A Rose From the Dead (9 page)

“Morning, Sunshine,” he said, flashing that devilish grin that had my heart singing. He appraised my outfit—a fitted beige jacket and bronze-colored shirt over tan jeans, finished off with knee-high brown boots—and gave me a thumbs-up. “Hot look for an amateur Sherlock.”

Had to love those compliments. Had to love the guy who gave them, too.

“Are you ready to track down a murderer?” he asked.

“I think you mean
murderers,
” I corrected. “Ross and Jess.”

“It
could
be them, Sunshine, but we know Sybil wasn’t the most popular person at that convention, so keep yourself open to all possibilities.”

“Okay, but we don’t have any other possibilities yet.”

“That’s our first order of business.”

F
or once Marco was wrong. Our first order of business was to get the refrigerated flower arrangements from the kitchen to booth twenty-nine before the convention officially opened for the day. Lottie and Grace, who had arrived earlier, had already made two trips, so Marco, being our pack mule, volunteered to get the rest.

Grace had donned a traditional navy shirtdress and sensible navy pumps, the dark blue setting off her fair English complexion and short silver hair. She had a watch on a fob pinned to the bodice of her dress, and simple pearl studs in her ears. The surprise was her shiny orange belt, but Grace always did have a certain flair. She had brought a basket of scones as promised, along with jam and clotted cream, a supply of napkins, and a thermos of coffee. Being a proper Brit, she’d also brought a china pot for serving, and cups and saucers.

Lottie’s outfit hadn’t changed appreciably from yesterday’s, except that her cotton knit shirt now depicted Rome, Italy. It was part of her world tour collection. She might not have the money to travel the globe, but she had the T-shirts.

I stowed my purse under the table. Then, as we arranged the display, I explained in greater detail the events that had led to the discovery of Sybil’s body and my suspicions as to who had killed her.

“The Urbans do seem to have the burden of proof on their shoulders,” Grace said after a moment’s consideration, “especially in light of what Walker told me.”

“Walker?” I asked. “Do you mean Colonel Billingsworth?”

“Yes, dear. He stopped by the booth to introduce himself, so I poured him a cup of coffee and offered him a scone, and we had a pleasant chat.”

“You’re already on a first-name basis with him?”

“Am I not allowed to make a new friend now and then?” Grace asked.

There was a definite twinkle of mischief in her eye, making me think she had something up her sleeve. “A friend, huh?”

“You should have seen Gracie in action,” Lottie said with a chuckle. “She was just a-flirtin’ away, and the poor guy was blushing so hard his scalp turned pink. I could see it through those twelve strands of hair he combs over to the opposite ear.”

“I was
not
flirting,” Grace said, lifting her chin. “I was merely taking an interest in Walker’s stories. It’s amazing what one can learn when one asks the right questions.”

“So basically you were snooping,” I teased.

“Certainly not! I was gathering information. And frankly, Abby dear, not to sound cheeky, but your investigation could use a bit of a boost. After all, Delilah is our friend, too, and we’re quite concerned about her. As Benjamin Franklin once said, ‘You may delay, but time will not.’”

Grace was a walking library of quotations. I could always count on her to have one at the ready.

“I’m staying out of it,” Lottie said. “The last thing I want to do is screw things up for Delilah by poking my nose where it isn’t wanted.”

“Okay, Grace.” I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the table. “What information did you gather from
Walker
?”

“Among other things,” Grace said, straightening the brochures on the table, “he said that Sybil was quite infamous for having affairs with younger men.”

I cast Marco a pointed glance as he returned with a box of flower arrangements. “I’m not surprised.”

“There’s a first,” he quipped as Lottie and I helped him unload. “Alert the media.”

“Good one,” Lottie said with a laugh, and gave him a high five.

I laughed with her only to show my strength of character, because I certainly hadn’t found it as amusing as she had.

“Seriously, don’t you think Sybil exuded a raw sexuality when she was near a younger man? Look how she came on to you the instant she met you, Marco.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, giving me a flicker of a grin. “You did it, too, the first time we met.”

