Snipped in the Bud (17 page)

Another one of Reed’s conquests. Poor woman. How many other victims had he left behind? “What did he expect you to do about it, Kenny?”

“Nothing. He was just venting. He never takes threats seriously…never
took
them seriously, I mean. Sorry. It’s still setting in that he’s gone.” Kenny looked down at his shoes briefly, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, I did tell the police about the woman.”

“And yet they keep focusing on me,” I said with a sigh. “But thanks for the tip.”

“No problem,” Kenny said, shifting his goods. “I’d better go. I’ve got a huge exam to study for and never enough time.”

I was about to add that at least he didn’t have Reed’s research to worry about anymore, but decided that would be tacky. However, it did jog my memory. “Kenny, very quickly, do you know Marvin Y. Brown?”

“ The name sounds familiar…. Isn’t he the head of Dermacol Labs?”

“That’s him.”

“Sure, I met him today at the memorial service. Seems like a nice enough guy. Professor Reed spoke well of him.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

Before I could say more, a car full of guys came to a screeching stop in front of us. “Hey, Ken,” one of them called from the window, “let’s go, man. Pizza’s getting cold.”

“I’m coming.” He gave me a sheepish shrug. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll talk to you some other time. Good luck with your test.”

So there was a jilted married woman in town with an ax to grind. Hmm. I turned over that possibility as I shopped for the camera. If that woman was the killer, she would have been at the law school, but the only woman I saw was Jocelyn. Even if I accepted the idea that Reed would have had an affair with her, the big question was, would she dare cheat on Puffer? I couldn’t imagine her running the risk of his finding out. He’d go nuts. He’d be furious enough—to kill.

Maybe Puffer had found out.

Armed with a disposable camera, I drove to the neighborhood that housed the lab, parked the car a block away, and hoofed it to Dermacol’s modern, barnlike building. Staying low to the ground—not hard for a short person—I circled the chainlink fence protecting the employee parking lot at the rear of the building and found a spot under a tree that afforded me a direct view of a huge garage door in the building’s rear wall. Then I readied the camera and waited.

Fifteen mosquito bites later, with no moon to light up the area, I heard the whir of a motor and saw headlights shine on the big gate as it slid open. Then an engine revved and a dark van glided through, driving around to the garage door, which was on its way up. As the van turned, I saw the wide headlight beam swing my way and quickly flattened myself on the scrubby grass. Seconds before the light reached me I remembered the wig, tugged it off, and shoved it under my stomach. My red hair wouldn’t be the beacon the yellow wig would.

As the van swung toward the open garage bay, I got to my knees and aimed the camera, snapping a number of shots in the hope that I could get at least one clear view of the paper license plate.

Suddenly, the van’s brake lights went on, doors slammed, and a man shouted, “I saw camera flashes coming from behind the fence. Someone’s taking photos.”

“We’re on it,” another male replied.

I grabbed the wig and scrambled away, hugging my purse to my body, keeping low, until I was past the fenced area. Then I fled east, darting between houses until I reached the western edge of the university campus three blocks away. Students were still out at that hour, walking home from the library, congregating with friends at the student union, or heading toward Starbucks for a late-night latte, so it was easy to blend in.

Stopping to wrestle the wig over my hair, I stowed the camera in my purse and strolled casually along the sidewalk. I checked over my shoulder several times, but no one appeared to be tailing me. As I passed the library I spotted Hannah Boyd sitting glumly on the wide steps, chin in hand, looking like she could use a friend. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part, since I needed to talk to her anyway. Being a shameless opportunist, I changed direction and walked up to where she sat. “Hi, Hannah. How’s it going?”

She raised her head to look me over. “Do I know you?”

“Abby Knight,” I said, taking a seat beside her. I wasn’t sure how willing she’d be to talk to me, so I decided to beat around the bush for a bit and see where that led. “We met at a luncheon your aunt put on for one of the secretaries. I also attended law school here for awhile, but that’s a story best shared over a beer and a box of tissues. Anyway, I wanted you to know that your aunt’s kindness and moral support helped me through some really rough times.”

Hannah sank her chin back onto her hand and muttered, “Lucky you.”

“Not exactly. I flunked out of school.”

“Like I said, lucky you.”

Okay,
that
tactic wasn’t working. I’d have to go for something a bit bolder. “My luck really isn’t so good, Hannah. I’m the one who found Professor Reed’s body.”

She turned to stare at me with huge eyes. “You’re the florist?”

I put a finger against my lips to caution her to be quiet, then I whispered, “I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

She clutched my wrist with surprising strength and in a voice that was definitely
not
quiet cried, “Was my aunt there when you delivered the flower?”

“She was just leaving. She said she was late for an appointment.”

At once Hannah burst into tears and ran off, sobbing noisily, which prompted other students to turn to stare at me. Thank goodness I still had on the wig. I resumed my stroll, trying to figure out what it was about her aunt’s appointment that had upset her. Was Bea ill? Was she hiding something from Hannah about her health?

