Snipped in the Bud (5 page)

“Did you touch anything in the office?”

“Just my flower.”

“So we won’t find your fingerprints on anything?”

“Nope.”

“Were you in Professor Puffer’s office when you made the 911 call?”

“Yes, but I used my cell phone.”

“Then you left his office?”

“I felt queasy, so I stepped outside for some fresh air. Kenny was just about to toss his cookies and I didn’t want to do the same.”

“You’re speaking of Kenny Lipinski? Do you know Kenny?”

“I met him today for the first time. He heard me calling for help and came running in.”

“From where?”

“Probably from the computer lab. He said he needed to go back to finish his research.”

“Did you hear or see him in there earlier?”

“No. The lab is on the far end of the secretarial pool and the door is usually closed. There’s no window in it, either, so it’s not easy to tell if anyone is inside.”

Reilly jotted that down, then flipped back a page, read over his notes, and glanced up at me. “Okay, let’s talk about this exchange of words between you and Carson Reed.”

I didn’t like the way he kept focusing on my conversation with Reed. “It was nothing, Reilly, not even worth mentioning.”

He pinned me with a cool look. “Then you shouldn’t mind telling me.”

Yeah, right, except that I did mind. But I didn’t want him to know his questions were making me nervous so I tried to downplay it. “Professor Reed made a remark about my not learning a lesson. You know how educators are—always trying to teach people something.”

“That’s not an exchange of words. I want the exchange, Abby.”

“I gave you the gist of it.”

Reilly let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re making this interview last a lot longer than it has to, but if you want to sit here the rest of the afternoon trying to dodge my questions, then fine. I’m game.”

I frowned at him, but all he did was wait. Reilly could be extremely patient when he had to be. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to lose any more of my day. As Grace was fond of saying, time was money. I had orders to fill, flowers to arrange, customers to appease.

Still, I wasn’t about to concede the battle without letting Reilly know I was unhappy with his question, so I huffed loudly. “Fine. But you have to understand what led up to our little
exchange
. So here’s the story. Write fast. Professor Reed is the local counsel for the Dermacol Cosmetics Company, which, by the way, tests its products on live animals. Live animals, Reilly! Fluffy kittens. Playful puppies. You have a dog, don’t you? What if someone smeared mascara into his eyes until they bled? Or poured wrinkle cream down his throat until he puked?”

Reilly looked as though he was mentally counting to ten. “I’m not here to discuss Dermacol, Abby. I’m here about a murder. Okay?”

I’d have to work on him about Dermacol some other day. “Okay. So anyway, my roommate heard that there was going to be a protest rally at Dermacol, so we decided to go. While we were marching, Professor Reed showed up with Dermacol’s CEO and they held an impromptu news conference for the reporters that were there. I spotted a delivery truck coming in, probably there to deliver more animals, so I organized a human chain to block the back gate. Professor Reed called the police and I was arrested. That brings us to today. Reed heard Puffer yelling at me, so he came out of his office to taunt me about the arrest.”

“Are you stating that he started the exchange?”

“Of course he started it. He was trying to provoke me, probably so he’d have a reason to have me arrested again. I tried not to let him get to me, but he did.”

“There’s a surprise,” Reilly muttered as he wrote. “What did you do then?”

“I made a comment about him being a snake.”

“A snake you wanted to skin alive?”

“Is that what Puffer told you? Didn’t I say he was a jerk? All I said was that some snakes should be skinned.”

“Did you mean it as a threat?”

This conversation was going in circles and I was getting angry. It was clear that Snapdragon had done his best to make me look like a suspect, no doubt to take the heat off himself. “Reilly, what’s wrong with you? I made a smart remark. Let it go.”

He tapped his pencil on his notepad. “Let’s look at what we have here. We have a dead professor. We have a witness who claims you threatened the professor. We have you at the scene of the murder with access to the murder weapon just before the professor died. We have your statement that you returned to the school angry. And then we have you at the scene immediately after the murder. I’m supposed to just let that go?”

