A drawer slammed shut, making us both jump. We looked over at Marco, who checked his watch, held up an index finger, and said, “I’m giving you exactly five minutes to explain—starting now.” The finger came down; the clock was ticking. “What evidence do the police have, and make it quick.”
“The murder weapon—a camera—with Flip’s fingerprints on it,” Jillian said.
“It’s his camera,” I added, “but he has a weak alibi.”
Marco grabbed a piece of paper and started to write. “Do you think he did it?”
“Absolutely not,” Jillian said. “ He’s just a sweet, harmless guy.” At Marco’s skeptical look she said, “No, really! Flip wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“You’d be surprised how often the police hear that remark.”
“We have other suspects,” I told Marco. “A bridesmaid who’s been carrying a grudge against the victim. Another groomsman who had his career kicked in the groin by the deceased. And possibly someone the victim has been bragging about seeing, but we don’t know who she is, or if she even exists.”
“She’s our mystery woman,” Jillian put in.
“Are you sure it’s a woman?” Marco asked her, still making notes.
Jillian looked taken aback. “Well, yes. Of course.”
“How do you know?” Marco retorted.
“Because I know Punch.”
“But not well enough to know who he was seeing.”
Jillian blinked at him.
Marco asked a few more questions, looked over his notes, then fixed his gaze on me. “Is there any way I can stop you from getting involved?”
I glanced at Jillian, who gave me an imploring look. Her next ploy would be to start with the baby talk, so I told Marco no before she embarrassed us both.
“I didn’t think so.” He drummed his fingers on the table, studying me. Finally he said, “If this were my case I’d start with the girlfriend. Find out if she exists or if it was just a case of male posturing. Remember what I told you about the missing groomsman? Apply it to Punch. Learn his interests. It’ll give you a clue where to look. Then I’d find out if the reclusive bridesmaid left the hotel any time last evening, and if she did, where she went. Start with the hotel staff. It could be that this bridesmaid is the one Punch was bragging about.”
“Not a chance,” Jillian said.
“Anything else?” I asked, making notes in my appointment book.
“Yes. Don’t tell anyone that you’re investigating.”
“So I can catch the murderer with his guard down?”
“So he doesn’t catch you with yours down.”
“Who has what down?” Jillian asked.
“No one has anything down,” I told her, tucking away my notes, “and it will stay that way as long as you don’t breathe another word about it. I know you’ve already blabbed to your mother because my mother knows, but that’s it, right? You haven’t told anyone else?”
“Does Claymore count?”
“Yes,” Marco said.
“What about Pryce?”
“He counts, too.”
“Bertie?”
I grabbed her arm. “
Everyone
counts, Jill.”
She sucked in air through her teeth. “Then we have a slight problem.”
“How many people did you tell?” Marco asked, and I could see his jaw grinding.
“Just three . . .” She paused to count on her fingers. “Six.”
Marco muttered an oath and shoved back his chair. “That’s it, Abby. You’re out of it.”
“I can’t be out of it unless I want to be out of money. Jill, let’s start with Punch’s hobbies. What did he like to do?”
“Work out. Lift weights. Hit a punching bag.”
“Then I should check with the gyms first. He might have purchased a guest pass.” I glanced at Marco. “Am I right?”
“Don’t look at me. I’m not going to encourage something that might get you hurt.”
“Fine. Come on,” I said to Jill. “This is your idea. You can go with me.”
She checked the slender gold watch on her wrist. “Can’t. Sorry. I have to meet the girls for a shopping trip. My bridal shower is this Sunday and I need something to wear.”
“Heaven forbid I mess up your priorities.”
Marco took each of us by the elbow and guided us to his door.
“What about the picnic?” I asked, pointing to the abandoned heap on the floor. He firmly assured me he’d take care of it. Anything to get us out of his office.
“Don’t forget,” he said, just before he shut his door. “You owe me roses—for a week.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, pounding on the wood. “You didn’t win. I never asked for your help. Not once.”
There was silence on the other side of the door.
“I’m leaving,” Jill said, and started up the hall.
