Slay it with Flowers (25 page)

I turned back to Ursula. “Do you believe Flip killed Punch?”

“A rejected lover is filled with powerful emotions. Could those emotions turn deadly? I think so.”

“What about Onora?”

Ursula’s gaze shifted to the subject in question, her face, as always, expressionless. “Onora is as cold-blooded as a snake. Yes, I believe she could have killed him.”

“And Bertie?”

We paused to take care of our respective duties, then Ursula said, “Bertie is not so easy to figure out.”

“Is it true Punch tried to ruin his career?”

“They had a feud, and Punch took his revenge by making terrible accusations to Bertie’s boss that got him fired. Bertie says Punch did him a favor because he wasn’t happy at the big firm anyway.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Bertie went from making over two hundred thousand dollars a year working at one of the top ad agencies in New York, to sixty thousand dollars at a four-man firm. Would you have forgiven Punch for that?”

I was about to tell her that money and prestige didn’t necessarily buy happiness, but in her mind they did, so why waste my breath? “Bertie went to a bar the evening of the murder, right?”

“He took a cab there, and we picked him up on our way to meet Punch at the dunes.”

“Why didn’t he drive his rental car to the bar?”

“Bertie never drives when he drinks. He’s very conscientious.”

Conscientious, or clever? Bertie could have taken a cab to the bar to establish his alibi. From there he could have slipped out for a short hike to the dunes, done his dirty work, then returned to the bar and pretended to have been there all evening. Means, opportunity, and motive. But that meant Punch would have had to call him, not Onora, before he’d called the others.

“Do you think there’s a mystery girlfriend?” I asked Ursula.

“Punch couldn’t be anywhere without a girlfriend.”

“Out of Onora, Flip, and Bertie, who do you think is the most likely suspect?”

Ursula wadded up another sheet of gift wrap and tossed it. “Why not all of them? A conspiracy, you know? It vas common for Punch to pick up girls everywhere he went. Perhaps they used that knowledge so they vould have a decoy to throw the police off the trail.”

A conspiracy theory? My head was beginning to ache. This investigation was getting much too complicated for my limited experience. Still, I couldn’t resist asking, “Doesn’t it bother you to implicate your friends in murder?”

“We were in college together. Who said they are my friends?”

Onora wasn’t the only one with cold blood.

I grabbed the next bow and stuck it on the plate, wondering why I had ever agreed to help Jillian. Oh, right. The money. It didn’t always bring happiness, but it did pay the bills.

I added an interview with Bertie to my list of things to do. I’d also have to take a trip out to the Luck o’ the Irish bar, but I needed Marco for that because, despite its friendly Irish name, rumor had it that it was not a friendly Irish pub. In fact, I’d heard that the only thing Irish about it was the green plastic shamrock on the sign. Why Bertie chose that as his drinking destination was a puzzle. Had it been the bar’s proximity to the dunes or the Irish moniker?

I really didn’t want to think of Bertie as a suspect. Of all the bridal party, he was the most likeable. Not only that, but he’d defended me when Punch had gotten nasty. But I couldn’t rule Bertie out just because I liked him. I’d heard him lie to the police about being Flip’s cousin, and when we were first introduced he’d actually admitted that he didn’t always tell the truth.

I saw Onora whisper in Jillian’s ear, then slip away and head for the door, probably on her way to the ladies’ room, so I asked Ursula to take over for me. Time to ask the finicky maid of honor some pointed questions. I had put it off long enough.

Onora was in a stall when I walked into the restroom, so I made a pretense of washing my hands, scrubbing them thoroughly with lots of foamy soap until she emerged.

“Those bows get sticky,” I commented, reaching for paper towels.

Her gaze shifted to me briefly, then she opened her purse and retrieved a shiny silver tube of lipstick. I pulled out my lip gloss and applied it, watching her covertly in the mirror. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Onora. Where did you go the night of the murder?”

Her hand halted, the tube hovering over her lips. “Nowhere. I had a headache.”

“That’s odd. The hotel clerk saw you drive into the parking lot at nine o’clock.”

“The hotel clerk is a moron.” She threw her lipstick into her bag and snapped the little clutch shut. “Who are you, anyway, the FBI?”

Rather than fire back a smart reply I kept my cool. “Actually Jillian has asked me to—”

“I know what Jillian asked you to do. Go do it on someone else. I didn’t kill Punch.”

She started toward the door, so I quickly said, “Then why are you lying about going out that evening?”

Onora stopped short, her hand outstretched, ready to push open the swinging door. The room was eerily silent, save for the slow drip of a leaky faucet. Suddenly, she did a sharp pivot and, with her freshly rouged lips pressed into a hard line, she stalked over and squeezed my face between the talons of her right hand. “Listen, flower girl, what I did that evening is
my
business, so get out of my face.”

“I believe you’re the one in my face,” I said evenly, prying her fingers off, “and since you’re a suspect, what you did that evening is also
my
business.”

“Oh, really? If I’m a suspect, why haven’t the police told me so?”

Score one for the ice maiden. “Because,” I said, trying to come up with a plausible reason, “they don’t reveal their investigations to just anyone.”

She sneered in my face, “Nice try.”

I hated sneers; they made me cranky. “Okay, how’s this, Onora? Once I tell them about our conversation the night of the murder—you remember that, don’t you? You asked who killed Punch before we told you he’d been murdered? —I’m sure they’ll be happy to include you on their short list.”

I thought she was going to bash me with her bag. Instead, with a strangled cry of rage, she threw the little beaded number onto the floor and stamped on it. On her third stamp, the toe of her shoes came into contact with the tube of lipstick inside, her foot shot out from under her, and she went down onto her backside on the tiled floor.

