A Rose From the Dead (11 page)

I tried to maintain a calm demeanor as I sat there watching his thumbs flying over the controls, his tongue clicking furiously as the race cars crashed and burned on the screen, but I was losing patience fast. Either this jerk’s brother or both of them were responsible for a woman’s death, yet he sat there acting totally blasé about it, as if he couldn’t have cared less.

I grabbed the controller out of his hands. “Talk to me, Jess.”

“Give that back,” he snarled.

I held it away. “Sybil died because of a stupid prank you guys pulled. She suffocated because she couldn’t get the coffin lid open. Doesn’t that bother you even a little bit? Don’t you care that some innocent person is going to be blamed for her death? The cops are questioning my friend Delilah, Jess, a happily married wife, mother of two kids, a woman who can’t even kill spiders, for God’s sake. Does
that
make you feel bad? Does
anything
make you feel bad?”

“And here I thought you just liked to solve puzzles. Now, give me back the damn controller.”

I held it above my head, as far as the cord would stretch. “Wouldn’t it have been enough for Ross to simply make off with Sybil’s clothing? Why did he have to close the lid and put that heavy tool chest on top of the casket, too?”

Jess stood up and yanked the controller from my hands. Then he plunked down into the chair and started a new game, completely shutting me out.

“Come on, Jess. Tell me what Ross was thinking. He must have realized Sybil would run out of air—unless that was what he wanted.” I waited a beat, then added, “Was that what Ross wanted?”

Jess swiveled his chair to glare at me, running that stud along the inside of his teeth, back and forth, like a jailbird running a tin cup along his cell bars. “If Ross had killed Sybil,” he sneered, “don’t you think the police would have him in custody by now?”

“Not if your dad used his money to keep him out.”

Jess stood up and tossed the game controller onto the countertop, where it landed with a heavy thud. “Then maybe you should talk to my dad and find out.” With a final smirk, he strode off.

Crap.
I’d wasted almost an hour of precious time on those idiots and hadn’t learned a single piece of information that would help clear Delilah.

I
hurried down aisle three and around the corner toward my booth, just as Marco came striding out of aisle two toward me. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked.

“Because I had this little window of opportunity to talk to Ross and Jess, so I grabbed it—all for nothing, as it turned out. I couldn’t get either one to admit to anything. Jess has a solid alibi, and Ross wouldn’t talk. The Urbans are so guilty, Marco, but we’re going to have a tough time proving it.”

“What did you say to them?”

I motioned for him to move away from people standing nearby, to keep anyone from overhearing; then I filled him in on my conversations with both twins. At Marco’s look of disbelief, I added, “That’s exactly how I felt after I talked to Jess. It’s unbelievable that they’ve been cleared.”

“Abby.” Marco cupped my shoulders, holding my gaze with his penetrating brown eyes. “You told the Urbans that you believe their prank killed Sybil.”

“I know.”

“You told them you think they committed a murder!”

“I get it, Marco. But considering the circumstances, what else could I have done? I know that’s not a method you recommend—”

“Not
recommend
? How about forbid? Sunshine, you didn’t think this through. And by tipping your hand, you might have put yourself in danger.”

“Come on, Marco. Thing One and Thing Two are pranksters, not killers. They’re not going to come after me. Besides, now that they think I’m on to them, they’ll be on their guard, and you know that people on their guard are more prone to make mistakes. Then all it will take is one slipup, and
whammo.
We’ve got them. There’s no way I could have kept quiet about what they did and missed that little window of opportunity to get them to spill the beans.”

“I don’t care if you had a garage door of opportunity, Abby. Telling someone you’re on to them is a foolish move. You should have waited for me before you questioned the Urbans. You’re still a novice at this.”

First I was foolish and then a novice? Nothing like adding insult to injury. I folded my arms and glared at him. “So, in other words, I’m incompetent without you.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re extremely competent—as a florist.” He lifted his hands, as though searching for the right words. “Maybe
inexperienced
is a better word. You’re still inexperienced when it comes to interviewing suspects.”

“And yet you asked me to track down Snuggles the Clown’s killer when you were under suspicion for murder, which I was able to do without you, if you will recall. Who’s to say my way won’t work on the Urbans?”

“I’m not concerned about your way working, Abby. I’m concerned that it will work too well. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Sure I understand. You think I made a major blunder that’s going to get me killed, and how I managed to stay alive this long is a total mystery.”