“Don’t burn up your credit card.”
I waited until she was gone, then I raised my fist to knock again, but the door opened suddenly. “You’re right,” Marco said. “I owe you dinner. How’s Saturday night?”
Something was fishy. He gave in too fast. “Saturday night is fine. What’s the catch?”
“Your apartment.”
“Why my apartment?”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Nikki might be there.”
“Get her a date.”
I liked the way he thought.
When I entered Bloomers, Lottie was waiting on a middle-aged woman buying a miniature, six-paned black window frame I had whitewashed with lime and decorated with sheet moss, green silk ivy, and pink tea roses. As the woman counted bills from her wallet, she kept giving my mother’s coatrack wary glances, as if afraid the green palms were going to pluck the money right out of her fingers.
“What
is
that?” she asked, clutching her purchase to her chest.
“A coatrack”—I patted one of the palms to show it meant her no harm—“made by a local artist of some note.”
She felt for the doorknob with one hand. “How nice,” she said and backed out in a hurry.
“We need to get rid of it,” I told Lottie. “It’s scaring the customers.”
“Down to the basement?”
The basement was our place of last resort, the graveyard of unsold Maureen Knight creations. But I hated to bury the tree without giving it a proper mourning period, so, after studying it from two angles I said, “Let’s give it a few more days. If it hasn’t sold by next Wednesday, down it goes.” Sometimes one had to show no mercy.
“On a positive note, four funeral orders came in,” Lottie told me. She had long ago come to terms with someone else’s tragedy paying her bills. I was still learning to deal with it. “We need to get them down to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home by five o’clock. And I saw on your calendar that you have a manicure at one.”
My manicure! In the chaos from the previous evening I’d forgotten all about the Emperor’s Spa. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly twelve thirty. “I was supposed to trade lunch hours with Grace. Now she has another reason to hate me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Lottie called, heading back to the workroom. “But she’s miffed that you felt the need to hide this investigation from her. I heard her muttering some quote about deception.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how miffed did she sound?”
Lottie emerged with her bright pink vinyl purse. “Where would you rank disappointment?”
“Eleven.” Miffed I could handle, but I hated to disappoint Grace. It was like wounding Mother Theresa. What I needed was a quote in my own defense. I’d have to put my father on it. That was exactly the kind of task he liked to do. “This is Grace’s fault,” I told Lottie. “If she wouldn’t keep insisting that I’m meddling, I wouldn’t have to hide anything from her.”
“You keep right on shifting that blame, sweetie.” Lottie patted my shoulder. “Have to dash. I promised Herman I’d meet him at the deli for a sandwich.”
Herman was Lottie’s teddy bear of a husband. He’d had major heart surgery over a year ago and had racked up huge medical bills, which was why Lottie’d had to sell Bloomers. With Herman unable to go back to his job at the steel mill, Lottie hadn’t been able to afford to pay his bills, keep the shop running, and buy health insurance for both of them.
“How is Herman?” I asked.
She paused at the door. “Lately he gets so winded he can barely get around. It makes me worry, you know? I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.” Her chin was trembling and she was getting teary eyed just talking about it. Lottie came off as an outspoken, tough-as-nails woman, but underneath she was pink cotton candy. She loved her husband of thirty-two years with an intensity of which most men only dream.
“Never mind me,” she said, sniffling and trying to smile at the same time.
“Herman is tough. He’ll be fine.” I truly hoped so, anyway.
As soon as Lottie was gone, I called my father, who spent much of his day at his computer doing genealogy research about the Knights for a book he planned to write someday.
“Hey, Dad, how fast can you find a quote about not being totally forthcoming with the truth?”
“You mean lying?”
I winced. “More like withholding information.”
“Time me,” he said. “And for the record, I’m not in favor of this murder investigation.”
“Ticktock,” I reminded him.
Within three minutes he had one. “Here it is,” he said. “A quote by Margaret Thatcher. ‘You don’t tell deliberate lies, but sometimes you have to be evasive.’ ”
“Perfect. And from a Brit to boot. You’re amazing, Dad.” I made smooching noises and hung up. Nothing like fighting fire with fire. Blame shifter, indeed.
