She leaned her head close to whisper, “You knew that Trina and Marco dated a few times in high school, right?”

“I’d heard something to that effect. How did that go?”

“It didn’t go anywhere. The sparks never happened for Marco. Trina was too much of a kid sister to him. Besides, she wanted to get married and have babies—the last thing my brother wanted.” Gina gave me a calculating glance. “So what are
your
future plans, Abby?”

Let the inquisition begin.
“I bought a flower shop about six months ago, and that’s my main focus.”

“Do you plan to be a career woman, then?”

“Gina,” Marco said from behind us, “shouldn’t you be home with Christopher?”

“He’s with his father,” she replied over her shoulder, then in a quiet voice asked, “Have you thought about having children someday, Abby?”

Marco put his arms around us both. “Doesn’t that food smell good?” Then I heard him whisper to his sister, “Knock off the questions.” He must have pinched her neck, because she jumped.

“Get bent,” she said.

The kitchen was all the way at the back, past a bathroom and small guest bedroom. It was divided by the hallway into two spaces—a tiny cooking area on the left and a dining nook on the right. Inside the nook was a picnic table covered with a blue vinyl tablecloth and two cedar benches. In the kitchen was a small black refrigerator, an apartment-sized stove in black, an old white porcelain sink, and two feet of counter space. There were pots and pans everywhere, and a big baking dish full of golden lasagna on top of the range.

“Sit. Sit,” Francesca commanded, pointing me toward the picnic table.

I followed Marco onto a bench as his mother set out the lasagna along with a long basket of crusty bread, already sliced. Gina took a seat directly opposite me, where she watched me as her mother poured red wine into our glasses and dished out the lasagna—big, hearty slabs dripping with tomato sauce and melted cheese. Francesca took a piece for herself, then sat down, bowing her head for a moment to say a silent prayer. We followed suit; then she raised her glass and we did that, too.

“
Buon appetito
,” she said merrily.

Marco, Gina, and I repeated her toast; then I put down my glass and reached for my fork, so eager to taste the lasagna that I was nearly drooling in anticipation.

“And here’s to you clearing my son’s good name, eh, Abby?”

My hand halted in midair. They
knew
? I’d thought the pressure was high before. Now it was ten times worse. The lasagna suddenly didn’t look so appetizing.

“Let’s not spoil the meal, Mama,” Marco said, giving her a frown.
Too late
, I thought.

“I can’t wish her good luck? What kind of world is this?”

As she and Gina raised their glasses to me, I quickly ditched the utensil and raised mine, too. I could feel Marco tense beside me, so I said, “Thank you for sharing your dinner with me, Mrs. Salvare. Everything smells wonderful.”

“Wait till you taste it.
Mangia!
Eat, eat.”

Before I’d wanted to shovel in that pasta. Now I had to force myself to take a small mouthful. But as the taste sensations melted over my tongue—tomato, basil, oregano, onion, garlic, and, oh, those Italian cheeses—my appetite came back. “Oh, wow. This is”—I swallowed the first bite and readied another—“heavenly.”

“I’m so pleased you like it, Abby,” she said.

“Like it? I love it. I’ve never had lasagna this delicious.”

“I’ll give you the recipe. It’s easy once you know how.”

“Maybe she doesn’t cook, Mama,” Gina said. “Not everyone is like us, you know. Do you cook, Abby?”