A Rose From the Dead (17 page)

T
hat anxious flutter turned into a rapid pounding. “Are the cops sure it was Sybil’s rose?”

“They’re checking her DNA against epithelials from the stem. The new theory is that Delilah wiped off her fingerprints with the smock, then hid the rose inside and disposed of both.”

“That’s crazy. Delilah wouldn’t have taken Sybil’s rose, and she certainly wouldn’t have put it in her own smock to get rid of it. She’d be incriminating herself.”

“Look at it from the detectives’ point of view, Sunshine. If Delilah shut Sybil in the coffin, then she’d be in a hurry to hide or clean anything she handled and get out of the storage room before she was discovered. So she would use whatever was handy—her own smock, if necessary—then ditch it outside the building, where, hopefully, it wouldn’t be found.”

“Has anyone thought of the possibility that Delilah was set up?”

“How would the killer know that Delilah would be in the storage room at six o’clock? Or that she would leave her smock there? I think Sybil’s death was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Someone shoved her down inside the casket and slammed the lid, then quickly looked for a way to cover his tracks.”

“I hate to say this again, but the way you describe it, I sure don’t see it as an Urban prank. Then again, who else would dress the dummy in Sybil’s clothing?”

“Someone who wanted the cops to think it was the Urbans.”

“Who but Ross and Jess would take the chance of being caught?”

“Hold on a minute. I’m at the back exit. I’m going outside to take a look at something.”

While I waited for Marco to return, I paced down to aisle one and back, nervously glancing at my watch. The afternoon was passing quickly, and we still had no solid leads. I couldn’t help but worry that the contents of the envelope would produce a dead end.

I turned around to see whether Grace was still having coffee with the colonel, but their table was empty. I turned to glance at our booth, but only Lottie was there. Where had Grace gone?

“Well, that answers my question,” Marco said. “There’s one video I wasn’t able to view because I ran out of time. It’s from a camera positioned at the back exit that I was hoping could show us who put the smock in the trash can. But I just checked and the trash can is around the corner. There’s no way the camera could view it.”

“Okay, now I’m really worried, Marco. If whatever is inside that envelope doesn’t point to someone besides Delilah, what are we going to do?”

“Don’t panic yet. The video of the back exit will still show who used that door yesterday evening. The only problem is that I can’t view that video until the manager takes his dinner break.”

“That still won’t help Delilah. She left the building to go out to the van for more glue, remember? She’ll be on the tape.”

“And so will everyone else who used the door. Hopefully one of the Urbans will show up on it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Let’s not cross that bridge yet.”

“We’d better open the envelope soon, Marco. It’s already after two o’clock.”

“How about in five minutes?”

“That works for me. Where are you now?”

“Turn around.”

I swung around and there at the Starbucks counter was Marco, in his black leather jacket, snug blue jeans, and black boots, that gorgeous male, who, under normal circumstances, rang my chimes. Today, unfortunately, I wasn’t hearing the music.

A few moments later he came toward me carrying a tray with four coffees on it. “I thought we could all use a little pick-me-up.”

“You’ve got a spare one, then. Grace isn’t here.”

Lottie saw us coming and jumped up to meet us. “Bless your heart, Marco,” she said, removing the lid from her cup to inhale the fragrant aroma. “I was starting to fall asleep.”

“Starting?” I reached for a cup. “You were snoring soundly about ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve never snored a day in my life. And where did Gracie rush off to?”

“She had a coffee date with the colonel, or I guess I should say the
captain,
because, as it turns out, he’s not a colonel after all.”

“What?” Marco said, looking seriously disappointed.

“Grace found out that the esteemed Colonel Billingsworth never made it above captain. So now she thinks that because he lied about his rank, he should be investigated. She’s off playing detective right now to prove she’s right.”

At my eye roll, Lottie said, “Don’t discount Grace. She’s a smart gal. Look at her careers—nurse, legal secretary, school librarian. Our Grace isn’t a dummy, that’s for sure.”

