Slay it with Flowers (27 page)

Jillian yawned, then said sleepily, “You eat breakfast?”

“Why are you up so early?”

“I can’t sleep from worrying about everything. Are you going to solve this murder soon?”

“I hope you’ve had this conversation with the police detectives.”

“They won’t let me call anymore.”

“I’m doing my best, Jill. Go back to bed.” I returned to the kitchen to finish my meal.

“Is Jillian giving you a hard time?” Lottie asked, sitting down with her own plate of food.

“She’s nervous. She’s never come this close to marriage before.”

“I still say she won’t go through with it.”

“If she backs out this time, I will hunt her down and drag her to the altar. I’ve got a vanload of flowers ordered, not to mention a bridesmaid dress that gives new meaning to the word
ugly.
”

As I munched the last bite of toast, Lottie leaned toward me to say quietly, “Ask Grace about her dinner with Richard Saturday night. I’m dying to know what happened.”

“If you wouldn’t tease her, she might be willing to tell
you
these things.”

“What fun would that be?”

I could see Lottie’s point. “I’ll have a chat with Grace before I go to the DeWitts’ house.”

At the sound of a distant “Yoo-hoo!” we both froze. It was Monday. My mother the Weekend Sculptress always had something new for us on Monday.

“Gotta go,” Lottie said, but I grabbed her by the strings of her bib apron before she could flee out the back door.

“We’re going to face this together—whatever it may be,” I told her.

“Yoo-hoo, Abigail!” The sound of doom was growing closer.

“Maybe we should both leave,” Lottie suggested. After a moment’s consideration, we scrambled for the door, but not in time.

“Here you are!” my mother cried. “Oh, wonderful, you’re here, too, Lottie. Come see what I brought.” She smiled like a little girl with a big surprise. She had on a long, flowing, flowered skirt, sandals, and a lime green T-shirt. I had to admit she looked pretty good for being my mother.

Like condemned prisoners, we trudged obediently after her, through the workroom and into the shop. On the tiled floor in the middle of the room was a brown paper-wrapped parcel about a foot and a half square. My mother stuck her head in the parlor to summon Grace, then we gathered at the counter to watch the unveiling.

“Keep in mind the theme I started with the palm tree,” she said, then paused, a furrow on her brow as she turned for a look at her previous creation, still in the corner next to the wicker settee. “You haven’t sold it yet?”

“I may have a buyer,” I said instantly, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

“Really? Who?”

I should have known she would ask that question. “It will be a surprise.” For all of us.

Two female customers came in the front door and headed for the coffee parlor, but as my mother unwrapped her bundle, they paused to see what the excitement was about.

“Voilà!” my mother said, stepping back for all to admire her work. And there it stood, on all four feet. Four big, bare feet on the floor; four big, bare feet facing the ceiling, forming a solid cube of naked feet.

“Oh, look,” Grace exclaimed, gingerly touching it, “you’ve even painted the toenails, and each one a different color, too.”

The customers hustled into the parlor, pinching their lips together to keep from laughing.

“I’ve got it,” Lottie said. “A
foot
stool.”

“Of course it’s a footstool,” my mother said, bewildered. “What else would it be?”

Hideous?

“What do you think, Abigail?” my mother asked.

Grace slid quietly out to take care of the women in the parlor. Lottie gave me a pitying look.

“I think—you’re the most creative person in our family.” I gave her a hug and she beamed with pride. It worked every time.

“You look nice today,” she said, pulling my off-the-shoulder top onto my shoulders.

I readjusted them. “They’re supposed to be down.”

“You’ll get chilly.”

“If I get chilly I’ll put them up.”

For twelve seconds it was a standoff. Then Grace peered out of the parlor and said, “Maureen, would you care for a cup of tea or coffee?” I made frantic
“No! Stop! I don’t have time to entertain her!”
arm gestures, but she ignored me.

“Thank you, Grace, but I have a hair appointment.”

I slumped in relief. The bell over the door jingled as an elderly couple came in.

