Snipped in the Bud (22 page)

I swallowed my fear. “What’s the favor?”

“If anyone tries to leave papers for me, don’t take them. And just a reminder, if Claymore calls, you are not to speak to him about me or divulge my whereabouts.”

“First of all, you’ve been reminding me of that for almost two months. I’m sure he’s gotten the message. Second, if someone came to serve you papers, they wouldn’t leave them with me. And third, what papers are you talking about?”

She flapped her hands impatiently against her sides. “I don’t know. Maybe divorce papers.”

“So take the papers. Remember, Claymore
left
you, Jill. Why wouldn’t you want to give him a divorce?”

“Abby, Abby, Abby.” She gazed at me with an expression of pity. “You still haven’t gotten over Pryce dumping you, have you? You have to let these things go, Abs. Carrying grudges just isn’t healthy.”

“I
have
let it go. You’re the one who brings it up all the time. Anyway, are you telling me you’re not even a smidgen angry about Pryce’s little brother dumping you?”

“My motto is to forgive and forget. Live and let live. Besides, why go through a messy divorce when we can just live separate but happy lives?” She picked up the wig and walked out, calling back, “Learn from my example, Abby. You’ll be a better woman for it.”

At two minutes before six o’clock, as I was putting the final touches on my eye makeup, the phone rang. I dashed from the bathroom, grabbed the handset in the living room, and said, “I’ll be down in a minute, Marco.”

There was a pause, and then a male voice said, “Abby? It’s Claymore. Is Jillian there?”

Claymore Osborne was a nerdy perfectionist with a thin, jittery voice. In fact, he reminded me a lot of Niles Crane, from the old television show
Frasier
. But this Claymore sounded anything but jittery. He was downright subdued.

“Claymore, you know I can’t tell you. Why are you calling?”

“I’ve tried every means I can think of to reach her, Abby. I’m at the end of my rope. Please help me.”

“Why?” I said rather sourly. “You left her.” Okay, so I was still a
little
bitter over Pryce dumping me.

He sighed wearily. “I know you think you’re protecting Jillian from her evil husband, but I can’t let this farce continue any longer. I didn’t leave her, Abby. She left me. In the middle of the night. In the middle of our honeymoon. In the middle of Oahu.”

I was speechless—and outraged. Jillian had let me feel sorry for her! And now she wanted me to shield her from her own shallowness, from her own fear of commitment. Well, no deal. She wasn’t going to use me any longer. “Claymore,” I began. Then I stopped. I couldn’t betray my own kin, my own flesh and blood. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

He sighed dejectedly. “I kept hoping she’d miss me. I really thought she loved me. It seems I was nothing more than notch number five on her belt.”

There was no way I could harden my heart against that. “Look, I have to be someplace in ten minutes, but don’t give up hope. Jillian hasn’t filed for divorce or an annulment”—that I knew of, anyway—“and that tells me that she does love you. She’s just afraid she’ll be a lousy wife.”

“If there’s any way to let her know I still want to work this out, would you try?”

It was my turn to sigh. He was right about me not wanting to get involved, yet here I was, smack in the middle. “Where are you staying, Claymore?”

“At my folks’ house.”

“Okay, let me get back to you.”

“You have the phone number, right?”

“I have it.” More than that, I now had Jillian’s number.

At three minutes after six o’clock in the growing dusk of a mild September eve, wearing a fitted, short-waisted jacket over a sexy little bustier, slim slacks, a stunning, cloche-type hat with little seed pearls knitted into the yarn, and a pair of Jillian’s stylish, strappy silver sandals (unfortunately, a half size too large), I slid into Marco’s car and turned to face him. “What do you think?”

He gave me a long, slow once-over with those hooded eyes, heating my blood to such a degree that my feet swelled, making the sandals suddenly a bit snug. But all he said was, “Nice.”

He had to do better than that. Casting him a lascivious glance, I ran my palm across the little embedded pearls in the cloche, then trailed my fingers down my bare throat, leaned toward him, and said in a husky purr, “What do you think of the hat?”

His gaze flickered to my head. “Well, it certainly covers your hair.”

I sat back with a huff. “Don’t you find my outfit the least bit sexy?”

