Acts of Violets (6 page)

My Vette was one of those once-in-a-lifetime finds that had been buried in a farmer’s barn for decades and, because of its condition, sold cheaply; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the steering wheel. Lottie’s nephew had repaired the top, mended the fiberglass body, and repainted the dingy white to my favorite color, bright yellow, which looked pretty snazzy with the black leather interior, though it was cracked and worn from wear.

But even after the breezy drive into town I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that something was wrong. Fighting a knot in my stomach that was threatening to become a major source of distress, I parked in a public lot a block east of the town square, put the top up, and hoofed it to my shop.

I always looked forward to going to work, today more than ever, knowing that when I stepped beyond that yellow door I’d be transported to a serene place where I could lose myself in masses of fragrant blossoms, moist greenery, and heavenly aromas, and where two of my most favorite people awaited to offer me cheer and support. With a sigh of relief I unlocked the door—we didn’t open until nine o’clock—and went inside, singing out, “Good morning, ladies.”

I could hear raised voices behind the curtain, so I peeked in to see what was going on.

“Beans!” Lottie said in disgust, folding her arms across her chest, which today was clad in a bright aqua satin blouse. She sported matching barrettes in her hair.

Grace gave an elegant lift of her silver-haired head. “What’s wrong with my beans?”

“It’s grits or nothing,” Lottie retorted.

Grace held the lapels of her crisp, tan linen blazer, assuming her lecture pose. “As the fine British writer Mary Wortley Montagu wrote, ‘Be plain in dress and sober in your diet.’ Now, I ask you, what could be more sobering than beans?”

“Is that the British way of saying gassy? ’Cause that’s what you’d be all day if you ate beans first thing in the morning.”

I parted the curtain and stuck my head through. “Good morning, ladies.”

“Abby, would you eat beans with your eggs?” Lottie asked as I stepped into the workroom.

“What she should be asking,” Grace said to me, “is, Why would you
not
eat beans with your eggs? They’re full of protein and fiber and other nutrients.”

I tossed my purse on the desk. “Why are we having this discussion?”

“Grace brought in mashed beans as a side dish.”

I clapped my hands to my face. “Oh, no! I ate breakfast!” Another sign of how distracted I was. Monday breakfast was a tradition at Bloomers, with Lottie’s fabulous scrambled eggs and crisp toast and Grace’s fresh-brewed gourmet coffee. My contribution was an appetite.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Lottie said, throwing a generous arm around my shoulders. “We sure do understand how you could have forgotten today.”

“Quite understandable,” Grace added, “considering.”

Bewildered, I looked from one to the other.

“She hasn’t seen the newspaper,” Lottie said to Grace, shaking her head and reaching for the front-page section on the worktable. I took it from her and read the big black headline across the top: EX-COP QUESTIONED IN MAN’S DEATH.

My gaze jumped to the photo of the victim, a man I’d never seen before. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with a shaved and tattooed head, multipierced earlobes, a flattened, crooked nose, and a thick neck. The caption beneath the photo read, “Dennis Ryson outside the motorcycle shop where he worked.”

Still not understanding their concern, I read the article that followed.

 

I put down the paper and braced my hands on the table, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. My gut had been right after all.

“She needs food and coffee,” Lottie said to Grace, and at once I found myself ushered through the workroom into the tiny kitchen in back, where Lottie served up a mound of buttery yellow scrambled eggs on a plate at the tiny counter. “Eat up, sweetie. It’ll do you good.”

I picked up a fork and put it down again. Even if I hadn’t already had breakfast, I couldn’t have swallowed a bite. What I needed to do was talk to Marco to make sure he was all right. My mind wouldn’t think beyond that point. “Maybe later. I don’t think my stomach would hold anything right now. I need to make a call.”

I dashed to my desk and phoned Down the Hatch first, then his mobile number, where I left another message for him to call ASAP. Then I drummed my fingers on the desk, wondering whom else I could tap to find out what was going on.

“Here, dear,” Grace said, setting a cup of coffee in front of me.

I took a sip of the fragrant, mellow brew and thought hard. Sgt. Reilly. That’s who I could call. I had his private cell phone number that I used in emergencies. I used it now.

“Hey, Reilly, it’s me, your favorite redhead. How’s the world’s best sergeant?”

“You can lay off the compliments, Abby. I can’t tell you anything about Marco.”

“Come on, Reilly. I just read the newspaper and I’m going crazy with worry. All I want to know is if he’s okay.”

There was a pause, then a weary sigh. If Reilly had learned anything about me over the past several months, it was that I was persistent. He called it badgering, but that was splitting hairs. “I’ll tell you this much. Marco had better get a good lawyer because he’s in trouble up to his eye sockets.”

My whole body shuddered. “Has he been charged with anything? Are you holding him in jail?”

“He’ll be out soon. That’s all I’m going to say, so don’t ask me anything else.”

“Okay, Reilly, thanks for being so chatty.”

As I hung up with him, I heard my cell phone chirping in my purse. I dug it out, saw Marco’s name on the screen, and hurriedly flipped it open, practically shouting my hello.

“Sunshine,” Marco said tensely, “I need your help.”

I
was so relieved to hear his voice that I jumped out of my chair. “Marco, I just read the newspaper. Who is this Ryson character? Why were you at his house? Were you hurt? Have you been charged with anything?”

