To Catch a Leaf (13 page)

“You didn't say why you needed the roses,” I said, following her through the shop.

“I'm using your method of getting inside a place when someone doesn't trust you.”

“Your client doesn't trust you?”

She stopped at the door to put on her tortoiseshell sunglasses. “Nordstrom.”

“Someone at Nordstrom doesn't trust you?”

“Let's just leave it at Nordstrom.”

With Jillian, it was always better to quit while you were ahead. Speaking of which, I had to cover that bald head in flowers and get it back in the window in case Mom decided to stop by after school. I even had a floral scheme in mind, so I set quickly to work.

For the hair, I used
Amaranthus caudatus
, or green tails, and
Myosotis alpestris
, or alpine forget-me-nots. For the eyes, a dainty blue flower with a yellow center. For the nose, a bleeding heart blossom, and for the mouth, a lip-shaped petal of Cattleya Chocolate Drop. When her makeover was finished, I turned Miss Sea 3PO around to view her from all sides. “You, Missy, are a real
eye
-catcher. Let's hope Mom approves.”

 

The flower shop was busy when Grace returned, so we had time for only a brief conference at the cashier counter, where she summarized the meeting with the detective as intense and unsettling. Detective Al Corbi-son had tried every trick in the detective handbook to get Grace to say she knew ahead of time about Constance's plan to make her guardian, but under Dave Hammond's steady counsel, Grace maintained her innocence and her composure.

“Are they done with you now?” Lottie asked.

“They told me to stay in town,” Grace said with a sigh, “and we know what that means. I'm exceedingly relieved that you and Marco will be conducting your own investigation, Abby.”

“I am, too, Grace. Make sure you let me know the minute you hear anything, okay?”

“Absolutely, love. And on a cheery note, you've completely transformed Miss Sea 3PO. She looks lovely now. I could see her in the window as I crossed the street. How are you managing to keep Simon away from her?”

“I don't think he cares for the taste of
Amaranthus caudatus
.”

“Where
is
Simon?” Grace asked.

I glanced around but didn't see him. So while my assistants waited on customers, I set off on a cat hunt, checking first the parlor, then obvious hiding spots in the shop, and finally the workroom. As I walked around the far side of the large worktable, I stepped on a pile of dirt. Crouching down, I found Simon sitting in the middle of a bag of potting soil that he had split open with his sharp little claws. He meowed innocently when he saw me, then got up, stretched, and shook his fur, sending dirt flying in all directions, including into my face.

Exploring further, I discovered that not only had he ripped open a bag of soil, but he'd also gotten into my green foam, which was sticking to the ends of his fur.

“Simon, what am I going to do with you?”

He rubbed his forehead against mine, purring loudly. With an exasperated sigh, I went for the broom and dustpan, and as soon as I'd cleaned up the mess, I texted Nikki:
Please find a home for the cat soon.

She texted back:
No replies to my ads yet. Sorry. You did mean Tabitha, right?

I decided not to reply until I was in a better mood.

 

At noon, Marco and I left for the Newport estate located outside the town limits across the northernmost border of New Chapel. I brought along a bouquet of yellow daisies, purple anemone, and white spider mums in case we needed to coax a reluctant witness to talk.

The magnificent black and gold wrought-iron gates were open, to my surprise, so we drove up the tree-lined brick driveway until it split. The right fork led to a drive that circled in front of the enormous residence; the left fork led along the side of the house to the ten-car garage in back. I gaped at the mansion as Marco passed it, heading toward the garage.

Looking like something out of a movie set, the brown-brick three-story mansion, with wings on either side, had a high slate roof with eight dormers across the front, ten chimney stacks, a stone facade on the entrance, and a wide portico to shade the shiny black front door. The garage was a slightly smaller version of the house, with the same brick and stone construction, same slate roof with dormers, but only two stories high.

Marco pulled up behind a rental truck that was backed up to the first bay, where an attractive guy in a white T-shirt, tight-fitting jeans, and blue athletic shoes was carrying a large cardboard box up a ramp.

“Let's get to it,” Marco said, shutting off the engine. I left the bouquet on the floor and followed him around to the back of the truck.

“Afternoon,” Marco said to the guy, as he came striding down the ramp.

“Hey,” he replied with a nod. “If you're looking for the appraiser, he's already at work. You'll find him in the art gallery.”

Marco opened his wallet to show his ID. “We're private investigators. I'm Marco Salvare. This is Abby Knight.”

“Guy Luce. What are you investigating?”

Did that really need explaining? “Your employer's death,” I said.

Guy scratched his ear. “Aren't the cops doing that?”

“We were hired privately,” Marco said. “Got a minute to help us with some details?”

“I don't know, man. I'm kinda in a hurry.”

“We won't keep you long,” Marco said.

Guy eyed him skeptically. “You look familiar.”

“Maybe you've seen me at Down the Hatch. It's my place.”

“Sure. That's it. Hey. Nice to meet you.” Guy shook his hand, suddenly at ease. “Come on inside.”

We followed him into the first bay, where I saw stacks of cardboard boxes waiting to be loaded. I glanced down the long building and saw several expensive autos sitting in bays, including a black Mercedes-Benz, a highly polished green Bentley, and a black Rolls-Royce. At the far end were two more cars, but they were so far away I could only guess at their make.

Guy stepped inside a storage closet at the back of the bay and removed three folding chairs. He handed Marco one and set up the other two so we could sit. Then he went back to a small refrigerator beside the closet and called, “Beer or soft drink?”