“The outfit, yes. But not the hat.”

“Well, okay, then, Tommy Bahama, I guess you’ll just have to put up with me for the evening.”

Marco’s mouth twitched in mirth as he pulled onto the street and headed toward the club. “Or you could just take off the hat. You don’t have to hide that gorgeous red hair tonight, do you?”

I whipped off that hat before he’d even put the question mark at the end of his sentence. He’d called my red hair gorgeous! All was forgiven.

As I combed my fingers through my bob, I glanced at Marco, who was looking incredibly sexy in black slacks, a very spiffy gray sport coat, a pearl gray shirt, and a multicolored silk tie. He seemed in a good mood for someone who was going to spend the next few hours with a bunch of redheaded crazy people. Too good. He knew something.

“Okay, out with it, buster. What did you learn?”

“It’s about time you asked. For one thing, over twenty calls were made to Reed’s office and mobile phone from the Books of Olde shop over a period of three weeks, including the morning of the murder. Guess who made the calls?”

“It had to be Jocelyn.”

“You got it. I also learned that Jocelyn had been leaving the bookstore every day to go out to lunch, something new for her, according to her coworkers.”

“Phone calls, lunch dates, probably a rosy glow to her cheeks. Puffer could have picked up on those signs, Marco. Maybe he found out about Jocelyn’s affair and
that’s
why he killed him.”

Marco looked doubtful. “I didn’t get the impression from Jocelyn that Puffer cares that much about her. If he killed Reed, I’d bet it wasn’t over her.”

“But he cares about his reputation, Marco. How would it look if people found out his rival was bonking his wife? Put that with his suspicion that Reed was behind his not getting tenure, and you have a very strong motive. What better revenge against both Jocelyn and Reed than to kill Reed? And by blaming me, he protected himself and kept his control over her.”

Marco was silent as he turned onto Country Club Road. Then suddenly his attention snapped to his rearview mirror. “Did you say that gray minivan had a temporary plate in the back window?”

“Yes, why?” I said, twisting to look behind me.

“We just passed one fitting that description.” He pulled over, waited for traffic to pass, then made a U-turn and doubled back. “What do you say we try to catch a couple of thieves?”

“M
arco, I’m in an off-white suit. This isn’t how I should be dressed to follow someone. Besides, it’s not totally dark yet.”

“Sometimes you have to go with the flow.” He took a corner on two wheels, then abruptly braked, sending me scrambling for a grip on the dashboard. The gray van was a block ahead, cruising along a residential street as though casing the houses. Marco parked alongside the curb, took his camera and telescopic lens from the glove compartment, and snapped a few pictures as the van cruised slowly forward.

I checked my watch. It was 6:20. “Maybe we should call Reilly and let him take over. He did warn me about staying out of this case, and we do have to get to the club before the Dragon leaves.”

“Since when did you ever want to turn anything over to the cops? Besides, this is good training.”

“But Puffer will be gone by seven o’clock.”

“Here we go,” he said and pulled away from the curb, creeping up the block, then onto the next one, until the van was just ahead. “I’m going to pull around it and slow up alongside so you can take pictures. Maybe we can get one the police can use to ID the driver.”

Before I could ready the camera, another car came up the street behind us, its headlights illuminating the interior of Marco’s car. He swore under his breath, drove around the van, and continued up the block.

“Let’s just head for the club,” I said. “Like you said, we should stick to one case at a time.” Also, that lump on my head was starting to throb, not that I wanted to remind Marco of it.

My suggestion fell on deaf ears. In typical male fashion, Marco’s complete focus was on getting those photos. He turned the corner at the next intersection and pulled over, killing the motor.

“Plan B,” he said, pulling a black knit cap out of the console. “I’m going back on foot. You man the driver’s seat and be ready to take off when I jump in.”

We’d never make it to the club in time to see Puffer. But it was no use arguing that point now. Marco had tossed his coat in the backseat and tugged a black sweatshirt over his shirt, and had the cap on his head. I handed him the camera, then, as he jogged off, I scrambled around the car and into the driver’s side. As I strapped on the seat belt, I glanced over at the passenger side and saw the telescopic lens lying there. Yikes. When had it come off? Had I twisted it loose? I had to get it to Marco.