I made it back to my car without incident, drove to Walgreens, and turned in the camera. “Could I have that developed right away?” I asked the college-aged clerk. “There are only a few prints on it, and I’m in a rush.” I gave him a smile that I hoped was bewitching yet anxious.

Looking bored, he glanced at the clock on the wall. “They’ll be done at eleven.” Fifteen minutes. Obviously, I’d have to perfect that smile.

I wandered through the store and stopped at the magazine section to peruse the latest home-and-garden journals, then browsed the hair-care aisle. My shampoo was missing from the bathroom and I suspected my cousin had nipped it. I finally located the brand I liked, which I was relieved to see had been improved—again.
Now with hayseed oil!
Hi-yo, Silver. Hand me my spurs.

I picked up my prints and slipped them out of the envelope. The license number was still hard to see, so I upped the wattage on my smile and asked the clerk if he would mind enlarging them. Making me feel as though I’d just stepped out of the Ice Age, he led me to the easy-to-use photo station and showed me how to enlarge them myself.

“I’m a florist,” I said lamely. “I’m not so good with gadg—” He ambled off, yawning.

As soon as the first one came sliding out, I grabbed it for a look. There it was—45
PC
7788. Or was that 2288? It didn’t matter. With a magnifying glass I’d be able to read those numbers perfectly. I paid for everything, thanked the clerk for my Photo Enlarging for Dummies lesson, and drove home.

As I turned into the apartment complex’s parking lot, I spotted a gray minivan parked down the street, facing my way. My heart began to race. Were the thieves back? I pulled into my assigned spot, got out, and quietly shut the door, then circled the lot on foot, ducking behind cars as I snuck toward the van. The engine was idling, but no one appeared to be inside, making me suspect they were out scouting for pets.

There was one way to tell for sure: look in the back of the van.

A
bby. Hello-o-o. This is your cerebrum calling. I need an ice pack here. Wake up. I’m in pain.
I opened my eyes and blinked several times, wondering why I was seeing stars—the real kind—in the inky sky above. Was that prickly grass beneath me? And,
ew,
did I smell worms?

I turned my head to see where I was and instantly clutched my skull as a blinding pain ripped through it. A search of my scalp found a lump forming on top. With a groan, I rolled onto my side, then pushed up to a sitting position. I was on the lawn beside the curb, a short distance from my apartment building, with the blond wig beside me and my purse several yards away. How did that happen?

As I sat there trying to get my bearings, Nikki pulled into the lot, saw me on the grass, jumped out of her car, and came running over. “Abby, what are you doing? Are you okay?”

“I have a lump on my head and I don’t have a clue as to why. The last thing I remember is pulling into the parking lot.”

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” she said, opening her purse. “You might have a concussion.”

“Wait. I remember now. I was trying to get a look inside a gray van. Then a door opened and knocked me to the ground, and before I could get up, someone came at me. Nikki, don’t make that call! All I need is for a reporter listening to a police scanner to hear my name. We can watch for a concussion ourselves. Just hand me my purse and the wig and help me up.”

“But you still have to file an assault report.”

“Not on the 911 line. I’ll try to catch Reilly on his cell phone when we get inside.”

“What’s his number? I’ll call right now.” She punched in what I gave her—I’d called it often enough to know it by heart—and waited a few rings. “Um, hi. This is Abby Knight’s roommate, Nikki. I’d like to report an assault on Abby. She was hit on the head outside the apartment building.” Nikki covered the phone and whispered, “He sounds a little testy.” She thanked him and hung up. “He’s on his way. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She put her arm around me and maneuvered me to my feet. With a few rest stops and one near-tumble down the steps—the elevator was out of service, as usual—we finally made it to the apartment. While she packed a plastic bag with ice cubes, I dropped the wig and purse on the floor and eased my body onto the sofa.

In a few minutes, Nikki brought in the ice pack, along with two aspirin and a glass of chocolate soy milk. “You have to stay awake all night, you know.”

“With this pain, it won’t be a problem. Would you get that photo envelope from Walgreens out of my purse? I need to give the pictures to Reilly.”

Nikki rummaged through my bag, then emptied the contents onto the floor. “Don’t you ever clean this out? You’ve got receipts in here from two months ago—but no photos. Maybe they fell out onto the grass.” She grabbed my keys and headed for the door. “I’ll go look.”

“If you don’t see them on the ground, check my car. And, Nik?”

She paused to glance back at me. “What?”

“Sorry to keep you up so late.”

“You’d do the same for me. Let’s just not make this a habit, okay?”

While she was gone, I did a visual inspection of my purse’s contents to see whether anything else was missing, like my wallet. Nope, the wallet was there and everything else seemed to be intact, as well. With any luck, the photos had merely tumbled out.

