Snipped in the Bud (11 page)

“Let’s talk about the fingerprints,” Corbison said with more smugness.

“Mine or the murderer’s?” I replied.

Corbison smiled cagily. “Maybe they’re one in the same.”

Or maybe you’re an imbecile.
I decided to ignore Corbison in favor of Farmer Mel. “You can’t be serious about me being a suspect. I’m a hometown girl, a florist, for heaven’s sake. I grow things. And I’m very pro-justice. I’ve even solved a few murder cases. I’m sure you know my father, Sgt. Jeffrey Knight, who was wounded in the line of duty three years ago. So, seriously, guys, why are you focusing on me instead of on the obvious suspect—Professor Puffer? The man is infamous for using his pencils as weapons. See this scar?” I pulled back one side of my hair to show them a tiny, white, crescent-moon shape near the hairline. “Puffer did that. And if he can do that, well, it’s pretty obvious he has serious anger-management issues. So, come on. Level with me. What’s really going on here? Why are you trying to make me look like a killer? Is this a game you’re playing to catch the real murderer? Am I bait?”

Corbison shot to his feet, bracing his hands on the table and leaning toward me, an ugly look on his face. “You think we’re playing games?”

“Easy, Al,” Mel cautioned, laying a hand on his forearm.

“I’d like to have a minute with my client,” Dave injected. Just as well. The fury in Corbison’s face had really shaken me. Clearly my little speech about being the hometown florist had fallen on deaf ears. I had become a perfect stranger—or maybe a not-so-perfect stranger—who was capable of murder.

Dave waited until the tape had been stopped and the men had gone, then he said, “Look at me, Abby. Look at my face. Do you see any amusement in it? These men are not playing games and you can’t, either. This is your life we’re talking about. People in town are frightened. A professor has been murdered, of all places in a law school. This is unprecedented! I’ve been listening to the radio talk shows and everyone is up in arms. They’re after blood. There’s a murderer on the loose and people want justice, vigilante or otherwise.”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then again, my mouth was so dry I doubted anything but a rasp would have come out anyway.

“This atmosphere creates enormous pressure on the police and the prosecutors,” Dave continued. “Do you remember the old saying from your law school days about a prosecutor being able to indict a ham sandwich? Well, it’s true. And there’s enough circumstantial evidence here to indict you—and may well be enough to convict you. People have been convicted on a lot less. So drop the smart-ass attitude and get serious. When they come back in, answer their questions with no editorializing and no sass. Got it?”

Had it, but couldn’t get over it. I cleared my throat and managed, “So I really am a suspect.”

Dave sighed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The prosecutor is here for one reason—to look for what he would need to take this to trial: your tone, your demeanor, your body language. So watch it, okay? Be straight with them. No pithy comments. No exasperated sighs. No rolling of the eyes. Nothing but straightforward.”

He wouldn’t have to tell me again. I knew my saucy attitude was a form of protection to fend off that scared-silly part of my brain that was whispering,
These men are out to get you! You could actually wind up in prison.
It was called denial. But I couldn’t afford to deny the truth of my situation any longer. I was in serious trouble and I had to be the model of cooperation to get myself out of that trouble.

The men returned and the recording was started again. I sat meekly with my hands in my lap as Dave said, “Sorry for the delay. Let me state for the record that we’re here to give you total and complete cooperation. Abby will hold back nothing. If I thought she was involved, we wouldn’t be here. Hopefully, she can help you find the murderer in this case.”

“Let’s start over,” Mel said in a friendly voice, while Corbison sat back with a frown and glared at me. Apparently they had decided to do the good cop–bad cop routine. “Tell me how your prints got on the pencil.”

I took a deep breath and began my story for the umpteenth time, trying to include every detail, whether I thought it was important or not. Then I sat back and waited.

“Let me get this straight,” Corbison said, stepping up to bat. “Professor Puffer dropped your flower in the trash, and you were so angry you went back to his office to get it.”

“It was a beautiful flower in a handsome vase. I couldn’t stand to see it go to the dump.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” Corbison said, “how angry would you say you were?”