“She isn’t a detective, either,” I reminded Lottie.

“She could be if she set her mind to it.”

“Grace could be a bagpipe player, too, but that doesn’t mean she’s cut out for it. After all, PI work is dangerous. It takes someone who’s young and agile. Right, Marco?”

“Actually, ninety-five percent of the work is done sitting behind a computer, researching and following paper trails. Pretty dull stuff.”

“Thanks for the assistance,” I muttered.

“Why don’t you want Grace to help you, sweetie?” Lottie asked. “You haven’t minded asking her to do research for you.”

Marco perched on a corner of the table and sipped his brew, watching me with amused eyes. “Yes, tell us, Abby.”

“I’m getting a little tired of everyone harping on this subject.”

Lottie held a hand to the side of her mouth to say to Marco, “That’s what people say when they don’t have an answer.”

“I have an answer,” I said testily.
Just not a good one.

“Let’s hear it,” Lottie said.

“Okay. Here it is. I don’t think it’s becoming for Grace to snoop.”

Lottie threw back her head and let loose with a big laugh. “Becoming? See, if I was Grace, I’d have a fancy quote for you on that lame excuse. Since I’m not, I’m gonna pass on my mama’s favorite saying. ‘What a load of beetle dung.’”

At that moment Angelique returned to her booth, pushing a cart on which she had placed her harp. Ever the gentleman, Marco put down his cup and slid off the table to go help her. “I’ll be back in two minutes. Settle this while I’m gone, okay?”

Lottie put her coffee aside and leaned toward me. “You want to give me an honest answer now that your honey bun is gone?”

“I gave you my answer.”

“You gave me
an
answer. Now give me the real one. You know you can tell me anything. Between my four hell-raising sons and my own misspent youth, I’ve heard it all, seen it all, and done it all. Nothing will surprise me.”

“Your misspent youth?”

“I’m a product of the seventies, Abby. A member of the radical, bra-burning, pot-smoking, protesting, hear-me-roar generation.”

Thinking of the forty-two dollars I had just plunked down for a decent underwire, I said, “I can’t believe you burned a bra.”

“It was symbolic, to show how we were going to turn the world on its ear by defying the stuffy conventions of our parents. Oh, yeah, we were something back then.” She sighed wistfully, as though she couldn’t believe she had once been that rebellious. Then she patted the chair next to her. “Confession time, sweetie. Put your buns down here.”

I wavered between sticking to my lame answer and being up front about my selfishness. Finally, I sank down beside her and put my head in my hands. “I know I’m being totally self-centered, but I’m afraid Grace will solve the case.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“She
always
succeeds, Lottie.” I felt so horrible admitting it that I wanted to crunch myself into a ball and fall into a trash can. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Lottie put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I get what you’re trying to say. You’re afraid that if Grace succeeds, then you’ve failed.”

“Again.”

“Sweetie, you know that’s not true.”

“Think about Grace’s past. How many women can go from being an army nurse to a horse walker to a tattoo artist to a school librarian to a legal secretary and succeed at all of them? Then there’s me. I was a complete flop at learning to play the piano, I wasn’t coordinated enough to be a cheerleader, I couldn’t hack math or science so I had to forget about med school and try law instead, and I couldn’t cut it there, either. Now I finally find a career I love, yet it’s a constant struggle to keep Bloomers operating in the black. But I
have
helped solve five murder cases, and I’m learning more with each one. If Grace solves this case with no training, then what does that say about me? What will Marco think?”

“Abby, everybody fails sometime or another. If you want to talk about failure, take a gander at yours truly. Remember, you bailed me out when you assumed the mortgage for Bloomers. And I’ll bet if we asked Grace, she’d have plenty of stories about her own goof-ups. As for your being selfish, I think it has more to do with your self-image. You have to erase that little mental neon sign on your forehead that says ‘Loser’ and replace it with one that says ‘Not afraid to try.’ You know that’s how we see you, don’t you? And how Marco sees you?”