“See what you’ve done?” she screeched, and promptly burst into tears. The woman was on one heck of an emotional roller coaster.

I held out a hand. “I’m sorry. Let me help you up.”

The door opened and one of the guests came in. When she saw Onora on the floor crying, and me standing over her, the woman gasped and backed out.

Suddenly, Onora grabbed my wrist and yanked me down so we were practically nose-to-nose. Her pupils were dilated to pitch-black, radiating hatred, yet her facial muscles barely registered a twitch. “Stay away from me,” she said through clenched teeth, “or you might end up like Punch.”

She pushed me away, got to her feet, and glided out of the washroom, as unruffled as when she’d walked in.

Half of me was infuriated by her threat and the other half wasn’t sure what to be. I didn’t really think she’d try to kill me, but the fact that she had no reservations about expressing her feelings in that direction gave me pause. Sabina had been right about Onora. She had a nasty temper. She had also moved up to number one on my list of suspects.

 

I spent the remaining hour keeping my distance from Onora. Luckily, as soon as all the presents had been opened she left, slipping silently out of the room like a shadow. She seemed to be very good at that. I was going to follow her, but my aunt prevailed upon me to help cart Jillian’s loot out to the semitrailer truck they’d hired. My sister-in-law Kathy was kind enough to take Nikki back to our apartment so I could stay and help. Nikki would have been glad to pitch in, but sitting with my mother and aunt had left her with a throbbing headache and a twitch in one eye.

After all the presents had been loaded into the truck, I secured my pedestal table in the Vette’s passenger seat and returned to Bloomers, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror in case the mysterious Crown Victoria should reappear. Except for restaurants, nothing was open on the square on Sunday, so I parked directly in front of the shop, unlocked the front door, deactivated the alarm, then went back for the table.

“Hey, sunshine!” I heard a familiar voice call. “Come have a look.”

Marco was standing in front of his bar, admiring a new sign, so I strolled down the sidewalk to offer my expert opinion. “Nice work. Who did it?”

“Jingles.”

“The window washer is also a sign painter?”

“He did some gold lettering on the mirror over the bar, too.”

I followed Marco inside to take a look. The wall behind the bar held a massive mirror framed in beautifully carved dark oak. Across the top of the mirror Jingles had painted
Down the Hatch
in fancy gold scrollwork. “Impressive,” I told him.

Marco went behind the bar and held up a bottle of 7-Up. “Thirsty?”

“Not for bubbles.”

“I thought you were over that bubbles phobia.”

“It’s not a phobia. Bubbles make me sneeze.”

Marco opened a bottle of plain water and filled a glass as I took a seat at the bar. “You ought to have Jingles do something on your bay windows.”

“I might be able to swing it when I get paid for the wedding flowers—if there
is
a wedding.”

“I almost hate to ask, but how’s the investigation going?”

“This morning I went to the jail for a chat with the police’s number-one suspect and made him cry, and this afternoon Onora, the maid of honor, threatened to kill me. Other than that . . .”

Marco made a T with his hands, referee-style. “Whoa. Time out. Why did she threaten you?”

“Because I told her the hotel clerk had seen her in the parking lot the night of the murder, when she supposedly hadn’t left her room. She didn’t take it well.”

“Did the hotel clerk give the police that information?”

“I assume he did.”

“Never assume. Call Reilly and make sure he knows. And then make sure Onora knows he knows. You don’t want to be the only one holding that information. What about your interview with Flip?”

“Enlightening. Apparently, Punch was supposed to meet a girl at the dunes that night. Punch also accused Flip of being jealous, but I’m not sure of whom—Punch or the mystery girl. That reminds me, I have to pay a visit to the Luck o’ the Irish bar tomorrow evening. Want to come along?” I threw that last part in quickly, hoping he’d say yes before he had a chance to reflect. It didn’t work.

“You’re going to that dive? No way. How about I go and you stay home?”

“This is my investigation. If you don’t want to go with me I’ll ask Nikki. She took karate lessons in high school. We’ll be fine.” I knew that would get him.

Marco glowered at me. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty. And don’t dress like that.” He nodded toward my green outfit, which
was
rather clingy. Also, the bites on my legs had faded, and the itch had subsided enough to make shaving possible. With a little self-tanner applied for a healthy glow, I suddenly felt like a fox.

“Why?” I asked, batting my eyelashes. “Too sexy?”

His eyes raked over me in a way I found to be quite a turn-on. “Sexy isn’t the right word.”

“Suggestive? Alluring? Hot?”

“Churchy.”

Time to go.

I returned to my car for the table, put it in the display window, adjusted the arrangements around it, and decided a finishing touch was in order. I tossed my purse on the front counter and headed for the basement via the workroom. But I’d no sooner reached the curtain when the hairs on the back of my neck rose. Something wasn’t right.

I paused to listen. Other than the hum of the cooler all was silent, so I ignored that strange feeling and stepped into the workroom. To the right, the big refrigeration unit was shut, as usual. In the center, the worktable and its drawers sat undisturbed. To the left, my desk was clear—completely clear. Everything on top had been swept off, and the drawers had been emptied onto the floor.

My heart gave a lurch as I stared at the mess. Someone had broken in and rifled my desk.

The hair on my nape rose again. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Had the robber slipped in while I was down at Marco’s? Was he still in the shop?

M
y heart galloped as I backed slowly through the curtain. Quietly, I gathered my purse from the counter, noting that the cash register hadn’t been touched. In fact, nothing else was out of place. Whoever had come in had targeted only the desk. But why? I never stored anything of value in it.

Keeping an eye on the curtained doorway, I felt for the door handle and was about to ease open the front door when it hit me. The Emperor’s Spa photos were in my desk.