Acts of Violets (7 page)

Marco fingered the bandage over his eyebrow. “Snuggles and Ryson are the same guy, Abby.”

My brain stalled. “What? Wait a minute. That sneering guy on the front page of the paper is Snuggles? No way.”

Marco peered at me from beneath lowered brows. “Take my word for it.”

I slumped against the back of the chair, stunned. “Dennis Ryson, a motorcycle mechanic, was also a juggling, unicycle-riding, red-nosed clown? Wow. And people have the nerve to ridicule my fear of clowns.”

Marco grunted.

“Where were you when he ambushed you?”

“In his house.”

For ten seconds I simply gaped at him, dumbfounded. “You went to his
house
? Marco, that was totally unnecessary. I mean, what he said to me wasn’t that big of a deal. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“Abby.”

“Still, I can’t very well criticize you when you were protecting my honor. Not that I’m condoning that kind of behavior but, wow. It just blows me away.” I shook my head in amazement and knew there was a big, dopey grin on my face, but I couldn’t help it. I felt like a princess whose handsome knight had just ridden up on a white charger.

Marco shifted in his chair, wincing as he rotated his right shoulder. “Abby, I didn’t go after him for
you
.”

My grin faded, and I did my best not to look embarrassed. “Oh.”

“I was working a case. Remember the woman you saw me talking to at the parade?”

I brushed a strand of hair off my face, trying to play it cool. “Hmm, let me think.”

“The lady with the split ends.” The corner of Marco’s mouth twitched.

“Wait. It’s coming back to me now. Trina, wasn’t it?”

He knew I knew, but he played along, being the good sport that he was. “That’s right. Trina Vasquez.”

The image of the two of them in serious discussion at the parade flashed in my mind, and suddenly I realized who Trina had pointed out to Marco—Snuggles. But why? Maybe Snuggles had threatened Trina, too. Maybe she’d called first dibsies on having Marco defend her honor. Maybe she even had a thing for Marco. Maybe I didn’t want to go there.

“So you were tailing Snuggles for Trina, the friend of your sister’s.”

“Right. She and my younger sister have been friends since grade school, like you and Nikki. Now she’s a single mom raising a three-year-old boy and running a day-care center out of her home.”

Marco’s eyes grew distant, as though he was lost in memories. “Gina and Trina. They used to pass themselves off as twins. She was at our house so much I started thinking of her as my other kid sister.”

I wondered whether he still felt that way. “What was her problem with Snuggles—or I guess I should say Ryson?”

“It started about two months ago, after Ryson moved in across the street and developed a thing for her. When she didn’t reciprocate, he started to harass her. It got so bad that he even stalked her at the grocery store, to the point where she feared for the safety of the children.”

“What a bully!” A stalking bully, to boot, uppermost on my list of despicable low-lifes. I didn’t blame Trina for wanting to get rid of him.

“That’s when my sister suggested she contact me.”

I hated to sound as though I was questioning Trina’s motives but—“Shouldn’t Trina have called the cops?”

“She did call them and eventually got a restraining order, but you know how well those work. If someone is seriously determined, a piece of paper won’t stop him. So Trina asked me to talk to him and that’s what I tried to do.”

“The newspaper story said Ryson died from trauma to the head. When did that happen?”

“I don’t know. Look, let me tell you how it went down. I had Ryson under surveillance all day Saturday and Sunday so I could document his movements. Naturally, that would be the weekend he decided to lie low. Anyway, Sunday evening around seven o’clock, I went to Trina’s house to talk to her about the situation. While we were sitting on her front stoop, Ryson came out of his house and started swearing at us, acting like a lunatic. We moved inside, thinking he’d stop, but he came across the street instead and stood on the sidewalk in front of her house, where he continued to curse up a storm. I’m sure the whole neighborhood heard him. So I went out to have a little talk with him. When h saw me, he beat a hasty retreat and started yelling at me through his window.”

“What was he swearing about?”

“That I was trying to intimidate him, among other things. He wasn’t sane, Abby.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“That wouldn’t have put an end to the stalking. The cops would have thrown him in the slammer, he would have bonded out, and Trina’s harassment would have begun again. Even if he did jail time, what were the odds that he’d leave Trina alone afterward? How many women are killed by stalkers every year? I wasn’t about to let that happen to her.”

“So you thought you could put an end to it by talking to him?”

Marco sighed. “I got caught up in the moment. Ryson was swearing his fool head off, Trina was upset, and her son was crying, so my instinct was to act. I had Trina pack an overnight bag and take her son to her mother’s house for the night, just in case there were any repercussions; then I went back across the street. His door was open so I stepped inside to try to reason with him, and that’s when I noticed he was sweating all over and his color was off, kind of gray. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone to call 911 and that’s when he came at me. But I’m telling you, Abby, when I left his house, Ryson was subdued, but very much alive.”

“Did you call the cops then?”

“No. I know I should have, but I had blood running into my eye and my ear hurt like the devil, so I drove myself to the ER for stitches. When I got home the cops were waiting to take me down to the station. Someone had called them after I left Ryson’s house, but as usual, they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Have you been charged with anything?”

“No, but Corbison told me not to go anywhere.”

“Do you know who else they’ve questioned?”

“No one else.”

“There have to be other suspects, Marco. You can’t be the only one.”

“Would you like to tell that to the grand jury? They’re convening a week from today.”

No way.
A grand jury was rarely used in our county except in cases where a police officer or prominent person was involved. “Are you telling me they have enough evidence to consider you their one and only suspect?”