“I could say almost all of those things about Professor Puffer, too. He had access to the pencils and he was there before and after the murder.” I was really getting testy and I’m sure my voice showed it.

Then I remembered something that immediately sobered me. Not only had I had access to the pencils; I had held one in my hands. But I kept my mouth shut. If that particular pencil wasn’t the instrument used to kill Reed, there was no need to throw more suspicion on myself.

“We’re not discussing Professor Puffer,” Reilly snapped. “We’re discussing you.”

“Did you tell Puffer that when he started pointing his finger at me?” I retorted hotly. “Okay, sure, Professor Reed and I didn’t agree on the animal rights issue, and we did have a slight dispute today, but this is me, Reilly. Abby Knight, daughter of a cop, upstanding businesswoman, defender of justice. What are you thinking?”

He gave me a look that made me wish I hadn’t asked. “I’m thinking,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “that you shouldn’t leave town.”

M
y mouth fell open. Don’t leave town? Was Reilly implying that I might have killed Reed? “You’re not serious, are you?”

The look he gave me said he was quite serious. I stared at him, stunned, for about fifteen seconds, then I scraped back the chair and rose. “If you want to know anything else, you’ll have to call my attorney, Dave Hammond.”

Reilly flipped his notepad closed and got to his feet. “Okay, then, I guess we’re done.”

We were done all right, but not because he said so. I plowed out of the conference room and headed for the staircase, only to find myself escorted downstairs to the entrance by one of Reilly’s men, who then opened the door and stood there waiting for me to depart. Through the glass doors I could see a crowd gathered on the lawn. Some students had even spread blankets and brought food. Minivans from television stations as far away as Chicago were parked along the street, and reporters and photographers were standing around waiting for some action.

Then I noticed Bea standing off by herself, looking grim, so I stepped outside and headed over to talk to her, only to find myself immediately surrounded by reporters. Microphones were shoved under my chin and cameras were focused on my face as they fired questions at me.

“Give us your name.”

“Do you go to school here?”

“Is this a hostage situation?”

“Will you give us a statement?”

“Are you the flower delivery girl who was seen entering the building around noon?”

I wasn’t going to answer them—but I couldn’t let that last question go. “I am
not
a delivery girl,” I said to the cluster of mics. “I’m a florist. I own Bloomers, on the town square.”

“Is anyone hurt inside?” someone called.

This was followed by more shouted questions. I finally pushed past them and marched toward the street, fully expecting to be followed all the way to my car. But then I heard one of them shout, “There’s another one,” and I glanced around just as Kenny came out and was quickly swallowed by the press. I hurried to the parking lot, jumped into the Vette, backed the car out of the space, and took off, feeling new sympathy for celebrities.

Attorney David Hammond sat behind his old oak desk and took notes on a yellow legal pad as I recited my story. A slightly paunchy man in his late fifties, Dave had never quite got the hang of matching a shirt and tie to his suit. Today he had on a white shirt and navy striped tie with cocoa brown trousers. The suit coat hung on a hook on the back of his door.

His lack of style didn’t matter to his clients, who adored him. Dave had a keen mind and a big heart, and he refused to charge by the nanosecond. He hated big corporations and loved to skewer insurance companies, sloppy detectives, and lazy attorneys who wouldn’t return phone calls. He was also a damned good defense lawyer, as I’d learned when I clerked for him.

“I should have guessed where Reilly’s questions were leading and kept my mouth shut,” I said. “How foolish am I for thinking any friendship we had would make a difference in how he treated me?”

“He’s being a cop, Abby. You know your father would have done the same thing.”

“Yeah, but still…Don’t leave town?”

“Did you have plans to leave town?”

“Well, no. But what if I wanted to?”

“Forget about that for now. Here’s what you have to do. Number one, keep your mouth shut. Number two, keep your mouth shut. And number three?” He made a rolling motion with his hand, signaling me to supply the answer.

“Keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s right. Don’t talk to the police, don’t talk to reporters, don’t even discuss the details of the murder with your mother. And for heaven’s sake, keep a low profile so you don’t draw the police’s attention.”