I tucked the lens in my jacket pocket, put my purse under the seat, took the keys from the ignition, and got out, then glanced down at my suit. There was no way I could sneak around in off-white. In a panic, I opened the trunk and rooted around to see if Marco had any spare clothing. All I found was a black plastic trash bag, giant-sized. It would have to do.

I used the car key to tear a hole in the bottom of the bag for my head, and one on each side for my arms, then I tugged it down over my clothes. Because the bottom reached only to midcalf, I had to roll up my pant cuffs. The silver sandals had to go, too. I found Marco’s spare black hat and pulled it over my hair, then quietly shut the trunk and took off, the grass prickly beneath my bare feet as I cut through a yard and came out on the other block.

Darkness had finally fallen, but by the light of a streetlamp I could see the van half a block ahead. Moving carefully so as not to make the plastic crinkle, I hid behind a large viburnum in a front yard two houses away from the van and peered out from around the spreading branches, trying to spot Marco. A dog began to bark from someone’s backyard. Suddenly, there was a
yelp
and then silence. My heart stopped. Had the thieves just napped another pet?

Almost at once a shadowy figure emerged from the far corner of the house behind me. I made a quick dive for the ground and rolled beneath the branches of the big shrub, hoping I hadn’t been spotted. Something crawled across my bare foot and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from panicking. I held my breath as the figure passed not three yards away, then stopped with a whispered curse as something slipped from his arms and fell to the grass.

I heard the muffled whines of a frightened dog, and a white-hot fury burst inside me. There was no way that creep was taking that animal. I tumbled out of the bush and lunged at the person’s ankles—thick, male ankles—tripping him. While he scrambled upright, I grabbed the wiggling sack and took off, cradling the animal against me as I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Marco, call the cops! I have the dog!”

With my heart drumming in my ears and a headache thumping in my skull, I raced around the corner and saw Marco’s Prius just ahead. But as I bore down on it I heard someone behind me. Afraid I was about to be attacked, I spun around and took a defensive stance, the dog still clutched against me, prepared to use my foot to kick someone’s groin. “Stay back!” I cried.

“It’s me,” Marco said, breathing hard. “The thieves took off. Unlock the car and let’s go get them.”

I almost collapsed against him in relief, but he had the cell phone to his ear and was barking instructions to someone. Oh, no. What had I done with the car key? I thrust the wiggling bundle at Marco and tugged the plastic bag over my hip so I could get to my pocket. Then I unlocked his door and ran around to the passenger side, slid in, took the bundle from him, and strapped myself in as he tore away.

Too late. The van was nowhere in sight. “Damn,” he muttered and made a U-turn.

“At least we saved the dog.” I opened the burlap bag and released a very frightened dachshund, who gazed up at me with terrified eyes. “You’re okay, buddy,” I murmured, stroking his head and scratching behind his soft ears. The dog jumped up and licked my chin.

“At least I snapped some photos,” Marco said, “although for some reason my camera was missing the telephoto lens…. Are you wearing a garbage bag?”

“I found it in your trunk. I am
so
sorry about the lens, Marco. I must have twisted it loose. But look at this little guy. Isn’t he worth all the trouble?” I cuddled the animal against me. “We didn’t let those bad guys get you, did we?”

“Let’s get him back to his owner.”

I pointed out the house and Marco pulled up in front just as a squad car came from the opposite direction. I quickly handed the dog to Marco, removed the plastic bag, and was slipping on the silver sandals as Reilly strode toward us, shaking his head. “You just couldn’t keep out of it, could you?” he asked me.
Me,
not Marco, who was standing four inches away.

I pointed to my silent sidekick. “This was his idea.” Sometimes you just had to rat people out.

Marco gave Reilly the details of our encounter and promised to get him copies of whatever he was able to catch on film. He handed the dog to Reilly, who took him to the front door and rang the doorbell. As we pulled away, a young woman stepped out and hugged the dog against her, crying. I had to blink as tears filled my eyes.

“It’s seven thirty,” Marco said. “Too late to catch Puffer. What do you want to do?”