I pondered his question for a moment. “Angry enough to override my fear of the man, so I’d say…a six. I take a lot of pride in my flowers, and this flower was a perfect rose known as Ink Spots, a very dark red, velvety—”

“At the protest rally,” Corbison said, cutting me off, “you confronted Professor Reed. Why?”

“Because he was defending the type of heartless, greedy company he used to rail against. Do you have any idea what they do to those poor, helpless animals? It would make your skin crawl, literally, just like the toxic chemicals do to their fur, and—”

“How did you feel when Professor Reed had you arrested?” Corbison asked.

I was a little perturbed by the way he kept cutting me off, but I kept it to myself. “Shocked. Hurt.”

“Angry?”

“Well, of course. Professor Reed was a sellout. He told us we shouldn’t be afraid to take a stand against injustice, then he had me arrested for taking a stand against injustice. Wouldn’t you be a little angry?”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

I shrugged. “Six.”

“So you felt the same amount of anger toward him as you did toward Professor Puffer after he trashed your lily?”

“It was a rose, and no, not the same. More like a seven with Reed.”

Corbison said, “And when Carson Reed came out of his office to taunt you about the arrest, how did you feel?”

Did I really want to tell him I was angry again? I looked at Dave but he didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t want to appear to be coaching me.

“Answer the question, please,” the prosecutor said evenly.

In a very quiet, controlled voice I said, “Yes, I was angry.”

“You’ll have to speak up for the tape,” Corbison said.

“Angry,” I said louder.

“On a scale of one to—”

“Eight.” I was really sick of that scale.

“What was Professor Reed doing when you returned to get the flower?” Corbison asked.

“Nothing. He was dead.”

“Are you sure?”

Was I sure.
“Well, let’s see…there was a pencil sticking out of his throat, and his eyes were staring like this”—I demonstrated by opening my eyes as wide as I could get them—“and he wasn’t moving, so, yes, I’m sure.”

Corbison leaned forward expectantly. “Or maybe he was alive when you came back and you were so
angry
that you picked up the pencil and stabbed him in the throat.”

I pressed my lips together and folded my arms over my chest, then thought better of the body language and put my hands back in my lap and said firmly, “I didn’t kill him.”

“But I’ll bet you wanted to,” Corbison said, as if he could egg me on.

“Killing someone isn’t what pops into my head when I’m angry. Besides, I told you he was already dead when I came back.”

Corbison scratched his neck and looked doubtful. “Eight is a very high amount of anger.”

“Look, I could have felt a twelve toward him, but I still wouldn’t have killed him.”

“Did you think about it?”

“No!” I looked to Dave for help. Corbison was clearly badgering the witness—in this case, me. Why wasn’t Dave objecting?

“Don’t you think skinning a snake would kill it?” Corbison asked.

“Yes, but you’re taking my comment totally out of context. And for the record,” I added, leaning toward the tape recorder, “I’m opposed to skinning any creature.”

Corbison sat back with his arms folded and a look of triumph on his face. “So you did think about killing Carson Reed.”

“Have you not been listening?” I snapped, then felt Dave’s hand clamp on my arm. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying hard to keep the famous Knight temper from boiling over. “I did not kill Professor Reed, nor did I think about killing him.”

Corbison and Mel put their heads together to discuss something in whispers, then Corbison said, “All right. That’s all for now, but keep yourself available in case we have further questions.”

I snatched my hat off the table; we stood up and walked out.

“The second half went much better,” Dave said as we headed toward his car.

I jammed the hat on my head, doing a slow sizzle. Had we been at the same meeting?

“Are you okay?” he asked, glancing at me in concern.

Okay
wasn’t quite the word I’d use to describe my feelings. Righteous indignation came close. “Corbison was badgering me, Dave. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“And make it seem like you had something to hide? Listen, if they can’t shake you with their badgering, they’ll start looking elsewhere for their suspect.”

“Yeah, well, I have a strong feeling they’ve looked as far as they’re going to.”

“Think about this,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “With the evidence they have, they could have arrested you, but they didn’t. Take that as a good sign.”

“I’m trying. I really am. But we both know if the police don’t turn up any better leads, they’ll come back to me.”