“Why don’t I move the . . . um . . . footstool . . . in front of the settee?” Lottie volunteered, sweeping the object out of the path and into the corner as the couple began to browse.

“As long as people will notice it there,” my mother replied.

“They’ll notice it,” Lottie assured her.

Satisfied, my mother turned to me, eyed my bare shoulders, but left the top alone. “Have you found the murderer?”

The elderly man took his wife by the arm and escorted her out the door, where I could see him hustling her away from the shop, casting worried glances at us over his shoulder.

“Mother, please don’t talk about the murder in front of my customers.”

“I’m sorry. But have you?”

“I’m getting close.”

“So is the wedding.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Speaking of reminders,” Lottie said, sensing that things were taking a turn for the worse, “don’t you have an appointment with a client shortly, Abby?”

God bless Lottie.

 

At nine thirty I picked up Trudee’s file, slung my purse over my shoulder, and headed for the parlor. Grace was serving coffee and scones to a group of students from the university, so I waited by the coffee counter to tell her where I was headed.

“Toddle on then, dear,” she said, as she put on more coffee to brew. “I’ll mind the shop.”

“Thanks. By the way, how was your dinner Saturday night?”

“Excellently prepared. The chef outdid himself.”

Not exactly the information I was hoping for, so I took another stab at it. “The evening must have gone well. You look so . . .
happy
. . . today.”

The machine stopped and Grace glanced up at me in concern. “Don’t I look happy every day?”

“What I meant was that you seem to have enjoyed Richard’s company.”

“I wouldn’t have dined with him otherwise.” She made it sound so logical.

“You’re missing my point, Grace. I’m trying to find out what happened Saturday night.”

“I’ve already told you, dear. We had a lovely meal.”

“And?”

“And what?”

I gazed at her serene face and knew I’d lost. “I’m going to Trudee’s.”

I glanced back just before I left and saw her smile secretively.

 

I pushed the DeWitts’ doorbell and waited while it played the first two measures of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” In a few moments I heard Trudee’s stilettos tapping against the marble hall, then the door swung open and she stood there snapping her gum and smiling. Her hair, today a bright yellow, was in a Barbie doll ponytail, her shapely hips and legs zipped into pink stretch pants, and her D cups stuffed into a black halter top.

“C’mon in,” she said, blowing a bubble. She tapped back up the hallway toward her kitchen and pointed to a brown leather stool at the island counter. “Put it down there.”

Assuming the “it” was my posterior, I put it there and opened her file.

“Coffee?” she said, pushing a cup toward me. She filled one for herself, too, then put her “it” down on another stool to look over my plans. As I explained, she nodded sagely, blowing bubbles and popping them loudly without once getting any goo on her face. She had quite a talent for it.

“I like it,” she said when I’d finished. “Only one suggestion. Something tropical in the foyer, something that will grab everyone’s attention the moment they walk in.”

“Okay,” I said, making a note in the margin. “A tropical attention-grabber.”

“Come see the backyard.”

We walked out of the kitchen through sliding glass doors onto an expansive wooden deck filled with two umbrella-shaded tables, matching chairs, and two lounge chairs with cushions in bright tropical prints. Beyond the deck was a huge lawn that sloped gently down to a creek. “Right there,” she said, pointing to the grassy area. “A giant flag.”

“Let’s measure.”

Trudee held one end of my tape measure, and I walked with the other until she told me to stop.
Giant
wasn’t the appropriate word.
Gargantuan,
maybe. “Trudee, you realize the cost will be exorbitant, don’t you?”

“It isn’t a problem.”

But time was. I’d have to have my supplier deliver them directly to Trudee’s house early on the morning of the party, which was not only Independence Day but also Jillian’s wedding. I’d have my hands full with that alone.

“I need to make a few calls to see if I can get the flowers delivered that morning,” I told her. “Why don’t I get back to you tomorrow with an estimate for the flag, and then you can decide?”

“Sure, if it makes you feel better.” She blew a big pink bubble and smiled through it.

