Dearly Depotted (14 page)

I left the sports center feeling better about Richard’s character but still uneasy about the case the police could potentially build against him. I buckled my seat belt, then decided to call Reilly before heading back to Bloomers, hoping I’d catch him in a good moment and he’d tell me what evidence they’d collected.

“Is this the phenomenal Sgt. Sean Reilly?” I asked when he picked up the phone.

“What do you need?” he replied with a sigh.

“Nothing much. Just wanted to see how your day was going and if you had any strong leads on the murder investigation.”

“Detective Williams is in charge of the case now, so you can go pester the hell out of him.”

I wasn’t thrilled to hear that. Detective Williams was a brusque, unfriendly man who made Reilly look like Santa Claus. “So you’re not working on the murder at all? You’re not even collecting evidence?”

There was a pause, then he said, “You have evidence?”

“I’d prefer to call it information.”

“And that information would be?”

“Available in trade.”

“See, this is why I’m happy that Williams is on the case. You want to bargain? Go bargain with him. I don’t have time for games.”

“Okay, but can I ask you just one quick question?”

The line went dead. So much for jolly old Saint Nick.

I knew Reilly was counting on Williams’s unpleasant personality to deter me, but he didn’t understand my determination to help Grace. I called the dispatch operator and asked for Williams, and when he came on the line I said in my most professional voice, “Detective Williams, my name is Abby Knight. My father is Sgt. Jeffrey Knight. I’m sure you remember him. Anyway, I was at the banquet center the night of—”

“Get to the point.”

“I’m trying to get a little information on the murder case. I just spoke with—”

“Read the newspaper.” There was a click and he was gone.

I was frustrated, but not defeated. I had other resources, like Marco—if I could talk him into helping me—and Greg Morgan, and even my dad, who still had a little clout. I could get around Williams. No, make that I
would
get around Williams.

I drove back to Bloomers with Lottie’s car windows down and the radio blaring Christina Aguilera. It was a normal July day—temperature in the mid-eighties, with the smell of freshly mown grass in the air and a few fluffy white clouds in the sky—the kind of day that made me wish I were in my convertible zipping along an open road, singing at the top of my lungs. That always boosted my spirits. Then again, so did seeing the pretty redbrick front of my flower shop, with its cheery yellow door in the middle, and pots of colorful geraniums and petunias on the sidewalk in front of the two bay windows.

A car was pulling out of a parking space across the street from Bloomers, on the courthouse side, so I nabbed the spot. I loved having a shop on the town square, where something was always happening. Today, all four streets around the square were crowded with shoppers who’d come out for the annual post-holiday sidewalk sales.

I got out of the car, slung my purse over my shoulder, and heard a male voice say, “Well, if it isn’t New Chapel’s hottest petal pusher.”

I looked around and there, like an angel from heaven, was Greg Morgan, who prided himself on being on top of every big case. As usual, he had on an ultrahip suit, probably Hugo Boss, with a crisp white shirt, paisley silk tie—my gaze dropped to his feet—and black sandals? Not quite a fit with his wholesome, boy-next-door image.

“If it isn’t New Chapel’s handsomest deputy prosecutor,” I responded, “and if you don’t believe me, ask him.”

“I hadn’t heard you’d turned into a stand-up comedian.” Morgan snapped his fingers. “I know what it is. You’re sore because I couldn’t be your escort for the wedding.”

“More than sore. I’m crushed. I may never recover. Cool sandals, by the way.”

“I thought they’d go well with the ankle wrap.” He lifted a pant leg to show me a thick Ace bandage wound around his lower limb. Two women walking past nearly dropped their shopping bags twirling around for a glimpse.

“I’ll bet you’ll start a fashion trend,” I said.

“Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding. I hear I missed a real firecracker of a reception.” Morgan chuckled, impressed with his own cleverness.

“Was that supposed to be a pun?”

“Only if you thought it was funny.”

“I’m not really a fan of murder-based humor.”

Morgan shrugged. “It was worth a try. Too bad the reception was ruined. Your cousin Jillian must have been beside herself.”

“She’ll recover. So, Greg,” I said sweetly, “what do you hear on the police investigation of the case?”

“Nothing yet,” he said, a calculating twinkle in his eye, “but possibly by six o’clock this evening I’ll know something. What do you say I make it up to you for missing the wedding by taking you to a fine Chicago restaurant?”

Time out. I’d suffered through a horrendous dinner with Morgan once before, and I wasn’t in a hurry to repeat the experience. However, he did have access to information I needed, so I decided lunch would be tolerable. But first I had to steer him away from that dinner date. “I’ve got a really heavy schedule and I’d hate to put you off, so why don’t we do lunch instead, like, say, today?”

“I can’t.” He checked his watch. “I have a trial starting in fifteen minutes and it’ll probably run late.”

“How about tomorrow?” I hated to sound desperate, but when it came to helping Grace I was willing to make sacrifices.

“That’ll work. Call my secretary and have her put you down for tomorrow.” Morgan liked to pretend he had his own staff, when actually all five deputy prosecutors shared one rather uppity and not-very-efficient receptionist-typist.

“One o’clock at Rosie’s?” I asked as he backed toward the courthouse.

“Should be fine. I’ll see you then.”

“Take care of your ankle,” I called. “I couldn’t survive being stood up twice.” Snickering to myself, I turned around and there was Marco.

He had parked his car by Lottie’s station wagon and was leaning against the hood, arms folded across his chest, watching me with an inscrutable look. I was certain he’d heard the last part of my conversation with Morgan, but I couldn’t tell what he thought of it. My face was burning as I joined him for the walk across the street. It was embarrassing to be caught groveling.