He didn’t argue, which meant he agreed, which meant I was in an oceanful of hot water. “Well, then,” I said, fastening my seat belt, “I guess I need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Abby, be very careful. You don’t want to be charged with obstruction because you interfered with the police investigation. And you don’t want to put yourself in a position of danger.”

“I’m not in a position of danger now?”

“You know what I mean. Let the police do their work, and have a little faith in the justice system.”

“Yeah. Right. The justice system. We both know how well it worked for my dad. He was paralyzed for life and the drug dealer who shot him was out of jail in nine months.”

“Abby, let me tell you something. If I didn’t put my faith in the system I couldn’t do my job.” He reached over to pat my shoulder. “It isn’t like you to be so pessimistic. Come on. Think positive. I have total belief in you and in what you’ve told me. Remember, the truth will out.”

Only if the truth had a chance to
get
out. The problem was, the killer was doing his best to bury it—and me with it.

D
ave parked his car in a small lot around the corner from his office, then we headed up to Lincoln and turned in opposite directions, Dave for his office and me for Bloomers. I crossed the street to the courthouse lawn and plowed forward, keeping my head down and looking at no one. I thought I was doing well, too, until I spotted a band of sign-carrying protesters marching in front of my shop. I came to an immediate halt, glanced around for cover, and dived behind a sturdy maple tree. Tugging my hat as low as it would go, I peered around the trunk to take a better look.

Besides the wacko with the
SAVE THE FLORIST
sign, there were three more with
SAVE THE ANIMALS
DOWN WITH DERMACOLspan>
signs. But the
JUSTICE FOR REED
group had grown to ten, and they were shouting their slogans at everyone who walked or drove by. Deciding it would be in my best interest to avoid any more protest marches, I called Lottie to tell her about my current situation—actually, all of my current situations—not to mention my new mission in life, which was basically to save mine and have one. Lottie agreed that I should have a life and assured me that Grace did, too, although we both knew there would be a quote forthcoming before the whole fiasco was finished.

“I’m sorry I can’t get to the shop. I feel terrible leaving you two with all the work.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetie. We’re making money as fast as we can take it in. I’ve been to the bank twice today and had to call suppliers to get more flowers.”

“That’s good news, but I’ll bet you’re swamped with orders, so I’ll sneak in tonight—”

“No need to bother with that. I’ve already asked my cousin Pearl to come help out in the shop tomorrow so Grace and I can keep up.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.” Why did that make me feel worse? Business was booming at Bloomers, something I’d been praying for since I first took on the mortgage a mere five months ago. I should have been overjoyed. Instead I felt—unnecessary.

“You just concentrate on finding the killer, sweetie, and leave Bloomers to us. And don’t be going on a big ol’ guilt trip, either. You didn’t do this on purpose. Hold on, Abby. Grace wants to say something.”

The phone was passed and then Grace said, “Sorry to bother you, dear, but, speaking of guilt, your mum rang twice, the last time five minutes ago. Your father rang ten minutes ago. Same message from both. Call them back.”

“Okay, I will.” But not yet. First I had to share the bad news with Marco so he could bolster my spirits. “Thanks, Grace. Stay in touch.”

I checked to make sure no one had noticed me, then I hit the speed-dial code for Marco.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, answering on the second ring. “How’d the meeting go?”

“The question isn’t how it went, but where it went. The answer is, down the toilet.”

“I’m at the bar. Come over.”

“Make sure the back door is open.” I slipped the phone in my purse and took a roundabout route to Down the Hatch, stopping to peer down the alley before stepping into it. The coast was clear, but I didn’t dare tarry. Ahead, Marco had opened his back door, so I slithered along the side of the building, hurried past him, and headed straight for his office.

He locked the door and took a seat at his desk as I sat in one of the sling-back chairs and stuffed the hat in my purse. “Give me the details,” he said.

I recounted the minutes of the meeting, and when I finished I said, “I know you won’t be in favor of this, Marco, but after the grilling they gave me, I’ve decided I need to take matters into my own hands. I’ve got to find the killer.”

“I agree.”

“So please don’t try to talk me out of it…. Wait. Did you just agree with me?”