Nikki returned five minutes later with Reilly right behind her. “No photos anywhere, Abby,” she reported. “Sorry.”

It wasn’t possible that the thieves had known about those prints—unless they’d followed me to Walgreens. But I’d checked carefully to be sure I wasn’t followed. Maybe the guy at the camera counter was part of the theft ring and had alerted them. Or…I suddenly noticed Reilly gazing down at me with a scowl, so I tried my bewitching-yet-anxious smile on him, hoping for better results than I’d had the last time I used it. Unfortunately, stretching my mouth made my head hurt, so it came out more like a grimace. “Hey, Sarge. Thanks for coming over.”

“I hear you were mugged.” He picked up the blond wig and dangled it in front of me as though it were roadkill. “Were you wearing this at the time?”

“Don’t joke. A disguise is preferable to being lynched by an angry mob.”

Reilly lifted the ice pack to take a look at the top of my head. “Jaysus, Abby. Why aren’t you in the ER?”

“You know reporters listen to police scanners. Can I afford more publicity? No. Besides, it’s just a lump—no big deal. Nikki is monitoring my condition.”

“Does anyone want ice cream?” she called from the kitchen.

Reilly gave me a look that said,
She’s your monitor?
“No, thanks,” he called, patting his gut. “I’m on a diet.”

His stomach looked flat to me, but then uniforms made everyone look trimmer. “If you eat after midnight, the calories don’t count. Hey, Nikki, put chocolate syrup on mine. Ow.” I had to stop moving my head.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, pulling out his notepad.

“You’d better sit down. It’s a long story and I don’t want your feet to go numb.”

He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Just get on with it.”

I told him about Peewee’s disappearance, the rash of petnappings, my pursuit of the gray minivan, the missing photos, and my conk on the head, then I waited for him to catch up.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, looking over his notes. “You followed the van through town onto the highway going north. Then you circled back to Dermacol, and the van turned up there soon after. You took pictures, had them developed, then drove home, where the van’s occupants way-laid you. Correct?” At my nod, he said, “Is there any way they’d know who you are, or where you live?”

“Only if they’d managed to follow me, and I checked carefully for a tail.”

“Did you get a look at the men’s faces?”

“No.”

“Are you certain they were men?”

“No, but yesterday I saw someone from a gray van run across a yard, and he sure moved like a man. And the voices I heard at the Dermacol garage were men’s, too.”

“Did you get a license plate number?”

“Part of it. It was a temporary plate and the handwriting wasn’t great. Damn. I wish I had those photos.” I gave him the numbers I remembered and he wrote them down.

“What about negatives?”

“I used a disposable camera. No negatives. I can check with the drugstore to see if they still have it lying around in a trash can somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind,
I’ll
do the checking. Anything else you remember about the van?”

“It wasn’t a new model, maybe five years old, but I’d bet any money it’s registered to Dermacol. Who else would want to steal pets? If it is a Dermacol van, can you get a warrant to search the lab for the missing animals?”

“Not without probable cause.”

“Hmm. Then we need to find a way to get inside with a camera. My neighbor would be able to identify her Chihuahua from a photograph, and I’m sure the other owners—”

“Stop right there,” he said. “There’s no
we
in this.
You
are out of it.”

“But I can help, Reilly—ouch—once my head stops throbbing. Think about it. If anyone from Dermacol sees a cop snooping around, they might destroy the animals to hide the evidence.”

“Give me a little credit, Abby. I’m not a rookie. Besides, if you were caught sneaking around the premises, what do you suppose the DA would do to you?”

I shifted the ice pack to a more comfortable position. “I’ll concede the point. Then promise me you won’t forget about this case, Reilly. It’s hugely important to me.”

He tucked the notepad into his shirt pocket. “I’m not going to forget about it.”

“I just remembered something else. Dermacol has a fence that wraps around the parking lot, so if you want to do a stake-out…” I noticed Reilly’s eyebrows drawing together, a sure sign he was running low on patience. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Sure. How about if I stop by Bloomers to help you arrange flowers?”

I heard Nikki chuckling in the kitchen.

“Fine. Another point for your side.” I heaved a frustrated sigh.

“If it’ll help you sleep tonight, I’ll put two men on it tomorrow, and I’ll personally search the DMV records for a newly licensed used minivan that matches your description. In the meantime, stay away from Dermacol. You don’t want trespassing charges brought against you, not with everything else going on.”

“Such as my being the number one murder suspect? After the way Melvin Darnell and Al Corbison went after me, I’m surprised I’m still a free woman.”

His gaze flickered away from my face, as though he knew more about that subject. I gave him a probing glance. “Are you keeping something from me, Sean Reilly?”

“Now she’s my mother,” he muttered, casting his gaze heavenward.

“Be straight with me, Sarge. I’m serious. Am I about to be arrested?”