“Dave, I will keep my profile so low that ants will crawl over me.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I don’t think anything will come of the interview you gave Reilly. It’s too circumstantial. Having said that, I also have to caution you that stranger things have happened, as you know. However, I wouldn’t stay up nights worrying about it.”

“I’ll leave that for my parents to do.” I smiled for the first time in hours. “Thanks, Dave. I feel better. Do you want a retainer?”

“First, I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that,” he said. He loved to number things. “Second, a retainer for what? There’s no case against you.”

I went around the desk and gave him a hug. Then I left, feeling as though a twenty-pound weight had been lifted off my back. As I cut diagonally across the courthouse lawn, I waved happily to Jingles, the window washer, as he carried his bucket and squeegee to the next store on his list. I almost stopped to chat with him, but then I remembered Dave’s warning, so I zipped my lips, lowered my profile, and kept on going.

Though Chicago was only a little over an hour’s drive away, New Chapel’s town square had managed to retain most of its old-fashioned flavor. It had brick-edged sidewalks, quaint streetlights, family-owned shops and restaurants, and a big, limestone courthouse that sat in the middle of a huge lawn shaded by many oaks and maples. It also had the biggest gossip mill in Indiana. At least it seemed that way to me.

As proof, by the time I had crossed the square and stepped through Bloomers’ bright yellow door, everyone I had ever known in my life had called to find out exactly what part I had played in the drama unfolding at the law school. The stack of messages waiting for me behind the front counter was an inch thick, and as I flipped through them, I saw that a good half inch were from my mother.

“You’d best call her immediately, dear,” Grace said in her crisp British accent, coming out of the coffee parlor with a cup of her special brew for me. “Or else risk a surprise visit, and I doubt you’re quite up to that after the tribulation you’ve been through.”

Grace was dressed in a pair of beige slacks and print blouse with a blue cotton blazer over it. As usual, not one hair in her short, layered gray cut was out of place. She handed me the coffee, but before I could take a sip, she peered into my eyes, moved my head from side to side, and turned me in a circle to satisfy herself that I had survived my ordeal.

“Is that Abby?” Lottie swept through the curtain at the back of the shop. She was wearing her usual summer getup—bright pink blouse and white slacks molded snugly to her size-fourteen frame, and pink loafers. Matching pink barrettes held brassy curls off her broad face in a style that continued to be a source of embarrassment to her teenaged sons. Her husband, Herman, however, thought she looked like a queen.

“Sweetie, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Lottie cried, giving me a big bear hug. She leaned back to look me over. “When you said you found the professor’s body, I didn’t realize he’d just been killed. You could have walked in on the murderer. Lordy, I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.”

“How did you hear about that?”

“There’ve been news bulletins every five minutes on the radio, and Herman said the TV stations interrupted their programs to broadcast live reports.”

No wonder my mother had been calling. If the news reports had upset Lottie even after I’d talked to her, I couldn’t imagine what they’d done to Mom. I could feel myself tensing, so I held the cup of coffee to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled the bittersweet aroma. Grace made the best java I’d ever tasted, fixed just the way I liked it with a good shot of half-and-half. Just the smell was enough to calm me. I filled the women in on my visit to Dave, cautioned them not to give out any information on the murder, then started to the back to do my daughterly duty.

“After you’ve rung your mum,” Grace called, “I’d like to share a few thoughts with you.”

Uh-oh. The quote lady was ready.

The phone rang and Lottie went to answer it. “Bloomers,” she said in her big voice. She listened a moment, then covered the handset with her palm and whispered, “Guess who.”

“Hmm. Let’s see…Mommy dearest?”

Grace and Lottie knew I loved my mother. They also knew there were times when she drove me crazy, and I had a feeling this would be one of those times, best suffered from a distance, the most desirable location being Nome, Alaska. The only thing that I had going for me now was that until three thirty that afternoon, she was confined to her classroom.