While I waited for Grace to return and/or a customer to walk through the door, I cut Punch’s and Flip’s photos from the newspaper and tucked them into my purse. They would come in handy for questioning potential witnesses. Then I flipped through the phone book looking for local gyms. I phoned two, but neither had any record of a man fitting Punch’s description registering as a guest.
At the third gym, the young man who answered wasn’t sure whether he should give me that information, so I asked to speak with someone who was sure and was put on hold. A woman picked up at last, and after I told her what I was looking for, I could almost hear her shudder.
“Oh, yes. I remember him. Please don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours.”
“Not a problem.”
“That’s good news. What an abusive jackass he was. I left orders he was not to be issued a guest pass again. I refuse to have my female staffers treated with such disrespect.”
“I doubt he’ll be coming back. He was murdered yesterday.”
There was a long pause and then she said somberly, “You know, I hate to say this about any living being, but I’m not sorry.”
“It seems not many people are. Did he come in or leave with anyone?”
“No, but he did go on and on about this hot date who just couldn’t keep her hands off him. Kept calling her his little passion flower. Made me want to puke. Who are you, by the way?”
“A private investigator.” Which was not a lie. I
was
investigating privately.
The bell over the door jingled, and Grace walked in. “Thanks for your time,” I said quickly and hung up, bracing myself for a lecture on deception.
“Sorry I forgot about switching lunch hours,” I said sheepishly as she took off her straw hat and tucked her bag under the counter.
“I understand, dear,” she said. “It’s a difficult task, isn’t it?”
I knew I was stepping into it, but I had to ask, “What’s a difficult task?”
“Keeping your stories straight.”
And the batter steps up to the plate.
Grace peered into a silver-framed mirror on one wall to adjust the collar of her blouse. “I want you to know, dear, that you need never feel obligated to discuss your decisions with me. Whether I approve of your meddling or not is beside the point.”
“It’s not meddling, but thank you anyway,” I said, relieved to have gotten off so lightly.
“The point is, rather,” she said, turning to fix me with her wise gaze, “to have integrity.”
Grace swings and hits.
“And one cannot help but consider Sir Walter Scott’s infamous words, ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.’ ”
It’s a grand slam!
Okay, Abby, show her what you’re made of. Drive it home, baby.
I cleared my throat, Margaret Thatcher’s words on the tip of my tongue. And that’s where they stayed, because I couldn’t force them out. I had already disappointed Grace. Could I steal her glory, too?
“I just want you to know,” I said, slinging my purse over my shoulder, “I’m helping Jillian for very good reasons and not because I want to meddle in her affairs. In fact, Jillian’s affairs are the last place I’d want to meddle.”
“As I said, there’s no need to justify your decision. It’s enough that you’re no longer trying to cover it up. I would hope if any lesson came out of Washington D.C. in recent years, it would be that a cover-up rarely works. Actually, I believe you’ve done the right thing in agreeing to help your cousin.”
“I have?”
“She’s family, after all, and family members should always be there for each other.”
I hadn’t thought of that reason. But as long as Grace had, I was in the clear and looking pretty good.
“But that scratching simply must stop or those bites will leave scars. Promise me you’ll try an oatmeal bath tonight.”
“Promise,” I said and started for the door, late for my manicure.
“And don’t forget the other promise you made.”
“I made another promise?”
“To Marco,” she said, “about not meddling at the Emperor’s Spa. You do remember making that promise, don’t you?”
I was trying my best not to. When curiosity takes the reins, it’s nearly impossible to get that horse to stop.
I pulled the Vette into the lot of the First Impressions Hair Salon and parked in a space facing the Emperor’s Spa lot. As before, there were no cars in front, the spa’s windows were covered, yet there was an OPEN sign propped in a window. At the rear of the old house was what appeared to be a newly completed room addition. The siding on that section was much whiter, and there were piles of dark gray roof shingles waiting to be installed. It made me think that, despite the house’s shabby outward appearance, business was booming on the inside.