“You came on to
me
!”

“And you loved every minute of it.” He arched an eyebrow, giving me a very hot look, which he also did that first time.

I ran my hand up his arm. “I’m not saying I didn’t love it.”

“Hey, you two,” Lottie said, “Grace was telling us what she learned from Colonel Billingsworth, remember? Go ahead, Gracie.”

“Very well, then. Walker also said that Sybil has been stalking Ross and Jess Urban since they turned twenty-one, and the colonel is of the opinion that one of the boys finally succumbed to her, shall we say,
attentions
this year.”

“That would explain why Ross wasn’t worried about what would happen to him if they pulled a prank on Sybil,” I told the group. “When I warned him that she’d be furious, his exact words were, ‘It won’t be a problem. She’d think it was an invitation.’ It’s clear now what he meant. Can’t you see how easy it would have been for him to coax her into that casket?”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Lottie said, “but from everything I’ve heard about her, I doubt Sybil had to be coaxed. More like a wink and a pat on the butt.”

Marco, who was listening with a frown of concentration, said to Grace with mild skepticism, “How did the colonel know about this alleged affair?”

“He was merely giving an opinion,” Grace said. “But since Walker and Sybil’s husband had been longtime business partners, it seems logical to think he’d know a little something about Sybil’s activities.”

“Could be that the colonel picked up on some of the rumors going around about Sybil,” Lottie said. “When I was standing in line for coffee yesterday, I heard a few choice bits of gossip myself, some I wouldn’t care to repeat.”

Juicy gossip? “We’ll talk later,” I whispered to her.

Grace said, “Walker also mentioned that he had spoken to Conrad Urban yesterday morning about his sons’ behavior here at the convention. Apparently, Conrad was astounded to hear of it. It seems that he had become so fed up with the boys’ irresponsibility that, in an attempt to get them to mend their ways and govern themselves as adults, he had told Ross and Jess that their conduct over the next six months would determine which one of them would succeed him as CEO of his company. The one who exhibits the most maturity and business acumen is to be his successor. He thought they had taken his ultimatum to heart, thus the reason for his astonishment.”

“That’s a little extreme of Conrad, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Personally,” Grace said, “I think it’s a dreadful way to pick an heir. It will pit his sons against each other. Why would a parent want to foster such rivalry?”

“Maybe Conrad is just that desperate,” Lottie said. “Maybe he’s tried everything else, and this is his last resort.”

“He could cut them off and let them fend for themselves,” Marco said. “They’d grow up fast then.”

“Tough love,” Lottie said, nodding in agreement. “That’s always been my motto. I wouldn’t have survived raising my quadruplets if I’d been soft on them.”

“Since we know little about their family, it would be hard to say what’s best for those young men,” Grace remarked. “One shouldn’t judge until one has walked a mile in another’s shoes.”

“I’ll tell you one thing we can say for sure,” Lottie put in. “If the Urban twins are responsible for Sybil’s death, Daddy Big Bucks had better have another successor waiting in the wings, because his boys will be cooling their heels behind bars.”

“Unless only one of them is involved,” Marco mused. “Then his choice would be easy.”

“You’re right,” Lottie said. “The innocent twin would be an automatic shoo-in.”

It was my turn to weigh in on the subject. “I can’t imagine only one of the Urbans showing up at the storage room to pull a prank on Sybil. They were both eager to get her. I still say they were in on it together.”

As we pondered the idea, the first shoppers of the day strolled up to look at our display, causing us to table our conversation.

“I’ve got one more box to bring out,” Marco told us, “and then this mule is off duty.”

“Your carrot will be waiting,” I replied, giving him a flirtatious smile.

He winked at me, then strode away.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, still thinking about our discussion on the Urbans.

“Have you considered the young lady across the aisle as a suspect?” Grace asked.

