Acts of Violets (5 page)

 

As soon as we’d hunted down an elephant ear for Nikki, we agreed that checking in with the crew at Down the Hatch, to see whether Marco had shown up yet, was a good idea. Unfortunately, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the bar, I saw in one sweep that he wasn’t there.

The bar had been the town’s local watering hole for at least fifty years and still retained the original decor despite Marco’s promise to rehab it. Carrying a corny fishing theme too far, the original owners had mounted a huge fake carp on a wooden plaque above the highly polished walnut bar. There was also a bright blue plastic anchor on the dark paneling above the booths that lined the wall, a big brass bell near the old-fashioned cash register, and a fisherman’s net strung across the beamed ceiling, all of which needed to go. But in the six months that Marco had owned the place, that had yet to happen. I had a feeling he was afraid of a citizen revolt if he dared to disturb anything.

“Has Marco checked in?” I asked Chris.

“He called about ten minutes ago. He said he had business to take care of and would be in later this evening. He also said to tell you that he got all of your messages and you didn’t need to leave any more.”

Two of the waitresses pretended to cough, but I knew they were covering laughs.

“Let’s go watch the acts on the main stage,” Nikki suggested, ushering me through the crowd.

As we walked outside I whispered, “Is it my imagination, or were they laughing at me?”

“It wasn’t your imagination.”

“They think I should stop checking on Marco so much, don’t they?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“If I start to call him again, will you smack me?”

“Absolutely.”

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

“Sorry.”

“Then stop smiling. It’s annoying.”

A stage had been erected on the west side of the square, in front of the New Chapel Savings and Loan, with rows of bleachers facing the stage. People had taken seats on the bleachers, the stone steps in front of the building, as well as on the west side of the courthouse lawn. We stopped at one of the food stands to buy sodas, then found a spot on the end of the second row of bleachers just as the Irish step dancers were finishing their routine. Next up were the three acrobats from the clown troupe, followed by the stilt walker and one of the unicyclists, who tossed bowling pins back and forth to each other.

“Look, Nikki,” I whispered. “No Snuggles. The cops must have jailed him.”

“You know who else is missing? The clown on the tricycle.”

Sure enough, the girl with the big lily on her hat was nowhere in sight. “Maybe she doesn’t juggle or do acrobatics.”

“Then why would she be in the troupe?”

“You’re asking me like I’m a clown expert.”

After the clowns came the rock group Peck’s Bad Boyz, with a preview of their evening concert, the one Marco and I were supposed to attend. All at once, a pair of hands covered my shoulders and a deep voice said in my ear, “Hello, Sunshine.”

“Marco!” I swiveled around, ready to throw my arms around his neck and hug him in relief—then pester him for details. But I stopped myself. I’d learned from experience that Marco would tell me everything in good time. Taking a breath, I forced myself to say calmly, “What’s up?”

“Not much.”

Not much?
I nearly shredded my tongue. Okay, so he wasn’t ready to tell me about the fight with Snuggles. I could wait . . . about thirty seconds, then gray matter would start to leak from my ears.

He came around and squeezed onto the bleacher beside me, his thigh resting against mine, setting off all kinds of delicious tingles that threatened to melt me right onto that wooden bench. So maybe I’d give him
sixty
seconds to spill his guts.

“Are you all right, Marco?” Nikki exclaimed, leaning around me to gaze at him wide-eyed. “We heard you got into it with Snuggles.”

This was another reason that Nikki and I were best friends. When one of us hesitated, the other stepped up to bat.

In a very nonchalant tone he said, “It was nothing. Don’t worry about it. He’s just got a short fuse.” Then he shifted his gaze to the band.

A short fuse? That was it? I wanted cold facts, hard figures, relevant data, but as Marco wasn’t being forthcoming I dropped the subject. Maybe he was embarrassed because the cops had been called. Maybe he didn’t want me to know he’d gone after Snuggles to defend my honor. Like most males, he hated to be quizzed, so I’d have to be patient. He’d talk when he was ready and not before, whether I was leaking gray matter or not.

“Good show?” he asked me.

The show, his spicy scent, the heat from his body, the low timber of his voice—oh, yeah, it was good, like a slow, sensual massage. I leaned my shoulder into his and he responded with a hand on my knee, turning it to pudding.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away,” he said, his lips against my ear producing tingles of excitement. “It couldn’t be helped.”

So many questions and still no answers. Trying to act unconcerned, I asked, “Are we on for the concert tonight?”

There was a long pause. So long that I turned to gaze at him. “Marco, did you forget we made plans for this evening?”

He put an arm around my shoulders and said quietly, “I’ll have to take a rain check.”

I hid my disappointment behind a light shrug. “Sure. No problem. Do you have to be at the bar tonight?”

“No, I have to do some investigative work.”

“Must be a big case, then. I know you wouldn’t cancel our date unless it was really important.”

Marco merely gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, which meant that he appreciated my understanding and was done talking about it. Naturally, being a female,
I
wasn’t done talking about it. I hadn’t even
begun
to talk about it, and his silence served only to make me want to talk about it
more
.

“So,” I leaned close to ask, twirling a lock of hair, “does this case have anything to do with that woman at the parade this morning, the one you spoke to right before you brought me the ice cream cone? The one with”—I knew I was going to hate myself for saying so, but I just couldn’t help it—“split ends?”

“Her name is Trina Vasquez. She’s a close friend of my kid sister, and yes, it does involve her. She asked me to look into something for her.”

What kind of something would take precedence over our date? A number of scenarios ran through my mind, but I couldn’t very well ask him to reveal his client’s information. In the PI business, the client had to be assured of confidentiality. So I crossed my arms and forced my attention back to the rock group on stage, who, by the way, wouldn’t have made it beyond their first appearance on
America’s Got Talent.

