A Rose From the Dead (8 page)

Marco put his hands on the car on either side of me and leaned in. “First of all, you’re jumping to conclusions. We don’t know where Sybil and Chet went after his show. Don’t assume the worst. Second, so you think Chet is hot, huh?”

I walked my fingers up the front of his shirt. “I’m just saying that
Sybil
would have thought so. Me, I go for the kind of man who aspires to pickle jars.”

“Good save,” he murmured against my lips, causing all kinds of wicked thoughts to race through my brain, including a strong desire to wring the head bartender’s neck for not being able to handle the gas leak himself.

We kissed for a moment; then Marco stepped back. “Stop distracting me. I have to get to the bar. I don’t want anyone turning blue from the gas leak.”

The word
blue
immediately brought Angelique’s cryptic rhyme to mind. As we buckled ourselves into his Prius, I said, “When you sat in on the interview, did Angelique mention anything about Sybil’s rose, or did she recite her poem again?”

Marco thought back a moment, then shook his head. “Neither.”

“Did the cop even ask her about it?”

“Nope.”

“I knew I should have been there. Do you remember the red rose Sybil had in her hair this morning? There was no flower in her hair when I saw her body tonight, which I made sure to point out to Reilly. Angelique noticed the missing flower, and that’s what her poem was about.”

“Do you really think the person who shut that lid on Sybil would take the rose out of her hair first?”

I tried to imagine the Urbans plucking the blossom from behind her ear, then closing the casket, but, unfortunately, it wasn’t working for me. Young guys simply wouldn’t be concerned with minor fashion details. “I concede that you have a point.”

“Isn’t it possible that Sybil left the flower in her room?”

“Another point for your side. Then what
did
Angelique talk about in her interview?”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to drop the whole topic afterward.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it; then Marco started the engine, put the car in gear, and took off. “Yesterday afternoon, Angelique overheard Sybil on her cell phone arranging to meet someone in the storage room before the banquet. When Sybil failed to show at the start of the dinner, Angelique went straight to the storage room to look for her. She saw the tool chest on top of one of the caskets right away, but it wasn’t until she saw a fishnet stocking that she became suspicious and checked inside. She said it was apparent at once that Sybil was dead.”

“Did the cop ask her why she had her tape recorder with her?”

“It didn’t come up.”

I smacked my palm on my knee. “Another reason why I should have been there. Think about it. If Sybil was already dead when Angelique found her, why did she have her tape recorder out? Does that make sense to you?”

“Remember our deal?”

“You have to admit it raises questions.”

“Which is why there will be an experienced detective working on the case. Now, how about some music?” Marco reached for the radio button. “What are you in the mood for? Jazz? Rock?”

“How about the blues?”

Minutes before my alarm went off at seven thirty the next morning, something furry settled on my head, covering my forehead and eyes, which played right into my dream about being shut in a coffin. I awoke with a gasp and pushed the warm object off my face, only to hear a loud meow of protest. The alarm buzzed just then, sending Simon scrambling off the bed, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where he would lie in wait so he could ambush my ankles on my way to the refrigerator for orange juice.

Simon was Nikki’s white cat. This was the same Nikki who swore to me in sixth grade that she would never,
ever
have a cat; that, in fact, she hated cats and couldn’t stand the gray and white feline that ruled as Supreme Overlord of the Knight household. Now she claimed it was tropical fish she hated, so I fully expected to come home one day to a fifty-gallon aquarium in the living room.

As I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, I heard Nikki talking to Simon in the hateful baby voice she always used with him. “What does him want to eat today?”

“What him always eats.” I grabbed the orange juice carton from the counter. “Kidneys in gravy, and you can skip the kidneys because all he does is lick the gravy anyway.”

“He does not. He’s a good boy, aren’t you, Simmy-Simey?” Nikki plopped a large spoonful of the canned food in Simon’s dish and we watched as he licked off the sauce. I felt so vindicated.

Nikki pretended not to see it. “How’s the convention going?”

“I can tell you, but you may be sorry you asked.”

“Not on your life. You never say that unless you have a juicy story.” She patted one of the kitchen stools. “Have a seat. I’ll put on the coffee.”

