To Catch a Leaf (15 page)

“One way to find out,” Marco said.

“Wait. I'll get my bouquet. She looks like the kind that needs a little softening up first.”

I hurried to the car and retrieved my flowers; then we headed up the path that took us to the back door.

I was so tempted to stop along the way—the dozen or so rosebushes in the courtyard had budded out because of the warm spring days we'd had, and I was dying to see if I could identify them—but Marco was already rapping on the door.

The woman with the steel-gray curls answered the knock. She had heavy jowls and two chins, with dirt smudges on both of them. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Dunbar?” I asked.

She glanced from me to the flowers to Marco, keeping one hand on the door as though ready to slam it in our faces should we prove to be a threat. “Yes.”

“These are for you.” I held out the bouquet. “I'm Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop. This is my fiancé, Marco Salvare.”

“Daisy Dunbar,” she said, seeming bewildered as she finally accepted the gift.

“We know this is a sad time for you,” I said. “We wanted to let you know how sorry we are for the tragic loss of your employer. We thought the flowers might brighten up your kitchen.”

Clutching the bouquet against her, the housekeeper burst into tears and fled back inside the house, where I could hear her wailing at the top of her lungs.

Not the reaction I was expecting.

I motioned for Marco to follow me, and proceeded through a mudroom that was about the size of my apartment bathroom and into the kitchen. The distraught housekeeper was leaning against the kitchen counter in front of the sink, sobbing uncontrollably.

“There, there,” I said, patting her back. “I know losing someone you care for is tough. Why don't you sit down at the table and I'll get you a glass of water?”

Sniffling hard, she managed to say, “I need to—wash up. I'm all—dirty from the garden and—dare not mess up the kitchen. Mrs. Connie—can't stand an untidy kitchen.”

That set her off on another noisy crying jag, bending over at the waist as though in physical pain. I glanced at Marco and he raised his eyebrows as if to say,
You're a woman. Make her stop.

Channeling my mom, I took the housekeeper's arm and guided her toward an old-fashioned round oak table in a sunny window bay. “Sit here,” I said, pulling out one of the white chairs. “I'll get you a glass of water.”

As she sank onto the chair, weeping wildly, I spotted a coffee mug upended in a dish drainer on the black granite countertop and ran water into it. When I placed it in front of Mrs. Dunbar, she pulled a tissue from her pants pocket and wiped her eyes, smearing a big streak of dirt across her cheek.

“Thank you,” she said in a raspy voice, then drank thirstily from the mug before digging for another tissue. “That was so kind of you to bring me flowers. It isn't often people remember the help. And just out of the goodness of your heart, too.”

“We're glad to do it,” I said, giving Marco a nod to take it from there.

Prince Charming went right into action. He leaned forward to give her one of his soulful gazes. “We need to ask you for a favor, Mrs. Dunbar.”

Sniffling, she managed to give him a trembling smile. “You can call me Daisy.”

Well, of course he could. He was Marco the Magnificent.

“I'm a private investigator,” he said. “Abby and I are here to gather some information for David Hammond, Grace Bingham's attorney.”

Mrs. Dunbar paused, the new tissue halfway to her eyes. “Why?”

“It's part of Mr. Hammond's standard practice,” Marco said in his usual calm, confident manner. “Nothing to be alarmed about. I just want to get the details right.”

“So it's all legal-like?” she asked. “I won't get into trouble for talking to you?”

“I can assure you that it's perfectly legal for me to ask you questions,” Marco said smoothly.

That seemed to put the housekeeper at ease, so I casually took out a notepad and pen and got ready to write.

“I'd like you to tell me what you remember about Monday morning,” Marco said.

Mrs. Dunbar thought for a moment. “It started out like most mornings. I put on the coffee and made the batter for buckwheat pancakes, then went out to the mailbox to get the newspaper. Miss Connie always reads it at breakfast. I mean, she used to read it. . . .”

Mrs. Dunbar pressed the tissue into the corners of each eye to blot fresh tears. “While she was eating, I went to the laundry room to sort clothing, and when I came back to the kitchen, I saw her through the kitchen window walking toward the garage.”

“Was that a normal activity?” Marco asked.

“For Mondays it was,” the housekeeper said. “That was her manicure day.”

“When you saw her heading toward the garage, were you aware that she had canceled her manicure?” Marco asked.

“When she came back from the garage, I figured she'd changed her mind about going.”

“Did that seem odd?” Marco asked.

“Miss Connie was always making spur-of-the-moment decisions.”

“How long was she out in the garage?” Marco asked.

Mrs. Dunbar stopped sniffling to think. “Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Are you sure it was that long?” Marco asked.

“Yes, sir. I was peeling carrots and potatoes for vegetable soup while she was out there and that takes about fifteen minutes.”

“You've timed it?” I asked.

“I make that vegetable soup every day, miss. I know how long it takes.”

That seemed like a long time to tell Guy he wasn't needed. I put a star beside the note.

“What did Mrs. Connie do after she came back from the garage?” Marco asked.

“I couldn't say, sir. I was busy tending to my normal duties.”

“When did you see her next?” Marco asked.

“When Mrs. Connie came down at noon for a meal in the dining room.”

“Was that the last time you saw her?” Marco asked.

“No, sir. I saw her before I went out to the garden.” The housekeeper's chin began to quiver. “She was going all around the house looking for her cat.”

“Would that be Charity?” I asked.