My mother was a lively, bright, well-loved kindergarten teacher who had raised my two brothers and me with a firm but gentle hand and had seen my father through the adversities of surgery and a crippling stroke. A year ago she’d decided to take a sculpting class, so, as a Christmas gift, my father bought her a potter’s wheel. That was the beginning of a series of clay pieces that could only be described as bizarre. Even worse, she had decided that Bloomers was the perfect place to display her creations, so every Monday for the last two months she had lugged in her latest sculpture for me to sell.

Two weeks ago she had turned her talents, such as they were, to making mosaics, which had sounded like a great idea—at first. After all, how many bizarre creations could be made from little clay tiles? Except that she wasn’t using
clay
tiles. She was using
mirrored
tiles. She hadn’t brought any of her creations in yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

When I’d joined my parents for dinner on Sunday, Mom had already tiled the brass umbrella stand by the front door, the living-room lamps, the old wooden trunk they used as a coffee table, all the vases and candlesticks in the house, a giant wooden salad bowl, a soup tureen, the place mats on the dining-room table, and both sides of the swinging kitchen door. She’d even mirrored the hall mirror. There had been so much reflection in the house that I’d had to wear sunglasses during the meal. I wouldn’t even enter the bathroom for fear of seeing body parts distorted in a way that would cause nightmares for years. I couldn’t begin to explain how much I was dreading next Monday.

I carried my cup through the curtain to my desk in the workroom and sat down, but before I picked up the phone I swiveled the chair for a quick look around the room. My gaze swept the long countertops, the shelves on the wall that overflowed with containers of silk flowers, the big, stainless steel, walk-in cooler stuffed with fresh blossoms, the long, slate worktable in the middle of the room, then back to my desk, with its familiar cat pencil cup, framed photos, small computer monitor, and a pile of paperwork waiting to be filed.

I called that glance around the room my sanity second because it always brought me a feeling of well-being that allowed me to face just about anything. It wasn’t merely a workroom to me. It was a tropical paradise—fragrant, peaceful, inspiring, colorful…I couldn’t even begin to describe all the feelings it evoked. All I knew was that at Bloomers I had finally found a place where I fit, a place where my light could shine, where neither my height nor my measurements nor my ability to cite case law mattered.

I had only one major fear—failure. It had happened to me once too often not to leave scars. Since I had taken over the shop, business had picked up, but it still wasn’t great, especially because my main competition was a floral and hobby megastore out on the highway. I made enough to pay my assistants and buy my supplies, but beyond that I took out only what I needed for bills, and I was always looking for more ways to boost sales. However, selling mirrored mosaics wasn’t one of them.

“Hi, Mom. I’m fine. No need to worry.”

“Abigail, tell me it’s not true. You didn’t really find another dead body, did you?”

“Do you want me to answer truthfully or do you want to sleep tonight?”

“Hold on. We’re going to do a conference call with your father.”

“Mom, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to you both later, when you get home from school.”

“Do you really think my nerves will hold out until then?”

“Okay, fine,” I said, and settled back to wait for my father to get on. It took him a little longer to do things. More than three years ago he’d lost the use of his legs after a felon’s bullet struck him in the thigh and an operation to remove it had caused a stroke. With therapy he had regained most of his speech, but he was still in a wheelchair. He’d retired from the police force shortly after the shooting and was currently teaching himself genealogy. He hoped to write a biography of the Knight family one day, starting with his great-grandfather, who’d come over from Ireland. Having heard many of the stories, I had a feeling the bookstores would probably shelve the book next to
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
. We had some quirky skeletons in our closet. Thank goodness the oddball gene had skipped my generation.

I heard a click and then my mother said, “Okay, Abigail, your father’s on. Go ahead.”

As I launched into a sanitized version of my afternoon, Lottie came in to finish a topiary made with deep-coral alstroemerias, ming fern, and jessamine foliage. I watched her work her magic as I talked, and finally ended my story with Dave Hammond’s comforting assurance that the matter would probably come to nothing. My mother apparently tuned out that last part.

“Oh, dear God!” she cried. “Jeffrey, you have to call someone to make sure Abby’s not a suspect. You still know people on the force.”

“Maureen, calm down. No one said she was a suspect. It’s not like they told her not to leave town.”