Acts of Violets (31 page)

Was that quick, sharp gleam in her eyes merely curiosity—or uneasiness? “It appears Dennis ate something that disagreed with him, causing nausea and possibly bringing about his death.”

“Oh, heaventh!” She put down the tiny leaf in her hand.

“Did the cake you took Dennis on Saturday have purple flowers on it?”

There was a subtle change in her expression, almost like that of an animal that sensed it was about to be cornered. “I may have uthed a few violeth on the ithing—I uthe them all the time, ath you know—but they’re perfectly harmless. Besides, Dennis was never bothered by the flowerth before.”

“Did you use anything different in processing the flowers?”

“Abtholutely not. I’ve uthed the thame formula from day one.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to wait for the lab tests. By the way, do you have a key to Dennis’s house?”

“No, why?”

“What did you do with the cake if he wasn’t at home?”

Her eyes weren’t twinkling now. “I took it back later, of courthe. You know, I find it puzzling that Captain Kellerman hathn’t called to tell me about thith new development. Perhapth I should call
him
.”

Yikes. That wouldn’t be a good idea.
“He’s probably waiting for the lab results before he contacts you. After all, why would he bother you with something that hasn’t been verified?” I held my breath, hoping she’d buy it.

She considered it for a moment. “I thuppothe you have a point. And now that I think back, Dennith
did
complain of a headache and queathy sthomach on Thaturday. Maybe it wath juth a cathe of the flu.” She added another leaf to the cake, then stepped back to study it. “There. All done.”

Whew
. “Just one more question, Mrs. Taylor. Did Dennis file a lawsuit against you recently over his father’s estate?”

She went utterly still. “How did you find out?”

“Word gets around. This
is
a small town.” I didn’t mention that the suit was also a matter of public record—if anyone cared to look.

Tears flooded her eyes. “He filed it juth latht week. I think he’d been planning to do it thince he wath releathed from prithon.” She twisted around for a tissue to dab her eyes. “I thtill can’t believe he turned againtht me. I wath a good mother to him and a devoted wife to hith father.”

She balled up the tissue in one hand, her anger surfacing. “Douglath and I tried every way we knew to thtraighten him out, but Dennith alwayth got into more trouble. The latht thtraw wath when Dennith went to prison. Douglath wath tho furioth he cut the boy out of the will. I’m sure all that dithtreth brought about hith early death. And what gallth me ith that even though Dennis broke Douglas’s heart many times over, he refuthed to give up on hith thon. Even on hith deathbed he made me promith to alwayth be there for Dennith. And I tried; believe me, I tried.”

She also got all of her husband’s estate. That must have made her pain easier to bear.

Eve raised red-rimmed eyes to mine. “When Dennith thowed up here two monthth ago, found a job, and got involved with that clown troupe, I truly believed that he’d changed. Then I received those papers stating he was going after the entire ethtate—the
entire
ethtate—claiming I had extherthithed undue influenthe on hith father! I had to hire a lawyer to fight him, and I don’t have that kind of money.

“Do you know what lawyers charge these days, Abby? Do you know what it takes to start a business from scratch? I have two mortgages, and three employees to pay, and thupplies to buy. But what choice did I have? If I were to lose all of the estate, I’d have to sell my business.”

That was one whopper of a motive. I wondered what else I could get her to reveal. “If someone tried to take Bloomers from me, I’d fight for it, too. But I don’t think I would take him a bouquet of flowers.”

“I don’t thee your point.”

“Dennis filed that lawsuit last week, yet you still took him a cake on Saturday.”

She blushed uncomfortably. “I know it thoundth foolith, but I thought if I just kept treating him the thame ath I alwayth did, maybe he’d feel bad about hith actionth.”

“You really believed Dennis would dismiss the suit because you brought him a cake?”

“There wath no harm in trying, wath there?”

Would a savvy businesswoman like Eve Taylor be that naive, or did she think I was?

She gazed straight at me, blinking innocently, yet behind that pale gaze I caught a glimpse of something hard and fiercely determined. This woman was prepared to fight tooth and nail to keep her bakery. The question was, would she kill for it? I crossed my fingers and hoped the answer was sitting in Ryson’s refrigerator.

 

Out on the sidewalk, I turned my mobile phone back on—I’d shut it off so it wouldn’t ring and disturb my conversation with Eve—and saw that Marco had tried to reach me again. I listened to his terse message and decided I should probably call him before he popped a blood vessel.

At his quick hello I said, “Hi, it’s me. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. What a busy day. You know how that goes.”
Yeah, like when you don’t return
my
phone calls.

Silence. Or was that faint staccato sound him counting to ten? “Marco? Are you there?”

“I’m here—where I’ve been all day long.”

“Like I said, I’ve been busy, busy.”

A pause, then, “Anything new to report?”

Despite his annoyance, the hope in his voice rang loud and clear. I hated to disappoint him, but I was afraid to say anything that might jinx the case. All I could do was hint. “Nothing yet, but I have a strong hunch we’re going to get a break soon. I’ll keep you posted. Gotta go.”

I glanced at the display on my phone before I closed the case. It was only three thirty. Nine o’clock couldn’t come soon enough for me.

 

By four o’clock the shop had emptied out, all the pending orders had been finished, Lottie had gone on a delivery run, and Grace was on the computer at my desk, checking the availability of a new type of rose. I had just slipped into the parlor to get a cup of coffee when the bell over the door jingled and Francesca Salvare strolled into Bloomers.

“Mrs. Salvare,” I called, hurrying to greet her. “What a nice surprise.”