“Listen to me,” he said, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “You know how much I appreciate what you did for me in the clown murder case, but that’s a separate issue. It’s not about me now. It’s about you being safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Okay?”

I could feel my indignation wearing away like a sand castle in the wind. I knew Marco’s angry reaction had come straight from his heart. He cared. And he was willing to risk hurting my feelings to let me know just how much.

“Okay,” I said at last. “But next time, could you not use words like
foolish
and
novice
? Because I may have to hurt you if you do.”

Marco’s mouth lifted at the corners into a ninety-degree tilt, the Salvare version of a full smile. I smiled back—and just like that, there it was, that powerful connection between us. He felt it, too, and his gaze softened. “Do you know where I’m coming from now?”

“Yes.” I wrapped my arms around him and laid my head against his heart. “Don’t be concerned, Marco. I know how to take care of myself.”

He groaned.

At that moment the PA system crackled to life. “Don’t miss TV personality Chet Sunday’s
Make It Easy
show today at eleven o’clock. That’s Chet Sunday appearing half an hour from now onstage in aisle one.”

I reluctantly released Marco to check the time on my watch. “We should get a move on. Nikki will kill me if I don’t bring back Chet’s autograph.”

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today. Are you sure you want to waste an hour watching Chet’s show?”

“I need to be there only at the end. Remember when Sybil and Chet left after his show yesterday, and he didn’t look happy about it? For some reason that’s bugging me, so I thought maybe I’d have a chat with Chet after the taping to see what he has to say. ‘A Chat with Chet’—ha. It sounds like part of his TV show.”

“You’re actually willing to consider someone other than the Urbans as a suspect?”

“I’m not a novice, you know.” I smiled sweetly.

At that moment Lottie came bustling toward us. “Abby, you and Marco need to get up to the hotel’s reception desk pronto. I just came from there, and some slick-dressing, out-of-town lawyer is making a big stink about a phone message he got from Sybil, something about some belongings she wanted to give to him. They’re making him wait for the cops before they give out any information, and he’s having a hissy fit. If you hurry, you might be able to find out more.”

“Let’s go,” Marco said.

“How will we recognize him?” I called to Lottie as we started away.

“Look for the fanciest ostrich-leather shoes you’ve ever seen.”

Since I’d never seen even a plain pair of ostrich-leather shoes, I wasn’t sure that would be much help, not to mention that I was already feeling sorry for the bird.

“Why would Sybil want to give some of her belongings to her lawyer?” I mused, hurrying to keep up with Marco’s long-legged stride.

“I’d guess for safekeeping.”

“If she wanted to keep them safe, why drag them with her to a convention? Unless…Marco, maybe Sybil was afraid something would happen to her, so she left a clue to her killer’s identity just in case she died. Isn’t that how it happens in the movies?”

“Since this isn’t the movies, let’s hope the lawyer will enlighten us.”

We dodged slow movers and oblivious browsers, hurrying up the main hallway past the phony phone booth and ceiling-high windows, up the ramp into the hotel, through the lobby, and straight toward the reception desk. Halfway there, Marco stopped and pulled me off to one side. “Ostrich shoes at eight o’clock.”

I turned to the left and saw a stocky man with kinky white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, nutmeg-colored skin, a tan knit shirt, dark brown trousers, and a pair of bumpy, caramel brown shoes—was that what ostrich skin looked like? He was standing beside a table with a gigantic floral arrangement on it.
Note to self: See what florist the hotel uses.
His arms were folded across his chest, and one shoe was tapping the floor beside his briefcase as he watched the revolving doors.

“How did you recognize the ostrich shoes?” I whispered to Marco.

“I owned a pair once. See those bumps? That’s where the feathers were.”

“Aren’t ostrich shoes expensive?”

“Do you want to stand here discussing shoes, or should we talk to the man wearing them?”

“What are we going to say?”

“Watch and learn, Sunshine.”

Using that confident swagger that never failed to stir my “innards,” as Lottie would say, Marco strode up to the man in the ostrich shoes and displayed his PI identification card. “Marco Salvare, private investigator and former police officer with the New Chapel PD. This is my associate Abby Knight.”

I gave the man a smile that I hoped looked investigator-like.

“Rex Crawford,” the attorney said after a moment’s hesitation, shaking Marco’s hand and then mine, but clearly not sure why.