Perched on a stool, I related Saturday’s events to her, starting with my close call in the phone booth and continuing all the way up to when Marco dropped me off at the apartment the evening before, leaving Nikki with eyes as large as Frisbees. “Omigod, Abby, you could have died the same way Sybil did!”

“Tell me about it.”

She poured the brewed coffee into two purple mugs and gave me the one with the chip in it. As if I wouldn’t notice. “So you think Sybil was the victim of a prank played by the two jerky Urban guys?”

“I’m not saying there aren’t a few others I’d want to check out if I were investigating, but the Urbans are so obvious it’s scary. I mean, who but the Urbans would think it was funny to shut someone in a dummy phone booth? So it makes sense that they’d also shut Sybil in a coffin and dress a dummy in her clothes. Maybe there’ll be more information in today’s newspaper.” I hopped off the stool and went to get the paper in the hallway outside our door.

Taking it back to the counter, I unrolled it, and the banner headline leapt out at me:
DEATH AT FUNERAL CONVENTION
.

“Isn’t that like an oxymoron, or something?” Nikki asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Irony.”

“I said
or something.
”

While Nikki made toast with peanut butter and honey for each of us, I read the article out loud. Surprisingly, there was no mention of any arrests being made. In fact, there was nothing at all about the Urbans even being questioned. “How could that be possible, Nikki? Their fingerprints had to be all over that casket, not to mention Sybil’s shoes and the tool chest.”

“Well, duh, Abby. You just got done telling me their father is loaded. He probably used his money to get them off the hook. Don’t look so shocked. You know people pay bribe money all the time.”

“In our county? The prosecutor gets lazy with his investigations sometimes, but he’s never been accused of being crooked.”

“So you believe Melvin Darnell wouldn’t even be tempted to take a bribe of, let’s say, fifty thousand dollars to go after someone else and leave the Urban twins alone? What does a chief prosecuting attorney make in one year? Seventy, eighty thousand? Do you really know the man that well? Don’t forget about Marco’s little run-in with him.”

“Darnell was all set to prosecute me, too, and no one was paying him to do that.”

“There you go,” Nikki said through a mouthful of toast.

“So you think the Urban twins will skate?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I sipped my coffee, getting angrier by the second. If there is anything I can’t tolerate, it is injustice. “It’s unfair, Nikki. The wealthy should have to play by the same rules the rest of us do.”

“You know what you’re going to have to do, right? Go after the Urbans yourself.”

My anger fizzled. “I can’t. I promised Marco I’d stay out of it.”

“I know you too well, Abby. You won’t be able to stop yourself.”

“I don’t have any reason to get involved, Nik. Let the detectives deal with Sybil’s death. The only thing I’m going to do today is try to drum up more business for Bloomers—if the convention is still on. And I might even be able to get Chet Sunday’s autograph for you.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Abs, I would
so
owe you. Oh, crap. It’s eight o’clock. I’m taking an extra shift at the hospital today, so I’d better shower.” She stopped to hug me before she dashed off. “That’s for Chet’s autograph.”

I wolfed down my toast and was just finishing my coffee when the phone rang.

“Hi, Abby, this is Max.”

“Hey, Max, I was just about to call you. Is the convention still on?”

“It is, but we’re not going to be able to make it. We’ve been at the police station all night.”

“Why?”

“The detectives are questioning Delilah about Sybil’s death.”

“What do you mean questioning her? As a witness?”

Max sighed heavily. “The prosecutor is calling Delilah a person of interest, Abby.”

My stomach dropped about two floors. “A person of interest? That’s absurd. How could Darnell possibly think Delilah had anything to do with Sybil’s death?”

“You remember that silly scene Sybil made yesterday morning at our booth? Well, that is now being called an altercation. Del tried to explain that it was just Sybil throwing her weight around, but she might as well have been talking to a cement wall. The prosecutor was told that there was a longstanding rivalry between the two women, so he’s considering that a motive.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. There have to be a dozen people who saw what happened. I know they’ll testify on Delilah’s behalf.”