“Do you think I’d leave your fate up to a prosecutor’s political whim? Not a chance, baby. We’re going to find the killer together.”

I smiled a genuine smile for the first time that day. Marco was absolutely the greatest. To show how much I appreciated him, I jumped up and went around the desk to give him a hug. Also, to feel those rock-hard pectorals. They were the greatest, too.

“Are you going to grope me all afternoon, or are we going to get busy saving your shapely behind?” he asked teasingly.

I craned my neck for a glimpse of my backside. “My behind is shapely? Really? In these pants?”

Marco gave me a look that males have perfected that said,
I’m sorry I brought it up.

“Never mind. You’re right, Marco. This is serious business. Everything in good time.” I put my shapely behind in the chair. “Okay, here’s what I was thinking. Professor Puffer should be first on our list of people to investigate. He had the means and the opportunity to kill Carson Reed. Plus, he’s trying awfully hard to make me look guilty.”

Marco opened a desk drawer and removed a yellow legal pad. I leaned closer and saw that it was the notes he’d taken when I talked to him on the phone just after the murder. Adding to them, he wrote the heading
Suspects,
then put Puffer’s name beneath. “What about a motive?”

“Not clear. Maybe a professional rivalry. Reed was younger than Puffer by ten years, yet he has—
had
—tenure and Puffer didn’t—
doesn’t
.” Death and verb tenses—not easy to master.

“How did that happen?” Marco asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe because Puffer got a late start—he was a JAG officer before coming to New Chapel. I do know that he applied for tenure several times and was turned down, and I also know that he and Reed were not friends, despite what he told Connor.”

“Who’s Connor?”

“The reporter who wrote the front-page story in today’s
News
. He keeps bugging me to give him my side of the events.”

“But you haven’t, and won’t.”

“Of course not. My motto is—” I pretended to zip my lips.

“Good.” Marco added Jocelyn Puffer, Beatrice Boyd, and Kenny Lipinski to his suspect list, then showed it to me. “Should anyone else be on here?”

“If it was a case of mistaken identity, how about all of Puffer’s students?”

“A case of mistaken identity?” Marco looked doubtful.

“You’re right. I’m reaching. But the rose bothers me. What if someone sent it to Puffer as a warning? What if the killer went to Puffer’s office to make sure he got it, spotted the flower sitting in the wastebasket and freaked out, not realizing the wrong man was in the chair? After all, the back of the chair was tall, and Reed was facing the other way.”

Marco shoved the pad of paper toward me. “Make a diagram of the office.”

I flipped to a clean page and sketched the room, then pointed out the features. “Here’s the desk. Here’s the chair facing the back door. Here’s the front door. Here’s the wastebasket.”

Marco studied it. “If the killer was close enough to see into the wastebasket, he would have been close enough to see Reed.”

“Not necessarily. The rose showed well above the rim of the wastebasket. The killer could have spotted that from as far away as the front door. He might have rushed in, socked Reed from the rear, then stabbed the pencil into his neck, saw who it was, and fled out the rear door, taking the elevator down to the main floor.”

“That’s really a stretch, and besides, if it’s a case of mistaken identity, you can rule out Puffer as the murderer because he would have known who was in his chair.”

“Oops. Then forget that theory because I can’t rule out Puffer. He’s my number one suspect. Let’s go back to square one.”

Marco toyed with his pen. “Here’s what I don’t like about Puffer being the killer. First of all, he’d be stupid to kill someone in
his
chair with
his
pencil. Second, you said he didn’t act nervous or worried, which makes him either innocent or a clever sociopath.”

“I’ll vote for the second option. What better way to get away with murder than to make yourself look too obvious—like you were set up? He’s shrewd, Marco, and his temper is volatile enough that he could easily have flown into a rage and killed Reed.”

“We’ll need to question him to see if we can establish a motive.”

I shivered at the idea of confronting him. “You might want to work on that one alone.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Let’s move on. Number two is Puffer’s wife, Jocelyn. You told me you saw her at the school before noon, yet she didn’t show up until after the cops arrived. So we need to find out how she got into the building and where she was between the time you first saw her and the time she showed up at her husband’s office.”