Marco massaged his neck, wearing an expression I’d never seen before—worry. “Looks that way. They know I was in Ryson’s house and they have eyewitnesses who saw me leaving—neighbors, no doubt. And then there are these.” He indicated his wounds and bruises. “I tried to explain how it happened but no one was listening. Darnell has already made up his mind that I’m guilty.”

Marco had reason to be concerned. As I knew from experience, once the prosecutor had decided on his prime suspect, the cops stopped looking for anyone else. “I don’t get it. Someone obviously went into Ryson’s house after you left. Why wouldn’t they try to find that person?”

“Who are they supposed to be looking for? That’s the problem. No one saw anyone there but me.”

Marco reached for a glass of water on his desk, then held it in one hand, tilting it back and forth, making tiny waves inside, his thoughts far away. The inside of my stomach felt like those waves. I could only imagine what
he
felt like.

Marco’s gaze lifted to mine, his soulful eyes reaching all the way into my heart. “My only way out of this mess is to track down the killer, Sunshine; otherwise, I’m toast.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

He put the glass down and sat forward on his chair, as though he’d been waiting to hear those words. “I need you to do what you do best. Snoop, pry, poke, eavesdrop, meddle—you know, make a nuisance of yourself.”

“No problem. And while I’m making a nuisance of myself, what will you be doing?”

“Only thing I can do—run the bar.”

“No, I mean what will you be doing to find the killer?”

He looked at me as if my gas tank was running on fumes. “I can’t do anything, Abby. If the cops see me interviewing people, they could charge me with intimidation or witness tampering. I can’t run that risk. All I need is to give them more reason to suspect me.”

“So you’re saying you want me to handle this investigation alone?”

“I’ll guide you the best I can from here, but you’re going to have to do the legwork.”

I blinked several times—make that several dozen times—trying to think of a polite way out. I mean, prying was one thing. Clearing the man you’re crazy about from a possible murder charge was another. “You’ve got friends on the force, Marco—Reilly, for one. Can’t they help you find the killer?”

“Cops follow orders. They won’t jeopardize their jobs or pensions by investigating this case on their own.”

“What orders? Is someone ordering them not to investigate any other suspects? What cop would do that to you?”

Marco rubbed his jaw, as though debating how much to tell me. “Kellerman.”

“Martin Kellerman?” As Lottie would say,
Whee doggies.
I’d been around cops long enough to know that if the chief of the Homicide Division wasn’t in your corner, it was a very bad thing. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that? What does he have against you?”

“I guess you could say we never saw eye to eye on things.”

“That’s it?”

According to the stories I’d heard about Kellerman from my father, not many cops did. Underneath Martin Kellerman’s mild-mannered exterior lay a fifty-year-old control freak with all the emotions of a stone. When his only daughter was married at a church in town, he was too busy doing paperwork to attend. When his cocker spaniel was run over by a garbage truck, he had them toss the corpse in the back and haul it to the dump. If I were Mrs. Kellerman, I’d be watching over my shoulder for garbage trucks—and making my own funeral arrangements.

“So what if you didn’t see eye to eye with the man, Marco? I’m guessing all the cops under him would say that.”

“But not many can say that Kellerman would love nothing better than to see them behind bars.”

“You must have really ticked the guy off.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t like to play by the rules. Kellerman had a hard time with that.”

I’d always admired that maverick quality in Marco before. Now, not so much. So asking the cops to help him was out. That meant I had to find another exit strategy. “The thing is, as much as I love to snoop, I don’t think Dave Hammond will be too pleased. He has this crazy notion that I invite trouble, and that’s the last thing he’d want to happen while he’s defending you.”

“I hired Dave to represent
me
, Abby. I’m calling the shots. Besides, I’d think he’d be grateful for the extra help. If anyone knows how efficiently you meddle, it’s Dave.”

Damn. That hadn’t worked either. “Okay, here’s a thought. What if I meet with the chief of police and see what he can do to straighten this out? Chief Harrington is an old friend of my father’s. I know he’d help.”

Marco gave me one of those
you’ve got to be kidding
glances. “Right. Harrington would tell the prosecutor to stop investigating his prime suspect because he and your dad are friends.”

Okay, dumb idea. Another example of why not to toss this hot potato into my lap.

With a sigh, I dropped my head into my hands. One week until the grand jury met. One week to find Ryson’s killer with not one other suspect to investigate. There was no way on earth I could do that alone.

M
arco had some nerve putting me on the spot like this. What was he thinking? I was a florist, not a licensed PI.

Hateful conscience. I tried to block out that scolding voice, but I couldn’t because once again it spoke the truth—and because it would never shut up if I didn’t pay attention, which was one of the drawbacks of having a conscience. Was I going to leave Marco in the lurch? Not likely. As much as I wanted to run—not walk—from what was in reality my fear of failure, I would never turn my back on him when he needed me.

In all honesty, I was supremely flattered by Marco’s confidence in me, but I was also scared witless. I’d failed miserably at law school. What if I failed Marco? Did I want his fate in my hands? What if he went to prison because I screwed up, which I was often wont to do?

“Abby, if it’s too much, don’t worry about it,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “I know you have a business to run. I’ll hire a private investigator. It’s not a problem.”

I raised my head to gaze at him—that sincere, courageous, gorgeous hunk of a man who was trusting me with his life—and I quaked inside. “The problem isn’t my flower shop, Marco.”