She was dressed in a white silk blouse and black slacks, with a yellow and black silk scarf at her neck and a black leather clutch under her arm. She took off her sunglasses and gazed around in delight. “I’d forgotten what a lovely flower shop this is.
Bella
, Abby.”

She fingered the petals of an apricot-colored rose. “So you liked my lasagna?”

“It was the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“And the wine?” She peered at me, probably to check the condition of my eyes. I’d kill Marco if he told her about the hangover.

As if on cue, Grace came through the curtain, hand extended in greeting. “Ha-loo! You must be Francesca Salvare. How nice to meet you. My name is Grace Bingham. Do come into the parlor for a cup of tea—or coffee, if you would prefer.”

“Do you have espresso? Yes?
Bellisimo
. Abby, perhaps we can discuss flowers for Gina’s baby shower, eh?”

Five minutes later, Francesca and I were seated at one of the white wrought-iron tables with cups of espresso and an album of baby shower arrangements.

“Very nice,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Now, what is your plan to help my son?”

I nearly spilled my coffee. “My plan?”

“Marco told me you offered to help find the killer, and you know how a mother worries. So tell me, how are you going to help him?”

I gazed into those intelligent, deep-set eyes and knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had answers. “Will you promise not to say a word to Marco?”

“If it will help my son, then yes. He will not hear it from my lips.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “Now tell me everything.”

So I did, over two cups of espresso. Then the bell jingled and suddenly I heard Grace exclaim, “Maureen! How nice to see you. Is school out already?”

Oh, no! My mom had come today after all—and her feathered frames were still on the roof.

“
I
thought I’d drop by to see how everything is going,” my mother said to Grace. “Is Abigail here? Oh, there she is. Hello, honey.”

She waved at me through the doorway, so I lifted my hand to wave back.

Francesca turned for a look. “Is that your mama? Of course it is. You look just like her.”

Right. Just like her—except for my eyes, hair, freckles, age, and height.

“You must be Abby’s mother,” Francesca said, jumping up and heading toward her. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

By the time I got there—maybe ten seconds later?—the two mothers were chatting as though they had known each other forever.

“Now, Maureen,” Francesca said, “you must help us decide on the flowers for my daughter’s baby shower. And maybe you can recommend favors, as well.”

“You need favors?” my mom exclaimed in delight. “I have just the thing. Abigail, would you get one of my picture frames?”

I cast a desperate glance at Grace, but she only shook her head at me as if say,
“The jig is up, kid,”
not that Grace would ever talk that way. With her, it would be more like,
“I do believe your goose is cooked.”
Either way, I was toast.

“Abigail, the frames.”

I took a deep breath. “Mom, there’s something you should know. A pipe burst under the floor this morning and leaked into the basement—”

“Here we go!” Lottie called, scurrying into the room carrying a frame in each hand. Whereas before they were fluffy and shockingly bright, now the down was plastered onto the cloth beneath, and the bright dye had run, giving the frames the appearance of being covered in a textured, feather-patterned, watered silk. And they didn’t look half bad.

My mother took one look at the frames and gasped in horror. “What happened?”

“Now, Mom, stay calm. They got a little wet, but they look good, don’t they? Different—but good.” I smiled hopefully, waiting for the obvious question of what the frames were doing in the basement in the first place.

Francesca held out a hand. “Let me see.”

Lottie gave her a frame, then wiped perspiration from her upper lip. She must have come back from her delivery, seen my mom, and rushed up to the roof. I gave her a thumbs-up.

“You have more of these, yes?” Francesca asked.

My mother perked up. “Yes, we do . . . don’t we, Abigail?”

“How many would you like?” I asked Marco’s mom.

“Twenty would be a nice number.”

“Done,” I said.

Francesca smiled, which made my mother smile, which made Grace and Lottie and me smile. At least until she added, “And all of you must come to the shower.”

“Won’t that be fun, Abigail?” Mom said, linking arms with me.

My mind reeled at the thought of all that fun.

“Now I must leave you because there is much work to do,” Francesca said. “Thank you for the coffee, and
ciao
to you all.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” my mom said. “Abigail, we’ll talk later.” She gave me a look that told me I wasn’t off the hook yet.

As soon as they were gone I hugged Lottie. “Thank you for getting those frames. I’m forever in your debt.”

“Phooey,” Lottie said. “It’s not like I pulled you from a burning building.”

I shuddered. “Please don’t mention burning buildings.”

At Grace’s puzzled look, Lottie said to her, “When Abby was a little girl, her brothers volunteered her to be in a clown act at the circus.” She held a hand to the side of her mouth to whisper, “It left scars.”

“You’re all grown up now, dear,” Grace said. “It’s time to move on.”

That was exactly what I intended to do. I had an important evening ahead that I hadn’t spent much time planning for and, frankly, breaking into someone’s house was scary enough, without having to call up memories of being terrorized by freaky faces and burning buildings.

“Abby,” Lottie said before I could get away, “that wrinkle in your forehead is back.”

“Are you hiding something from us?” Grace asked, peering at me.

As if I could hide anything from those two for very long. Well, why not be honest? “Okay, I’ll admit it. I have been keeping something from you. I’m going to become a cat burglar.”

They glanced at each other. Then Grace said, “When you’re ready to tell us the truth, dear, we’ll be in the back.”

 

Dressed in a long-sleeved black T-shirt, black jeans, black boots, and a black stocking cap, I parked my car a block away from Ryson’s house, grabbed my black flashlight, and stole up the sidewalk, trying to stay away from the streetlights. The half-moon winked at me between passing clouds, the wind was still—and Reilly was nowhere in sight. I checked my watch. It was already ten minutes past nine. Damn. I was really hoping he’d show up.