“Pumping him for information?” Marco asked.

“No. I was—flirting.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I
was
flirting,” I said, “so I could pump him.” We stopped in the middle of the street to let a van pass, then continued across. “It’s not like I’d flirt with Morgan for any other reason.”

“Didn’t you have a crush on him in high school?”

“Yeah, but I was young and stupid back then.”

Marco didn’t say a word.

I stopped on the sidewalk in front of Down the Hatch and said, “Okay, this is where you’re supposed to say ‘What do you mean, you were young
then
? You’re young
now
.’ ”

“I need to tell you that?”

“Be honest,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Do I look older than twenty-six going on twenty-seven?”

“There is no safe way to answer that question.”

Marco was right. There were more important matters at hand, anyway, such as convincing him to give me ideas on the quickest way to find Jack’s killer. I decided to start with the famous beating-around-the-bush strategy. “I had a fascinating interview with Richard Davis this morning.”

“For the purpose of?”

I blinked several times, my little brain cells trying to catch up with him. He was supposed to have let me rattle on for five minutes, telling him all about this fascinating interview so I could gradually work up to the purpose. Now that he had cut to the chase I had no choice but to ditch my not-so-clever strategy.

“For the purpose of finding out who killed Jack Snyder. And before you start lecturing me about the dangers of poking my nose into a murder investigation, Grace asked for my help, and when she asks for
my
help, you know it’s serious. But even if she hadn’t asked, I would still look into it just so I know Grace isn’t dating an ax murderer.” Having made my case, I folded my arms, pushed out my lower lip, and waited for his rebuttal.

Marco studied me, shaking his head. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not really, no.”

“I suppose you’ll need my help.”

“I’m sorry; I think I’m going deaf. Did you just offer to help?”

“After a fashion.”

“This is a trick, isn’t it?”

A group of restaurant patrons came out, laughing and talking, so we stepped aside. As soon as they’d passed, Marco said, “The way I look at it, trying to talk you out of getting involved would be a waste of time, and since I don’t want to see Grace hurt either, if you want my input I’m available.”

“Does this go on my payback list?”

I’ll make it a freebie.”

“In that case, wow. I don’t know what to say except, sure, I’d love some help.”

Marco glanced at his watch. “Have you eaten lunch?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Why don’t we meet here for a sandwich at one o’clock and you can tell me what your interview turned up.”

“It’s a deal.” I turned away smiling and practically skipped up the sidewalk.

Not a bad start for an abbreviated workweek: a fat check from Trudee, a payment due for Jillian’s wedding flowers, a lunch date with Marco, a dinner date with Lottie and Grace, and lunch tomorrow with Greg Morgan. Not a frozen pizza in sight. Life was good.

When I returned to Bloomers, Grace was busy with customers in the coffee parlor and Lottie was hard at work in back, so I tucked Trudee’s check in the cash drawer, made dinner reservations at Café Solé for the three of us, then called Greg Morgan’s number. The nasal-toned secretary answered on the fifth ring with her abrupt “Prosecutors’ office.”

“This is Abby Knight. Mr. Morgan wanted me to ask you to put a lunch meeting on his calendar.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

This was a ritual we went through every time I called. “No, I’m the florist, remember?”

“If I had remembered, I wouldn’t have asked,” she replied in a snippy tone.

Being the polite person my mother had raised me to be (regardless of what she said about my teenage years), I overlooked the attitude and said calmly, “Would you check his calendar for tomorrow at one o’clock?”

“He has a lunch meeting at one o’clock.”

“What about Thursday?”

“Golf outing.”

“Friday?”

“Jury trial.”

“Here’s a thought. Why don’t you tell me what day he’s free?”

There was a long pause, then she said, “Oh, wait a minute. I was looking at last week’s calendar. What day did you want?”

I started from the beginning, and—surprise—Wednesday was free. Muttering unkind thoughts, I hung up with Miss Sweetness and went back to join Lottie in the workroom, where I saw that six orders had come in during my absence: an arrangement for a kitchen table, a birthday bouquet of roses, and four flower baskets for Jack Snyder’s funeral, which were needed for an evening viewing at the Happy Dreams Funeral Home.

Lottie had finished three of the funeral flower baskets and had started the fourth, so I pulled supplies for the table arrangement and set to work. After all the red-white-and-blue themes I’d done over the past month, I was in the mood for something different, something yummy that would be perfect for a kitchen setting. I started with a papier-mâché pot, glued cinnamon sticks around it in vertical layers, put wet foam inside, then filled the pot with chocolate cosmos, black-eyed Susans, orange dahlias, and purple artichokes. Perfect.

I was just putting on the finishing touches when Grace poked her head through the curtain and asked anxiously, “Did you speak with Richard?”

“I sure did. He was very forthcoming.”

“Should we be worried about him?”

“No, you shouldn’t. I’d hate to second-guess the prosecutor before I have more information, but the case against Richard would be too circumstantial to make sense. I’ll know more after my lunch meeting with Greg Morgan tomorrow.”

“Thank you, dear. I feel much better.”

The doorbell jingled, announcing new customers, so Grace went out to take care of them.

“So you’ve got a date with our courthouse cutie,” Lottie said, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

“Not a date, just an informational meeting.” I had to be careful what I said to her about Morgan. Lottie had a crazy notion that he and I were meant for each other, and to prove her point she was always looking for ways to throw us together, certain that eventually we’d stick. Somehow it had escaped her attention that Morgan was already stuck on himself.

The phone rang and I heard Grace pick it up at the front counter. She hung up and came back to the workroom to say, “That was Richard. The police have just called him back for more questioning.”

“Routine procedure,” I assured her, crossing my fingers behind my back.