I glanced down at my dirty feet and grass-stained pants. “I can’t show up at the country club like this, and I’ve got to get these slacks off before Jillian sees them, so I’d better go home.”

“I’ve got some things to do, too, so why don’t I take you home, then pick you up in, say, an hour. We’ll grab dinner at the bar and figure out our next move.”

I pulled my purse from beneath the seat. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

That was the problem with plans. They never worked out the way you, well, planned.

As soon as I was in the door, I popped two aspirins for my headache, downed a glass of chocolate soy milk, and fed Simon, who was doing his best to trip me. I had just removed the soiled suit, washed my face, and changed into jeans and a button-down shirt when the doorbell buzzed, followed by a furious pounding. Before I could get to the door I heard, “Abigail, it’s Mom. Are you there? Please be there, otherwise I’ll have to believe you are lying in a ditch on the side of a deserted road.”

Why was it always a
deserted
road? Didn’t busy roads have ditches? “I’m here,” I said, opening the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t call to let you know about dinner. We had an unfortunate incident—”

“I knew it! I told your brothers you’d had an accident.”

“An
incident,
Mom,” I said, grabbing her shoulders so she couldn’t leap for the telephone, “not an accident.
In,
not
ac
. I didn’t call you sooner because it happened on our way to the club, and things got crazy. Marco and I were chasing pet thieves and—”

She clutched my arms so tightly, my fingertips went numb. “You were chasing thieves? What have I told you about putting yourself in danger! I am
so
glad I didn’t bring your father over here. Do you know what this would do to him?”

She followed that up by engulfing me in a hug and smothering me with kisses. “If anything had happened to you,” she said as I mouthed the familiar words along with her, “they’d have to put me in a padded room and feed me tranquilizers all day.”

I untangled her arms and smiled up at her. I had no choice but to smile
up
at people, even my own mother. “But see? I didn’t get hurt. Look at me. I’m fine. Besides, Marco was with me. Again, Mom, I apologize for not letting you know sooner. I had to wash and change and then I was going to phone, I swear. Now, how about a glass of water—or better yet, wine?”

“Water would be nice.” She sank down in a chair while I trotted off to the kitchen. “I had a cabernet with dinner.”

“Water it is,” I called, reaching into a cabinet for a glass.

“Oh, Abigail. I almost forgot. I brought your surprise with me.”

The glass nearly slipped from my hand. Not a
surprise
. Not after the day I’d had! On second thought, how bad could it be? I hadn’t seen her carrying it, so she must have tucked it into her purse. At least it was a small surprise. “Great, Mom.”

“I left it in the hallway. Would you get it? It’s rather heavy.”

Oh, no
. Her naked-dancing-monkey table had been heavy. Her human-footed footstool had been heavy. Her coatrack palm tree, with its lifelike human palms? Also heavy. I handed her the water, took a determined breath, and marched toward the door. How worried had she really been about my being in that ditch if she’d toted a heavy art piece up a flight of stairs?

Just outside the door sat a huge shopping bag. I stooped to pick it up and almost wrenched my back. I pulled it inside instead, stopping in front of her chair.

“Open it,” she instructed excitedly.

Peeling back layers of green tissue paper, I uncovered a gardener’s hand spade, a trowel, and a watering can, which shouldn’t have been that heavy, except that these were completely covered in small mirrored squares, making each object weigh in at around fifteen pounds. I could see the ad for them now:
Build muscle while you garden.
“Wow. They’re really—different, Mom.”

She hugged me. “I knew you’d like them. We have the same taste.”

Someone, shoot me now.

She picked up the spade, turning it so it reflected light off its plethora of shiny squares. I had to squint to see her face. “What do you think they’ll sell for?” she asked.

The phone rang, saving me from giving her an answer. In truth, I had no idea. As far as I knew, these were the only mirrored garden tools in existence. The good thing was that they’d be hard to lose. The bad thing was that they’d be hard to lose. I excused myself to take the call in the kitchen, leaving my mother to carefully fold the tissue paper and shopping bag and stow them in her bowling-bag purse to be used another day.

“There’s been another change in plans,” Marco said quietly when I answered. “Jocelyn is here, and she’s ready to talk about Tuesday.”