“Neither, thanks,” we said in unison. While Guy took a beer for himself, Marco motioned for me to take notes, so I pulled out a small black notebook and pen.

“I've been packing all day,” Guy said, sitting down with a weary sigh. He placed the cold beer can against his forehead, under a lock of dark brown hair, then opened the can, tilted his head back, and took a long drink.

Grace had pegged him as twenty-seven, though he seemed much younger than that. But he certainly fit his nickname of Gorgeous Guy. He had lots of thick brown hair, nicely shaped brown eyebrows, big blue eyes, and features that were almost too perfect. I didn't get any bad vibes from him, but I reserved my final judgment for later.

“Are you moving out?” Marco asked.

He shrugged. “No reason for me to stay now.”

“You were Constance Newport's chauffeur, right?” Marco asked.

“And mechanic. I've even got a motto. ‘Guy the Driver Guy. Luce-limbed but not loose-tongued.' Luce is my last name. Get it?
Luce
-limbed?”

“That's clever,” I said, writing
lame
after his motto.

Guy beamed. “Thanks.”

“I understand the Bentley is yours now,” Marco said.

He smiled with delight. “Can you believe it? A Bentley Continental GTZ. Want to have a look?” He jumped up and motioned for us to follow. “She's awesome.”

He strode to the deluxe vehicle and lifted the hood so we could see inside, talking about it with something akin to reverence. “It's got dual KKK Turbochargers, with four valves for each cylinder. Six hundred bhp, a six-speed automatic transmission, cast-alloy twenty-inch wheels with carbon discs, and Pirelli P-Zero tires. Isn't she awesome?”

I gave up trying to get all that info in my notes, and just wrote
tricked-out Bentley.

“How much does something like this cost?” Marco asked.

“Two hundred thousand plus change, brand-new,” Guy announced proudly. “I still can't believe she's all mine. Mrs. Constance told me she was gonna leave it to me, but come on! Leaving a car like this to her driver? Who does that?”

“Then you didn't believe her?” Marco asked.

“I guess I should have. Mrs. Constance wasn't the kind to go back on her word.”

“When did she tell you?” I asked.

“Maybe three weeks ago. She just walked out here one day and told me. Like, ‘By the way, Luce, I'm leaving you my Bentley.'” He shook his head, as though he still hadn't recovered from the shock.

Guy knew he was going to get the car. Was that enough of a reason to kill her?

“Your employer was a generous woman,” I said.

“She was awesome. You should see my apartment. All the best appliances, flat-screen TV . . . Man, I love my job.”

At that, he seemed to sober. “I mean, I
loved
my job. I'm not sure what I'll do now. I had planned to work for Mrs. Constance until I had enough saved to become a race-car driver, but I've been asked to leave.”

“You could sell the Bentley,” I said.

He shut the hood, then used the hem of his T-shirt to wipe off his fingerprints. “I couldn't do that. Mrs. Constance gave it to me. That means a lot. I guess I'll try to find a mechanic's shop that needs an extra hand.”

Marco asked, “How do you feel about your employer's death being ruled a homicide?”

“I can't understand why anyone would want to, you know, do that to her. It ain't right. Mrs. Constance could be really bossy, but that was her right. She called all the shots because she had the money.”

I wrote:
No bad vibes. Seems genuinely sad about Constance's death.

“Mind if we sit down again?” Marco asked.

After we'd resumed our seats, Marco asked, “What do you remember about your employer's movements Monday morning?”

Guy rocked back on his chair, thinking. “Mrs. Constance usually gets a manicure at nine o'clock every Monday morning, but this Monday she said she wouldn't need me.”

“What time did she tell you?” Marco asked.

“Around eight thirty. I was already out here shining up the car for her, so I started working on my Harley instead.”

“Is that your Harley?” Marco asked, pointing to a black motorcycle at the back of the second bay.

“That's it. I'm rebuilding it. Got it for a steal, man. I like to work on it in my spare time.”

“You worked on your Harley all morning?” Marco asked.

“And straight through my lunch hour. Then right after that, two cops came out here and told me they needed to question me.”

“Do you know why your employer canceled her manicure?” Marco asked.

Guy shrugged. “She didn't say.”

“Was it unusual for her to cancel her appointment?” I asked.

“She was kind of particular about her fingernails,” Guy said, “so yeah, it was unusual.”

“What was her mood like? Did she seem happy? Anxious? Nervous?” Marco asked.

Guy smoothed his hair down over his forehead as he thought. “Not nervous. Not happy either. I guess you could say that she wasn't in the best of moods.”

“How did she show her mood?” Marco asked.

“Well,” he said, thinking, “she kind of made this thing with her mouth, kind of twisted her lips to one side as she talked. That meant she wasn't pleased.”

“Because of something you did?” Marco asked.

“No,” Guy said, “it wasn't me because she smiled at me. But then right away she made that mouth. I'd say she was in a bad mood when she came to tell me.”

“Can you think of any reason why she might have been in a bad mood?” I asked.

Guy's gaze moved to the floor as he shook his head, as though he didn't want to look me in the eye. It was one of those signals Marco had taught me to watch for, a red flag.

“Take your time,” Marco said. “This could be important.”

Again he said no, his gaze still on the floor. Guy Luce took his motto seriously, because loose-tongued he was not.

I could see by the way Marco studied Guy that he was trying to figure out a way to get the chauffeur to open up. To Marco, it was a chess game, so I leaned back to watch the match.

CHAPTER TEN

“W
hat family members were at home at eight thirty Monday morning?” Marco asked. He was obviously going after the information from a different angle.