Marco sat through the end of the song, then glanced at his watch and patted my knee. “I have to get going. I’ll be in touch when I can.” He gave Nikki a nod, then slipped off the end of the bench and was gone.

“What’s up with him?” Nikki whispered.

“He’s working on a PI case.”

“Don’t tell me. For that dark-haired woman we saw him with at the parade?”

“That’s the one.”

At Nikki’s raised eyebrows I said, “It’s okay. She’s a friend of his sister.”

“Oh, right. The
friend-of-his-sister
excuse.” She rolled her eyes, as if to say,
Sucker!
I pretended not to notice. Marco didn’t make excuses. He just did what he had to do.

“This music is giving me a headache,” she whispered. “Let’s get some food. I’m so in the mood for pickled pig’s feet.”

I scooted off the bench and waited for her to join me. “Since when do you like pickled pig’s feet?”

She pushed my shoulder as we headed across the lawn. “You are
so
gullible.”

“Thanks a lot. By the way, don’t trip on your left shoe lace. Your sneaker is untied.”

Nikki stopped short, glanced down, then remembered she had on sandals. I just kept walking so she wouldn’t see the big smile on my face. Gullible girl.

A
fter a long, busy weekend, a best friend could be such a comfort, knowing just the right words to soothe your jangled nerves, ease your stress, or make you laugh. I especially needed it that Monday morning, because my internal radar had beeped all night long, robbing me of sleep to nag me that something was wrong. And not only was something wrong, but also it involved Marco.

So when Nikki showed up in the kitchen that morning desperately seeking caffeine, I mentioned my concern, hoping for some reassurance. She listened quietly, took a sip of the java I’d made, then scrunched up her mouth. “This coffee tastes bitter.”

On the other hand, a best friend could also be a pain in the neck. It hadn’t helped the situation any that we’d spent Saturday together at the Pickle Fest, then most of Sunday painting the walls of our apartment. There
was
such a thing as too much girl time.

Unaware of my simmering irritation, she dumped the allegedly bitter coffee down the drain. “What kind of bean did you use?”

“Jelly,” I muttered, slathering orange marmalade on my toast and stuffing a bite in my mouth before I said something I regretted.

“Sarcasm doesn’t work on me. You know that.”

“Look, I’m really sorry you have to work the day shift, Nikki, and get up early like the rest of the world, but you don’t have to criticize my coffee, too.”

Pressing her lips together, Nikki marched out.

“Hey, wait,” I called. “You’re right. The coffee
is
bad this morning. I made it too strong because I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”

“It must be the paint fumes. They can affect your brain, you know. Let’s open the windows.”

“It’s not the fumes that are affecting me, Nik. I can’t shake this gut feeling that something bad happened to Marco. Besides, it’s chilly outside. Summer is over.”

“So we’ll bundle up. The cool air will help clear your thoughts so you’ll be able to see how pointless it is to worry about a man who was an
Army Ranger.
” She emphasized the last two words, in case I missed the irony. “Marco invaded countries, for God’s sake. I think he can look after himself.”

No missing that irony. “I’d feel better if he called, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I did. His voice mail picked up.”

“Then the ball is in his court.”

We took our cups up the short hallway to the living room to open a window and admire our handiwork— walls in a soft ivy green shade (my second favorite color) and a ceiling in a pale violet shade (Nikki’s favorite color). Blame it on the home-decorating shows on TV. We’d spent hours with paint brushes and drop cloths and blue masking tape, and had the splattered sweatshirts to prove it.

“That hallway is next on the list,” I told her, pointing to the hall to my right that led to a roomy bathroom and our two bedrooms. “How about if we stencil ivy vines on a pale purple background? We can start this evening.”

Nikki sipped her coffee, leaning against the bookcase. “Let’s think about why you’re suddenly in the mood to redecorate.”

“I don’t have to think about it. White walls are boring, blah, bland.”

“Really? According to a psychology article I read last weekend, your apartment represents your psyche, the inner Abby, so to speak. So what you’re really saying is that
you
are boring, blah, and bland. Am I right?”

“Where did you read this article?”

“In a magazine at the dentist’s office.”

Snickering, I turned around and went back to the kitchen to finish my toast. Nikki was way off base. First of all, my inner Abby was just as lively as my outer Abby, only not as curvy. Second, I wasn’t trying to color my psyche; I was trying to divert my thoughts from Marco. The logical part of my brain disagreed with my concerns, of course, by presenting me with a list of reasons that he hadn’t contacted me.

1. He could be out of town.
Without access to a phone? He’d have to be on the moon.

2. He lost his cell phone.
And couldn’t find a pay phone? Had he ever heard of a toll call?

3. He was still angry about his leather jacket. (A little mishap involving his coat and my leaky pen.).
Nuhuh. I’d promised to have it professionally cleaned.

4. He was on a stakeout and couldn’t contact anyone.
Most likely reason.

 

“You know what?” I said to Nikki, returning to the living room. “You’re right. I’m spending way too much energy worrying. Marco is an experienced PI and a grown man who can take care of himself.”

“Well, there’s news,” she said with a cynical sniff.

“I need encouragement here, Nikki.”

“How’s this for encouragement? It’s almost eight o’clock. Time for work.”

I ran for the toothpaste, brushed my teeth, grabbed my purse, and was out the door in five minutes. (It didn’t look right when the boss was late.) I slid into my beloved refurbished 1960 Corvette convertible, put the top down, and took off for Bloomers, ready to enjoy the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, even if it was technically too cold for a topless ride.