Lottie and I turned to gaze at Angelique, who sat at her harp with her eyes shut and an intense look of concentration on her face as she plucked strings in what seemed to be random order. Today she was dressed in an all-white gauze dress with white ballet flats, and she appeared to be listening to a tape recorder through earbuds. This machine was larger than the one she’d had with her the evening before. It must have been her backup.

“After all,” Grace remarked quietly as she went about hanging a wreath on one wall, “she is the angel of death.”

Lottie nearly dropped the arrangement she’d been fixing. “Excuse me?”

“Angelique is another form of Angel, and DeScuro translates as
of darkness
; hence, Angel of Death,” Grace explained. “I would be quite suspicious of her.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Because of her name? You can’t help what your parents name you.”

“She might be using a stage name,” I said.

“We must also consider the musical terms Angelique used to describe Sybil.” Grace removed a piece of stationery from her pocket and carefully unfolded it. “I researched these yesterday.”

She cleared her throat and began to read in a soft voice: “
Bellicoso con fuoco
—aggressive, warlike, with fire.
Tremendo
—frightening.
Feroce al fine
—fiercely to the end.
Dissonante
—just what it sounds like, dissonant.”

“Whee, doggies,” Lottie said, unfolding a metal chair to have a seat. “Makes that
pesante
she called me seem pretty tame, doesn’t it?”

“At least she didn’t call you short and disconnected,” I said. “I feel like a dropped phone call.”

“It’s obvious that Angelique was attracted by Sybil’s aggressive nature,” Grace said, slipping the paper into her pocket. “It speaks volumes about Angelique’s personality, doesn’t it?”

“So does her all-white outfit,” I joked. “She must have checked her wings at the door.”

“And what’s up with that white stage makeup?” Lottie asked. “I can’t tell where her throat ends and her dress begins.”

“You should have seen her black garb yesterday, Grace,” I said. “The only way I can describe it is goth.”

“Make that goth-awful,” Lottie said, and we had to clap our hands over our mouths so we didn’t laugh out loud.

“Another reason to consider Angelique,” Grace said, ignoring our silliness, “is that she had her tape recorder with her when the police arrived. Has anyone asked why she happened to bring her recording equipment to a dressy banquet?”

“The cop who conducted the interview didn’t think to ask,” I told Grace. “Of course, if Reilly had allowed me to sit in, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“Men,” Lottie said, shaking her head. “They do their best thinking below the belt. Everything between their ears is an afterthought.”

“Bonus equipment,” I said, and we both giggled.

“It could be that Angelique carries a tape recorder like others do their mobile phones,” Grace suggested, pronouncing the word
mow-bile.
She had such class.

Lottie tried to look thoughtful. “Sure. I can see it. In that line of work you never know when you’ll be called upon to do some serious soul searching.”

We laughed again until Grace said with a sniff, “When you’re finished being catty, you must admit it’s possible Angelique was in the right place at the right time to do Sybil in.”

“I’ll add her to the suspect list, but I still like the Urbans best,” I said. “They had the motive, the opportunity, and certainly the means to get Sybil inside the casket. Angelique thought too highly of Sybil to want to do her harm.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t view death as harmful,” Grace said. “As Bertolt Brecht once noted, ‘Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.’”

Across the aisle, Angelique’s music grew louder and more cacophonous.

“Someone ought to give Jolly Roger over there some music lessons,” Lottie muttered, rubbing her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”

Grace eyed Angelique thoughtfully, her finger tapping her chin, leading me to believe that another quotation was forthcoming. But a moment later she picked up her dessert plate and held it out to me. “Have a scone, Abby.”

Only too happy to oblige. But no quote? I glanced at Lottie, who shrugged.

I was just about to bite into the buttery treat when an announcement came over the public address system: “A memorial service for Sybil Blount will be held today at one o’clock in the Redenbacher Room on the mezzanine level of the hotel. Please join us there for a brief service to honor the woman who made this convention possible.”

I glanced at Angelique, who had gone as still as a statue. Lottie and Grace were watching her, too. “I wonder what she’s thinking,” Lottie said.