“I understand you’re here regarding some personal property of Sybil Blount’s,” Marco said as he put his wallet away. “Are you her attorney?”

“I might be. In what capacity are you here, Mr. Salvare?”

“Purely as a private investigator. A friend of mine is being questioned in Ms. Blount’s death, and I’m trying to gather as much information as possible to keep her from becoming a suspect.”

“Suspect?” His richly textured voice resonated across the room, causing heads to turn our way. He toned the volume down a notch and stepped closer. “Are you saying there was foul play?”

“It appears that way,” Marco said. “I’m sorry; I thought you knew.”

Crawford looked ready to explode. “All I know is what I heard on the radio this morning, that she died while attending a convention. And the only information I got from those jackasses behind the counter is that her room has been sealed off and I have to talk to the authorities if I want access to her belongings. No one said anything about foul play.”

“Then maybe we can help each other.” Marco gestured toward a lounge area filled with cozy leather club chairs and a richly appointed bar. “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

The attorney pulled back warily. “Slow down, son. Before we take this discussion any further, what assurances do I have that your friend isn’t involved? No offense, but I don’t want to be aiding someone who might be responsible for my client’s death.”

“Our friend,” I said testily, “is one of the sweetest, kindest, gentlest women you’d ever want to meet. But
your
client, on the other hand, was a—”

“Abby,” Marco said in a cautioning voice, putting a hand on my shoulder to remind me that I was supposed to be watching and learning.

“Mr. Crawford, our friend Delilah Dove, and her husband, Max, have run a family-owned funeral home in New Chapel for years,” Marco said. They have an excellent reputation, and their many friends and customers will testify to her character. Delilah has no credible motive to do your client harm, and any allegations that she does are ludicrous. But there are others attending this convention who do have motives, and if you’re willing to work with us—”

“Hold on a minute,” Crawford said, holding out his hands. “You’re going too fast for me. All I deal with is estate planning and tax concerns—you know, wills, trusts, tax returns, and the like. Except for the message she left me, I haven’t heard from Sybil since last April at tax time. I’m not sure how I can be of any assistance to you. And while I appreciate your offer, I’ve got a dead client here, and if this is, in fact, a homicide, I need to find out what it was my client wanted me to have, because it could be important to the investigation.”

“We understand your concerns,” Marco assured him, “but would you at least hear us out?”

Clearly unsettled by the turn of events, Crawford glanced at his watch, then back at the door, which was still devoid of any cops. “I suppose I can listen to what you have to say—as long as our conversation is strictly off the record.”

That was lawyer talk for
“If anyone asks me, this conversation never took place.”

The men allowed me to lead the way through the reception area and up two steps into the lounge, where we took seats at a table off by itself. A waitress swooped in immediately, and we ordered coffees all around.

Rex Crawford leaned forward, his gaze serious and intent. “Before we go any further, I’d like to know how you acquired your information, Mr. Salvare, and just to make things easier, let’s refer to my client by her first name.”

“Certainly,” Marco said. “To set the stage for you, Sybil was supposed to give the opening remarks at last night’s convention banquet, which Ms. Knight and I were attending. When Sybil failed to show by the end of the dinner, we suspected something had happened to her and initiated a search.”

Oh, so now it was
we
. Funny how Marco forgot that
I
was the one who had insisted on looking for her.

“We arrived at the scene shortly after the cops did, so we got a good look at everything before the room was disturbed. We’ll share that information with you as well as the names of two men who should be investigated.”

I nodded in agreement, ready to explain that I’d almost been a victim of foul play myself, but Marco quickly put a hand over mine and said to the attorney, “First, we need your word that you’ll reciprocate by sharing the contents of the message and whatever belongings you find.”

Crawford paused as the waitress brought our coffees. “Explain to me again why I should do that.”

“Because Delilah is innocent,” I said before Marco could remind me again that I was supposed to be his mute apprentice, “and the two guys who should be suspects aren’t, and somehow we have to convince the prosecutor that he’s looking in the wrong direction.”

“And you think whatever it was that Sybil left for me will prove your friend’s innocence?”

“We’d like the opportunity to find out,” Marco said.

Crawford sipped his coffee while he thought it over. “I’ll see what I can do to help you out, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions first.”

“Go ahead,” Marco said.

“Was my client’s death a clear case of homicide?”