“Then there was Delilah showing up late for the banquet.”

“Big deal. I saw any number of people arrive late.”

“We told him that, Abby.”

“So basically all they have are Delilah’s late arrival, an altercation that never happened, and a rivalry that can be disproved. That’s so flimsy, Max. How could that possibly make Delilah a person of interest?”

“Because of that little run-in Delilah had with Sybil in the storage room before the banquet. That was at six o’clock, and they’re estimating the time of Sybil’s death to be between six and seven. According to them, that makes Del the last person known to have seen Sybil alive. Darnell called those her means and opportunity, and
that
makes her a person of interest.”

My throat was really, really dry, but I had to ask anyway. “How did they learn about Delilah’s little meeting with Sybil in the storage room?”

“Someone apparently told one of the cops on the scene.”

Oh, no. That someone was me.

“T
his is a nightmare, Abby,” Max continued. “I’m still in shock, and poor Del is exhausted from their all-night grilling. They actually tried to badger her into confessing. Do you believe that? As if Delilah could ever hurt anyone. When she wouldn’t give them a confession, the detective tried to get her to imagine how she would have killed Sybil
if
she had wanted to. They called it a vision statement. Thank goodness Delilah didn’t cave in to their pressure. That steel in her spine really came through.”

But for how long? She’d surely be called back again if they couldn’t find another likely suspect. I was so overcome by guilt, I blurted, “I’ll help in any way I can, Max. Just name it and it will be done—call an attorney, whatever you need. I’m here for you.”

“Thanks for the offer, Abby. We hired Dave Hammond, and with any luck he’ll get it straightened out soon.”

“Of course he will. Delilah is in good hands with Dave. Besides, the allegations the cops are making will be awfully hard to prove.”

“Those were my feelings, too. I hate to say this because I voted for Melvin Darnell in the last two elections, but it sure seems that he’s railroading her.”

I didn’t want to alarm Max, but people were railroaded all the time by prosecutors eager to get a case off their desks and score points with the voting public. Chief Prosecuting Attorney Melvin Darnell was no exception. With elections coming up, Darnell was eager to maintain his reputation as Protector of the Realm by removing bad people from the streets and putting them behind bars, which was all well and good, except that his definition of bad people sometimes included unlucky people who happened to be caught in circumstances that made them look bad. At that point, it fell to Darnell to make his targets look even worse in front of a jury so he could win his case and come out the hero. Never mind if those unlucky people were innocent.

I had been one of his targets not too long ago because I’d delivered a flower to a professor at the law school during a noon lunch break when another professor with whom I’d had previous run-ins was found murdered. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time had nearly cost me my freedom. Fortunately, I’d found the real killer before Darnell could indict me.

With that horrible memory in mind, I knew I had to make sure Delilah didn’t suffer a similar fate. It would devastate her, Max,
and
their business. And it would be my fault for opening my big mouth to Reilly.

“So no one wanted to cancel the convention because of Sybil’s death?” I asked him.

“Nope. Colonel Billingsworth is prepared to proceed as planned, although I’m certain it will be very subdued. I’m sorry we won’t be there to help you, but you probably won’t have much traffic anyway, especially with Sybil’s memorial service for the convention attendees already planned for this afternoon.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of the booth, and I’m sure Grace and Lottie will pitch in, too.” And Marco, I really hoped.

“Keep me posted, okay, Abby?”

“Will do, Max. You do the same for me. And give Delilah a big hug and tell her everything is going to be fine.”

Because somehow I had to make it fine.

First thing I had to do was to line up some help, so I called my assistants, who were horrified by the news and more than happy to lend a hand. We arranged to meet inside the exhibition hall at ten o’clock, giving them time to make it to church first. Grace even promised to bring a plate of her homemade scones.

Second, I needed to find out where Delilah stood on the suspect list. I couldn’t call the prosecutor’s office until the next morning, so I phoned Reilly. I figured he owed me information for passing along my innocent comment about Delilah’s meeting with Sybil.

“Hey, Super Sarge, it’s me, your favorite florist. Are you working today?”

“No and no.”

“What’s the second no for?”

“Whatever you’re going to ask me to do.”