Mrs. Dunbar nodded, then burst into tears once again. “She loved that cat so much!” she wailed, rocking back and forth in her chair, her work-roughened hands covering her face. I'd never heard anyone cry that loudly. Didn't her throat hurt?

I leaned over to say to Marco, “Didn't Grace tell us that the general consensus was that Charity got out when the paramedics arrived?”

Marco took my notepad and flipped through the pages, while I tried humming to myself to block out the sound. He handed the notepad back and pointed out what I'd written when we'd talked to Grace:
Family thinks cat got out when EMTs arrived. Juanita believes cat hit by car. Heard tires screech.

“Maybe the family didn't know the cat had gotten out,” Marco said.

“If Constance Newport loved that cat enough to leave her millions, she'd be asking everyone in the house to help find her. That's what I'd do.”

“Mrs. Dunbar?” Marco said, but the woman was too distressed to hear him.

I spotted a box of tissues on top of the refrigerator and jumped up to get it. “Here you go,” I said loudly, stuffing a tissue into her hand.

When at last she'd calmed down, Marco said, “Did Mrs. Connie find the cat?”

“I don't know,” the housekeeper said through loud sniffles. “When I came back in from the garden, Mrs. Bingham . . . Mrs. Bingham—”

Back to wailing.

My head was starting to throb. I glanced at Marco and rubbed my temples. He nodded. “Mrs. Dunbar—Daisy—would it be better if we came back later?” he asked.

She was unable to speak because of the waterworks.

“May I get you more water?” I asked, then mimed it in case she couldn't hear me.

She shook her head.

Okay then, a tranquilizer dart? Funny mushrooms?

Mental note: Carry earplugs.

My cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse, checked the screen, saw Jillian's name, and let it go to voice mail. Marco gave me a questioning glance, so I shook my head, letting him know it was nothing.

Finally, Mrs. Dunbar got up to throw away her used tissues and splash water on her face. When she returned she said, “I'm sorry. I just can't believe that Mrs. Connie is . . .”

“We understand,” Marco said, as she plucked a fresh tissue from the box. “Take your time, and when you feel up to it, I'd like you to tell us what you remember when you returned to the house.”

She wiped beneath her eyes. “The first thing I saw was Mrs. Bingham using the kitchen phone to call the police. That's when I heard her say”—Mrs. Dunbar's lip joined her chin in a quivering duet—“that Mrs. Connie . . .” At that, she burst into a new round of sobs.

“I'm sorry if this is painful, Mrs. Dunbar,” Marco said at full volume. “We'll do our best to keep this short so you can get on with your day. Is that okay?”

My phone beeped and vibrated to let me know I had a text message. I checked the screen and saw it was from Jillian.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said. “I need to take this.” There was a first—I was actually glad for my cousin's interruption. I hurried across the kitchen and stepped outside the back door.

Then I read her message:
Help! Emergency! Mayday!

Really, Jillian? I dialed her phone number and when she answered, said, “I hope you know I'm right in the middle of—”

“Abby, shut up and listen. I'm being held captive. You've got to help me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Y
ou're a captive? Is it a hostage situation? Hold on, Jillian. I'll call the Chicago police.”

“Abby! Shut up! I'm in Nordstrom's security office.”

“Does Nordstrom's security know you're a captive? Are they aware of what's happening?”

She huffed with exasperation. “Would you listen, please? They're the ones holding me. Well, actually just the chief at this point. I need you to verify that I didn't steal the flowers.”

“Wait. What?”

“Just verify that you own Bloomers and that you gave me the flowers. Oh, and he'll need your driver's license number and credit card information.”

“Are you crazy? I'm not giving out that infor—”

“Okay, here's Bob.”

“Jillian, wait!”

I heard her whispering to someone; then a male voice said, “Miss Knight? Abigail Knight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Robert Dooley, chief of security. Would you verify your identity?”

“If I have to. Will you tell me why I need to?”

“We caught your cousin with four pairs of shoes in her bag, along with a bouquet of flowers.”

Dear God.

In the background I heard Jillian say, “If you'd put the shoe department with the designer clothing, I wouldn't have needed to carry four pairs to the third floor.”

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I own Bloomers Flower Shop in New Chapel, Indiana. I gave my cousin Jillian a bouquet of flowers to take with her today, and if you're going to charge her with anything, then Jillian needs to talk to an attorney now.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Bob said, “but she asked for you.”

Lucky, lucky me. “Then let me assure you that what may seem like a shoplifting situation is actually a fluke. She probably has an ear infection or a tumor or something, because this isn't like my cousin at all. I can say honestly that Jillian Knight Osborne is trustworthy to a fault, not that being trustworthy is a fau—Well, never mind. But believe me, she's not a shoplifter.”

“You don't need to convince me. We know Jillian.” He let out a long sigh. “We know her very well.”

“I'm confused. Why are you holding her?”

“She couldn't prove where she bought the flowers. The guard who saw her stuffing shoes in her bag thought she might have stolen the bouquet. The Flower Cart in the mall uses the same kind of clear plastic wrap.”

“A lot of florists use clear plastic wrap,” I said.

“Look, as long as you swear she got the flowers from you, I'll let her go, okay?”

“Then you don't need my driver's license number or credit card information?”

“
Nah
. I'm handing the phone back to your cousin now.”

“Here, Bob,” I heard Jillian say. “The bouquet was for you, anyway.” Then to me she said quietly, “That wasn't so bad, was it? Okay, buh-bye now. Talk to you later. Oh, and Abs? I'll need some more flowers.” The line went dead.