“I’ll talk to Jocelyn. She’s always been pleasant to me. I just don’t see her as a suspect.”

“Remember this. The one you least expect is the one you’ll overlook. If anything at all sounds the slightest bit fishy, start digging. Talk to her friends, coworkers, neighbors. Establish a pattern of behavior for her and see if she’s been deviating from it. Who knows? Maybe she and Reed were having an affair and he threatened to tell Puffer.”

“Jocelyn is not even close to Reed’s type. He preferred lively, pretty,
young
women, which Jocelyn isn’t. She’s a fiftysomething drudge who’s been browbeaten by Puffer into a grim, colorless shell. It’s common knowledge that he inspects their house every morning to make sure it’s perfectly tidy. He bounces quarters off the sheets, Marco, to see if they’re taut enough. That would make anyone grim.”

“She still needs investigating, Sunshine, to find out where she was during that gap of time. That reminds me; I need to check with Reilly to see if they sealed off all of the building’s exits and if anyone tried to get through.” He made a note to himself, then moved back to his list. “Next up is Beatrice Boyd. I know you said she was able to get along with everyone, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had a bone to pick with Reed.”

“If she had a bone to pick, she’d bury it in the backyard and move on. She’s very even tempered, not the type to cower or complain or get flustered. I’ve seen Puffer in a rage over some silly little thing and she never even blinked.” I paused, thinking back. “Except she did look a little ruffled when I arrived with Puffer’s floral delivery.”

“Did you ask her why?”

“I didn’t want to be nosy. Stop rolling your eyes. I know when not to pry. She was in a hurry—late for an appointment, I think she said. That must be why she seemed rattled. She’s a punctual person.”

“Is she married?”

“No. I don’t think she ever was. But she’s sort of adopted her niece Hannah, who came here from Minnesota a year ago to attend college.”

“Any possibility of Beatrice having an affair with Reed or being jilted by him?”

“Zilch on that idea. Bea may look like a free spirit, but she’s as old maid–ish as anyone can be. And she’s a lot older than Reed.”

“Still, I’d like to know more about that appointment.” Marco checked his notes.” What about Kenny Lipinski? He was on the scene right after the murder. Coincidence?”

“That thought crossed my mind, too. He said he was researching something in the computer lab, so he’d have to log in and out, which will be easy enough to verify. But why would he want to murder his adviser, especially one who’d secured a federal clerkship for him?”

“Something to investigate. What about another student wanting that clerkship?”

“I’m sure there were several who were hoping to get it, but being passed over for it isn’t exactly a motive to kill the professor. Kill Kenny, maybe, to take his spot.”

“All the same, it would be helpful to find out who else was in line for it. It takes only one nutcase who feels cheated to lash out at the person he believes is responsible.”

“If you’re looking for a nutcase, Puffer’s your man. Wait till you meet him.”

Marco jotted one last note, then looked up at me. “Will you have time to see Jocelyn before the memorial service tomorrow?”

“What service?”

“One o’clock in the afternoon at the university chapel. It was in the paper.”

“I didn’t read any farther than the front page. I was blinded by all the freckles. Do you think I should go?”

“I think
we
should go. It’ll give us a chance to observe the other suspects. Wear something inconspicuous and we’ll sit in the back. I’ll pick you up at noon.”

“It’s a date. In the morning I’ll pay a visit to the bookstore where Jocelyn works. That should be a quick one to check off our list.”

“The other interviews will have to wait till next week.” Marco put away his notes and shut the drawer. “Classes at the law school have been canceled until Monday in Reed’s honor. That was in the paper, too, by the way.” He came around and took my hands, raising me to my feet. “We’re going to find this killer, Sunshine.”

“I hope we do it soon,” I said with a sigh. “I won’t be of much help to you behind bars.”

His mouth curved up in that intriguing Marco grin that made my breath catch and my toes curl. He drew me into his embrace and gazed down into my eyes. “If they put you behind bars, I’ll just have to break you out.”

Standing there with Marco’s arms around me, his powerful virility radiating warmth into every fiber of my body, I was ready to break out—of a few garments. I gave him a flirtatious smile and said in a sexy voice, “Promise?”