So much for the sweet talk. “Delilah Dove is being questioned in Sybil Blount’s murder, Reilly, and now you have to help me get her out of it because it’s your fault she’s in it.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute.
My
fault? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Remember me telling you that Delilah met Sybil in the storage room at six o’clock?”

“So?”

“So you told someone who blabbed it to the DA, and now Darnell has his sights set on Delilah as a person of interest. I need to know who else they’re talking to so I can—”

“Stop right there. You know I can’t discuss an ongoing case.”

“Come on, Reilly, we’ve had this conversation before, and you’ve always managed to give me a little assistance in the end, so let’s skip the part where I nag and nag and you finally give in, and go straight to the part where you drop a big hint. So how about coughing once if the Urban twins are being questioned?”

“Look, Abby, I’m not unsympathetic to Delilah’s plight, but my superiors aren’t stupid. They’ve seen us talking enough times that they’re going to figure out how you’re able to come by your information. I’ve got a kid to support, a teenager who’ll be off to college soon, and an ex-wife who gets testy if I miss a support payment. I can’t afford to be suspended. So I’ll help in whatever way I can, but official police business is strictly off limits. Understand?”

“I understand, Reilly. I know you have to be careful, and I wouldn’t ask you to do anything unethical. But we both know Delilah could very easily be railroaded by the DA, so all I’m asking you to do is cough. Just cough. You don’t have to say a word. Okay?”

He sighed, but he didn’t cough.

“Okay, have Ross and Jess Urban been questioned? Remember, once for yes.”

This time he did cough.

“So they
have
questioned them. That’s good. Are there plans to bring them back for more questioning?”

Silence. Was that a no? “So the Urbans
have
been questioned but they aren’t being considered persons of interest?”

Dead air. Good thing I could hear him breathing or I’d think he’d passed out.

“Did you tell the detectives about the prank those two pulled on me? Do they know about Sybil’s clothes on the mannequin? Did you tell them the twins actually told me they were going to get her again? Because if you did, then how could those two idiots have been cleared? I mean, it’s so obvious what they did. Weren’t there any fingerprints left at either scene?”

Silence.

“Are you saying everything was wiped clean?”

“I’m not saying anything, Abby. That’s as far as I go. I’m hanging up now.”

“Just give me one more minute, Reilly. Please? Are they talking to
anyone
other than Delilah?”

“Abby.”

“Just tap out the first name. Once for
A,
twice for
B
—”

“If you want more information, talk to Darnell.”
Click.

I hung up with a groan of frustration just as Nikki appeared, wanting to know who had called. I gave her a quick rundown on my conversations with Max and Reilly, then put my head in my hands. “This can’t be happening.”

“Call Marco,” she said, rinsing her cup in the sink. “He’ll know what to do.”

My finger was already pressing the speed-dial button. It didn’t occur to me until I heard his sleepy voice that he might have been up late because of the gas leak.

“Got to bed at three in the morning,” he said with a yawn.

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have bothered you this early, but Delilah is in serious trouble. Darnell is calling her a person of interest, and you know what that means—she’s a suspect. And it’s all my fault for opening my mouth to Reilly in the first place. I have to get her out of this mess, Marco, before it goes any further.”

“Whoa, Sunshine. Slow down. You’re talking way too fast for my tired brain.” In the background I heard sheets rustle, as if he were climbing out of bed. “Tell me what happened.”

“Darnell questioned Delilah all night, and needless to say, Max is a basket case. He retained Dave Hammond and I’m sure Dave will do a good job for them, but you know that if Darnell decides to indict Delilah, even if she’s proven not guilty, her life will be ruined, not to mention their funeral-home business. The best defense attorney in the world wouldn’t be able to prevent that from happening. I’ve got to make sure it doesn’t get that far.”

“Okay, steady now. You realize what you’re saying, don’t you?”

“Yes. That I have to prove Delilah’s innocence.”

“No, that you have to find a killer.”

“I like my way better.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet. I talked to Max only a few minutes ago. All I know is that the convention starts at ten o’clock and ends at five, which gives me seven hours.”