Suddenly, the ground began to tremble beneath my feet, and the air around me vibrated with the sound of a bass guitar. I heard a squeal of brakes, then, two door-slams later, Trudee’s pink-haired daughter Heather and her Mohawked boyfriend meandered around the corner of the house, stepped onto the deck, and threw themselves onto the side-by-side lounge chairs, tossing a black leather, soft-sided carrying case into the narrow space between them.

Pressing her bright pink lips together, Trudee marched onto the deck and went straight to Heather, who was busy setting up her portable CD player. “Where are your manners, young lady? You can at least say hello when we have company.”

“Hullo,” the girl said sullenly, not even glancing in my direction.

Trudee threw a frosty glare in the direction of the boyfriend, who had donned his headphones and was bobbing to the music blaring from his own CD player.

“To think I wanted to be a mother,” Trudee muttered. “Think twice before having kids, Abby.”

At the rate I was going, I’d be lucky to have a steady date.

We went back inside the house so I could take a better look at her foyer. I sketched it out on my notepad, promised to call her the next day, and left. But I came to a sudden stop on the sidewalk outside as I gaped at the car parked bumper-to-bumper with my Vette. It was a Volkswagen Beetle, painted to look tie-dyed, just like the one I had seen in the dunes parking lot on the night of the murder.

I did an about-face and headed around the house to the backyard.

“Hey,” I said, tapping Heather on the shoulder. Like her boyfriend, she had on headphones and was listening with her eyes closed. At my tap her orbs flew open and she lifted one earphone to hear me.

“Whose VW is out front?”

She jerked her head toward Mohawk Boy in the next chair. “His.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Ben.”

“Mind if I ask Ben a few questions?”

Heather poked him and he opened his eyes, turning his head toward her. “Yeah?”

“She wants to talk to you.”

Ben looked at me, holding one side of the headphones an inch away from his eardrum. “What?”

I walked around to his chair and perched on the end of it. “Let’s make this easier on both of us. Take off the headgear.” With a sharp sigh, he sat up and did as requested.

“How long have you had your VW?”

“I dunno. Maybe three months.”

“Do you ever drive it out to the dunes?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you aware of the murder that happened there?” At his hesitant nod, I asked, “Were you out there that night?”

He gave me a wary look. “Are you a cop?”

“She owns a flower shop, dork,” Heather said over the thumping of the bass.

“Yeah, I was there.”

“Were you around when the police came?”

He made a scoffing sound. “No way. Like I want to get busted.”

“Shut up, stupid!” Heather glanced over her shoulder toward the house.

I dug in my purse and found the folded newspaper photos of Flip and Punch. “I’m not interested in your illegal activities. All I want to know is whether you saw either of these two men while you were there.”

Ben did a quick scan, shook his head, and resumed listening to his music. But Heather took off her headphones to lean in for a closer look. She studied them for a long moment, then tapped one of the photos. “We saw this dude. Remember, Ben? His hair was longer and kind of stringy, but this is him.” She was pointing to Flip. “He was sitting down by the water, holding his head and mumbling.”

“Oh, the drunk dude,” Ben said, suddenly enlightened. “Man, he was wasted.”

“He was holding his head?” I asked. “Could he have been hurt?”

They looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess so,” Heather said. “But then we heard sirens and took off.”

“Did you see this man?” I asked, pointing to the photo of Punch.

“Nope.” Ben put his headphones on again and lay back, closing his eyes.

“Sorry,” Heather said. She leaned over to jab her boyfriend in the shoulder. “What did you do with the White Stripes CD?”

“It’s in the case.”

She sat up and reached for the black leather case between them. As she pinched the brass clasp and swung the top open, I caught a glimpse of the interior.

“Isn’t that a camera bag?”

“Maybe.”

“May I see it?”

She turned it so I could have a look. The bag reminded me of the big leather case that held my father’s old Nikon, with compartments for the various lenses, rolls of film, and all the other gadgets that an amateur photographer totes around. It wasn’t the kind of case teens would buy for their CDs. “Where did you get this?”