Dearly Depotted (19 page)

I set the carton on a high bookshelf and went to grab the cordless phone on the end table, only to find the handset missing. Since Nikki had a habit of carrying the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she walked around, it was anyone’s guess where she’d left it. She also managed to lose the TV remote on a regular basis. I kept telling her it was a good thing we were best friends because otherwise I’d have to kill her.

I ran to the kitchen and picked up the phone there just as our answering machine kicked on. “I’m here,” I cried over the sound of Nikki and me saying in unison, “Leave a number. If you’re lucky we’ll get back to you.”

As soon as the beep sounded I heard Marco’s sexy voice say, “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I tried to give him a carefree laugh, but it came out as more of a sneer. “Everything is great. Why?”

“You left the bar without saying good-bye.”

He’d actually noticed? “I had things to do, and you seemed”—I had to inhale in order to finish the sentence—“busy.”

I’d thought that would make him come clean about the mystery woman but I was wrong.

“Yeah, I’ve got this thing I’ve got to deal with. But I found something interesting on Richard Davis,” he said. “Are you free to talk?”

Was that his way of asking if Pryce was there? Or was I reading too much into his words, hoping for a little counterjealousy? I decided not to give him a direct answer—just in case—and sat down on the kitchen floor with my legs folded yoga-style and my back against the cabinets. “Tell me about Richard.”

“For starters, he’s not the model citizen you think he is.”

I got an uncomfortable flutter in my stomach that always foretold bad news. “He’s not?”

“I’m holding a copy of his arrest record.”

“He has an arrest record?” The flutter grew stronger. “Please tell me it was a traffic violation.”

“Not exactly. Try murder one.”

 

 

 

 

M
y head thunked against the hard wood of the cabinet as that flutter turned into a full-blown stomach clench. Grace’s beau had been arrested on a murder charge. She was dating a possible killer.

“Are you okay?” Marco asked.

“I think my brain just crashed. Was Richard acquitted? Did he jump bail? Is he on the lam?”

“Let me tell you what I have. This is a report from the NCIC—the National Crime Information Center. Basically, it’s an FBI rap sheet, and it shows that Davis was arrested in Texas three years ago for killing a man. What it doesn’t show is the outcome of the case.”

“So we don’t know if he was found innocent or not?”

“No, we don’t. I’ll have to try to reach the detective who was in charge. Keep your fingers crossed he’s still around.”

“What should I tell Grace?”

“Nothing. Listen to me, sunshine; you can’t say a word about this to anyone. It would put my source in jeopardy. Besides, you don’t want to alarm Grace before we have all the facts, and you certainly don’t want to let Davis know you know. That could put
you
at risk.”

I scoffed at the notion of Richard doing me harm. “He and I talked at some length, Marco, and I didn’t get a bad feeling about him.”

“Yeah, well, remember this. Whatever he did or didn’t do, he
was
arrested for murder.”

“Then how do I
not
say anything to Grace?”

“By pressing your lips together.”

“I’m going to need a staple gun.”

“Do what you have to do.”

“On the other hand,” I said, tucking my feet under me, “maybe Grace knows. I mean, think about it. Richard is aware that he’s a suspect. He has to figure the police will dig into his past. He might have wanted to prepare her ahead of time.”

“You’re not off the hook. You still can’t say anything. Anyway, I’m not so sure he would tell Grace. It would depend upon how close they are. I doubt the police will do anything about the information until they know more anyway, but at least now you know why they’ve zeroed in on him.”

“You know what this murder charge could mean, Marco? That the cops will ignore their other suspects and focus solely on Richard. And that would be a huge mistake.” I got to my feet because my toes were cramping. “Remember Vince Vogel? Okay, listen to this and tell me if it doesn’t set off any alarms in your head. First, we have Claymore’s grandmother, who saw a person in a white coat near the back of the building minutes before she found the body. Second, we have Vince Vogel, a butcher who wore a beige suit to the wedding, who left just after the ceremony, and who, by the way, swings a mean hatchet. FYI, beige can look almost white at night under the right light.”

“A valid point. Go ahead.”

“Third, Vince still harbors quite a grudge against Jack. And last, he gave me a package of beef ribs—free of charge.”

I waited, but there was only silence on the other end. “So what do you think, Marco? Any alarms going off?”

“Sorry, sunshine; what you have is circumstantial, and before you argue that point, think about the number of guests who were dressed in light-colored jackets that night, including Richard Davis. Add to that the fact that it was dark outside, and Claymore’s grandmother is ninety years old. Do you really trust her night vision?”

“So you don’t hear any alarms?”

“No. I’d have to classify this as mildly interesting.”

“I don’t know, Marco. My alarm has never been wrong before . . . Actually, it’s more of a buzz—but no matter, don’t you think you could at least run this information past the police on the off chance it will help Richard?”

“I’m sure they’ve checked Vince’s story out, but if it will make you happy, I’ll mention it to Reilly.”

“It would make me ecstatic . . . Wait. Did you say Reilly? I thought Detective Williams had taken over the case.”

“Nah. Reilly is still the go-to man.”

I fumed. The go-to man had lied to me. “Were you able to find out anything on Josiah Turner?”

“He’s clean. One traffic ticket years ago. That reminds me. When are you going out to see him?”

“Tomorrow, if I can.”

“If you want company, just ask. I’ll be glad to go along.”

Did your other company desert you?
that jealous little wag in my head wanted me to say. But I didn’t, so we hung up on a good note.

When I returned to the living room, Simon was sitting on the sofa, calmly cleaning his face—and my container of ice cream was missing from the shelf. I looked around and found it and the spoon beneath the coffee table.