“That gives
us
seven hours. There’s no way you’re doing this alone.”

I could have smothered him with kisses. “Thanks, Marco. Your help means a lot. I know Max and Delilah will be grateful, too.”

“What time do you want to go?”

It was eight fifteen. I still had to shower, dress, and dash down to my flower shop to catch up on orders before heading up north to the convention center.

“Pick me up at Bloomers at nine thirty,” I told him.

As I hung up, Nikki paused at the door to wish me good luck. “And by the way,” she said, “I knew you wouldn’t stay out of it.”

Bloomers is the second shop from the corner on Franklin Street, one of the four streets that border the courthouse square. The store occupies the first floor and basement of the old three-story building and has two bay windows with a yellow-framed door in between. The left side of the shop is the sales area, incorporating one of the bay windows, a glass-fronted refrigerated display case, an armoire, a bookcase and several antique tables that hold a variety of floral arrangements, and a small counter with our cash register. A purple velvet curtain separates the shop from the workroom in back.

On the right side of the shop is our Victorian-themed coffee and tea parlor, where customers sit at white wrought-iron tables in front of the other bay window, drinking out of china cups and saucers, eating Grace’s scones or biscuits, and watching the happenings on the square. It’s a cozy, comfortable place to hang out, and it draws customers into the flower shop.

Around the square is the typical assortment of family-owned shops, banks, law offices, and restaurants, including Marco’s Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, located two doors north of Bloomers. In the middle of the square is the stately courthouse, built in 1896 from Indiana limestone, that houses the county and circuit courts, plus all the government offices. Five blocks east of the square marks the western edge of the campus of New Chapel University, a small private college where I would have graduated from law school if I hadn’t flunked out.

On that unhappy thought, I unlocked Bloomers’ bright yellow door and walked into the sweet fragrances of roses, lavender, and eucalyptus as I felt again the thrill of being in my very own oasis. I headed through the curtain to where my floral creations came to life. It was a paradise filled with colors, shapes, textures, and scents, with dried and silk flowers in vases on the floor, ribbon-festooned wreaths hanging from hooks on the wall, and all manner of flowerpots and containers on the shelves.

Two stainless-steel walk-in coolers lined the right wall, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items was on the left. In the middle was the big worktable with wooden stools tucked beneath, where Lottie and I sat for hours doing what we loved best, arranging flowers. That’s what I needed now—a few blissful moments before the race to clear Delilah’s name began. When I was creating, my mind was fully engaged and my thoughts were at their keenest.

I checked the orders that had come in over the wire during the night, printed out one I knew I could put together quickly, and went to work. The order was for an anniversary arrangement in autumn colors. I stepped into the big cooler and glanced around for inspiration. The Red Rover mums would be a good start. Foxtail fern? Perfect. Definitely the Konfetti roses, along with several stems of hypericum, some Spanish moss, and oh, yes, thin twigs of curly willow for accent. Maybe I’d add some purple carnations for a surprising jolt of color.

I pulled the flowers, took out the tools I’d need from the drawers built into the worktable, then stepped back to survey my supply of containers. Aha! A small ceramic pumpkin. Just right. As I affixed a base of wet foam inside the pumpkin and began to put physical shape to the arrangement I had worked out in my mind, I also began a mental list of whom I wanted to question at the convention. Appropriately, numbers one and two on my list were Thing One and Thing Two. If my hunch was right, I wouldn’t need to go any farther.

I finished my design, wrapped it in clear cellophane, marked it for delivery, and put it in the cooler. I checked the time and saw that it was almost nine thirty, so I threw on some peach-colored lip gloss, pulled my hair back with a tortoiseshell barrette, grabbed my purse, and left.

Marco’s car was parked in front of Down the Hatch, so I headed toward it just as he strode out of the bar. Seeing him gave me the same heady rush of pleasure that I’d had when I first laid eyes on him. Then, as now, he had on a black leather motorcycle jacket, slim, faded blue denims, and black boots. With his olive complexion, dark eyes, and cocky swagger, he was not merely sexy but
dangerously
so. It was one of the things that gave him an edge over every other guy I’d ever met.