“Really?” I felt a sting of tears beneath my eyelids and quickly scrubbed them away. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but if I hadn’t tried the piano, or cheerleading, or even law school, how would I know whether I could do them or not? One thing I’d never been was spineless.

“Let’s borrow one of Gracie’s sayings and not put the cart before the horse,” Lottie said. “Just because Grace is trying to help solve the case doesn’t mean she’s gonna be able to do it by herself. Just focus on helping Delilah and let the rest take care of itself.”

“You’re right. We’ve got less than three hours before the convention ends and our suspects leave, and we’re not any closer to finding Sybil’s killer.”

“Then let’s stop gibber-jabbering and get a move on.”

I hugged Lottie. She didn’t have Grace’s eloquence, but she had the mothering instinct down pat.

As Marco returned from his goodwill mission, Lottie said, “I’m guessing the Urbans didn’t show up for the memorial service. I saw them buzz past the aisle about an hour ago, pushing a casket on wheels.”

“The casket races! Oh, no. I forgot about them.” I glanced at my watch, then hopped up. “They started ten minutes ago, Marco. We need to get out there. That would be a great place to corner Ross about his alibi.”

“We can’t do it now. We have an urgent date with an envelope.” Marco patted his jacket. “Grab your coffee and let’s go.”

I picked up my cup and gave Lottie a sheepish smile. “Do you mind? I know it’s kind of boring for you here.”

“Course not. I’m doing my part to help Delilah, too.” She pulled a paperback out of her purse and patted it. “I’ve got my coffee and a romance novel. What else do I need?”

Marco had arranged with the security manager to use an empty hotel room on the second floor, right next to the elevators, one of the least desirable rooms because of the noise and lack of view. But it had a steam iron, a VCR/DVD machine, and a television, and that was all we cared about. Marco used a key card to get inside; then he made sure the door was double-locked while I filled the iron with water in the bathroom.

As I waited for the iron to heat, my cell phone began to vibrate. I glanced at the name on the screen, grimaced, then tucked it away.

“Your parents?” Marco asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Reilly.”

“Reilly? Why didn’t you answer it?”

“Because he’s being a pest. This is the third time he’s called in the last hour.”

“Don’t you think you should find out why he keeps calling?”

“I know why. He thinks he saw me on the fourth floor earlier. This iron sure is taking a long time to heat up. I wonder if it’s broken.”

“Back up a minute.
Did
Reilly see you up there?”

“He saw a woman who
didn’t
look like me because she was wearing a wig.” In the mirror above the sink I saw a flicker of skepticism in Marco’s expression and I smiled to myself. He was just going to have to accept that I was fully capable of handling these little emergencies. I licked my fingertip, then touched it to the iron’s sole plate. “Ouch. It’s working.”

“Wait a minute. You took one of Sybil’s wigs out of the closet?”

“I needed a quick disguise. Clever, wasn’t it?”

“That depends. Where’s the wig now?”

“Wrapped in paper towels and buried in a trash can in the women’s restroom near the bar. No worries, mate. Everything’s under control. Abby Knight is on the job.”

“I get nervous when you say that. Let’s go back to why you needed the wig.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Remember when you had to leave Sybil’s suite to go watch the videos and you asked if I could put the police tape back? Well, as it turned out, the couple in the next suite, Alicia and Walt Tyler—they sat at our table at the banquet, remember?—returned before I got the tape off their door.”

“Damn, Abby, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because it wasn’t a problem. I took care of it. When the Tylers left to call security from the hotel’s house phone, I put on Sybil’s wig, switched the police tape, and ducked down the stairs. Done and done. It just so happened that Reilly was coming out of the elevator with the security manager when I was going into the stairwell, but he really didn’t get much more than a glimpse of my face, and most of it was hidden under that heavy wig.”