“Whoa. Calm down. I’m not hurt and I’ll fill you in on the details later. Can you meet me at the bar at noon?”

“Of course. What else can I do? Do you want me to call Dave Hammond?”

“I’ve already done that. Just be at the bar at noon.”

I hung up and glanced at the clock. Three and a half hours. A whole bunch of worry would fit into that amount of time. Luckily, Monday mornings were busy at Bloomers, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to fill. There were inventories to take, supplies to order, wire orders to process, a calendar to update, the display case to stock, customers to wait on, and questions to answer. The questions came from Lottie and Grace, who wanted to know everything that had happened during the parade and after. It took a while, since the story had to be told in bits and pieces between business over the course of the morning, but I managed.

“What do you think he wants you to do for him?” Lottie asked after she’d had a chance to digest the whole story.

“That’s simple enough to answer.” Grace came through the curtain from the shop side bringing a pot of freshly brewed mint tea with honey and two cups on a cherry wood tray. Somehow she always managed to overhear what went on behind the curtain, even when she was in the coffee parlor. Either she had the ears of a bat or the workroom had been bugged. “He wants Abby to clear his name.”

As if I needed more to worry about. “Trust me, Marco would
not
put such a crucial task in my amateur hands. He’s the pro. If he needs something done, he’ll do it himself.”

Lottie took a cup from Grace, then paused to inhale the mint vapors, which Grace swore cleared the sinuses. “Well, sweetie, that may be true, but what would you do if he
did
ask you to clear him?”

“I know my limits and so does Marco. I’m a great assistant, but I’m not even a good detective.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, dear. You uncovered Professor Reed’s murderer.”

“That was more of a stumbling into than an uncovering.”

Grace was not to be deterred. “What about the chap who did away with your cousin’s best man?”

I rubbed my nose. “He found me before I found him.”

“And the jack-in-the-pulpit killer?” Lottie asked.

“Came
looking
for me.”

“Then perhaps you’re right, dear.” Grace picked up her tray and headed for the curtain. “Marco should do it himself.”

 

By the end of the morning my stomach was in a major knot and my neck was sore from turning to glance at the clock on the wall so often. With five minutes to go, I rolled on some lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and dashed out the door, arriving breathlessly at Down the Hatch with one minute to spare. If nothing else, I was punctual.

Chris gave me a grim look and nodded toward the back. “Marco’s in his office.”

I made my way through the busy bar, calling greetings to some of the regular customers as I went. I paused outside Marco’s office door to rap lightly, waiting for the okay to enter. When I got it, I opened the door onto a room that was a complete contrast to the old-fashioned bar in front. It was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, and black leather furniture. The desk was black and chrome, and there was a black TV mounted in the opposite corner. It was a spare, masculine room and it fit Marco to a T. If only he’d do the rest of the bar in a similar style.

Today he had the miniblinds shut tight against the sun and no lights on except for a green glass lamp on his desk. His head was bent as he scribbled on a piece of paper, and all he said was, “Have a seat. Do you want something to eat or drink?”

He sounded so casual, like it was no big deal to make the headlines in a murder investigation. “Marco, I’ve been worried sick about you. First you disappear for two days; then you don’t answer your phone or return my messages; then I’m reading about you in the newspaper; and then I get your phone call asking for help. Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

With a heavy sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood up, giving me a full view of his face. Even though the light was dim, I couldn’t help but gasp. He had a purple bruise on his right cheekbone, a butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow, and a damaged left ear. He also had a day’s growth of beard and looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept in a week. And yet my heart still beat faster when I saw him. Bruises or not, he was the sexiest guy on earth.

I was around the desk before he could ease himself back into his chair. “Oh, my God, Marco! How did this happen?”

“Go easy,” he said, holding up his hands to fend off my probing. “I’ve had a rough night. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll tell you about it. You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“I couldn’t swallow a bite. I’ve been a wreck ever since I saw the newspaper article this morning.”

“Sorry I wasn’t able to call you sooner. I spent a long night at the police station with Darnell and Corbison.”

That was bad news. Detective Al Corbison was a paunchy, middle-aged, bald man with a bad temper and no sense of humor. Chief Prosecuting Attorney Melvin Darnell prided himself on being the good guy who put the bad guys behind bars. I’d tangled with both men when I was the prime suspect in the murder of my former law professor and I knew how single-minded and ruthless they could be.

I returned to the sling-back chair but sat on the edge, too wired to relax. “Who is this Dennis Ryson character and why are they questioning you for his murder?”

Marco tilted his chair back, scraping his fingers through his hair and shaking his head, as though he still couldn’t believe what had happened. “They questioned me because Ryson and I”—he paused to choose the right words—“had an altercation.”

“So you got into a fight?”

“No, I defended myself. I don’t know if the guy was drunk or doped up or what, but he went ballistic on me and I reacted. What really pisses me off is that I should have seen it coming. I let my guard down for one second. That’s never happened before.”

“How
much
did you defend yourself?”

“Enough to stop him. But when I left him he wasn’t dead or even close to it, and I’ve been through enough to tell the difference.”

I sat back with a sigh of relief. “Then it was just a matter of self-defense.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“You’re probably going to say this is silly, but when I saw the headline in the paper this morning, my first thought was that you’d gone after Snuggles.”