“Bad, bad boy,” I called, shaking my index finger at him. He paused to give me a look that said,
Who? Me?

Luckily, the frozen dessert hadn’t had time to melt onto the carpet. I got a clean spoon and started to dig in, then peered into the carton for a closer look. Were those tongue marks? Was that fur stuck to the sides?

“You little thief,” I yelled. “You ate my ice cream.” In response, Simon took off down the hallway, probably to seek asylum with the dust bunny brigade under Nikki’s bed.

“You are
so
banned from this room!” I took the container into the kitchen and turned it upside down in the sink, letting the ice cream melt into the drain. I didn’t see Simon the rest of the evening. I’m sure he and the troops were under the bed plotting a hostile takeover.

Nikki surprised me by coming home at eleven o’clock instead of after midnight. I had put on my pj’s and washed my face and was ready to call it a night when I heard her come in.

“What are you doing home so early?” I asked. She had dropped her shoes at the door and her purse on the counter and was searching the freezer for something to eat.

“I worked a double shift today, so they let me leave an hour early. Where’s the ice cream?”

“Talk to Simon.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “How did he get the freezer door open?”

“Okay, so I left the carton sitting on a shelf—a
high
shelf. If someone hadn’t misplaced the living room phone, I wouldn’t have had to take the call in the kitchen. Have one of my chocolate bars instead and I’ll give you the latest news on the murder investigation.”

Nikki crouched in front of a kitchen cabinet and began to rummage through the contents. “They’re dark chocolate. You know I hate dark chocolate. Don’t we have an old box of Girl Scout cookies around here somewhere? Oh, wait. Here they are.”

“I wouldn’t eat those. They’re old.”

“They’re not
that
old.” She opened the box, stuffed a cookie in her mouth, and smiled, smashed cookie all over her teeth. Suddenly, she made a horrible face and raced for the sink to spit it out, only to see the empty ice cream container there.

I grabbed a paper towel off the rack and pushed it into her hand. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“What I want to know ith,” she said, wiping soggy traces of cookie off her tongue, “who called and ruined my chanthes of having ithe cream tonight?”

“Marco called, and you’re not going to believe what he—” I was all set to tell her about Richard’s arrest record when I remembered Marco’s warning.

“Not going to believe what?” Nikki asked, putting mugs of water in the microwave to heat.

“Not going to believe . . . who showed up at Down the Hatch this evening.”

We made decaf lattes and took them to the living room, where I caught her up on all the events of the day, including seeing Pryce at the bar and Marco with the mystery woman.

“Seriously, Abby, you should have taken my advice and gone after Marco big-time so this wouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s not that easy, Nik, especially when he’s helping me with an investigation. We have to be professional about it, otherwise we wouldn’t get anything done.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got Greg Morgan waiting in the wings.”

“Morgan? Not in
my
wings.”

She sighed impatiently. “One of these days you’ll have to get over that high school snub.”

“It’s not the snub, Nikki; it’s his personality. Morgan is so conceited, he’s jealous of his own reflection. You remember that disastrous dinner date we went on, where he talked about himself for four solid hours? I don’t ever want to do that again. I wouldn’t be having lunch with him tomorrow if I didn’t need information.”

“You’re right. Scratch Morgan. Next subject—Pryce. What’s behind his sudden mixing with the lower classes? Is there a cute waitress at the bar who’s caught his eye?”

I nearly spit out my drink. “Nikki, would Pryce date a waitress? What would his mommy say?”

She smacked herself on the forehead. “What was I thinking?”

“Pryce is up to something, I’m sure of it. Marco thinks he’s had a change of heart because I have my own business now and his parents have decided I’m acceptable, but I’m not buying it.”

“I’m with you. You’ve owned Bloomers for three months. Why would he all of a sudden be interested in you again?”

“Like I said, he’s up to something.”

“There’s one way to find out.” Nikki finished her latte and stood up. “Take him up on his lunch offer.”

 

By ten o’clock Wednesday morning, the temperature outside had already reached ninety degrees and the air was so humid that there were water droplets on Bloomers’ bay windows. That kept a lot of shoppers off the square and in the air-conditioned malls, which was not good for most downtown businesses. But it hadn’t hurt mine—thanks to the coffee parlor. It hummed with clerks and secretaries from the courthouse and surrounding offices who had stopped in for iced teas and iced coffees. Not only did they fill up the cash register; they also kept Grace occupied, and that was a very good thing.

Grace had come to work that morning with the worrisome news that the police had grilled Richard again, this time for more than five hours. She couldn’t make sense of it. Richard was above reproach. How dare they question his integrity! I knew then that Richard hadn’t told her about his arrest, and it took all my willpower—not to mention a few glances at that vicious stapler on my desk—to keep from spilling Marco’s information.

“You look nice, sweetie,” Lottie commented as we worked on arrangements. “You’ll bowl over Mr. Gorgeous Deputy Prosecutor at lunch today.”

“Whatever gets me the information I need.” I tried to sound blasé about it, but secretly I was pleased that she liked my choice. I had put on a flared skirt and pale yellow blouse that I hoped minimized my ample bust. I wanted to bowl the man over, not knock him out.

The bell jingled in the shop, so I jumped up to get it, knowing Grace had her hands full in the parlor. I walked through the curtain and saw Sheila Sackowitz admiring one of my silk flower arrangements. She was wearing purple cotton pants with a white T-shirt that sported the phrase IT’S MS. BITCH TO YOU. Her face was bare of any makeup and her brown hair stuck up at odd angles in front, as though she’d tried to spike her bangs. She had a plastic bag from the Dollar Store in her hand and a denim purse hanging from her shoulder.