Moss Hysteria (7 page)

“What else did Mitzi have to say?”

“She thinks you're cute.”

“Not hot?”

“Did you want her to say you're hot?”

Marco's mouth curved up at the corners. “
You're
hot when you're jealous.”

“I'm not jealous over some sad, older woman who dresses like my niece. But I did get a little annoyed when Mitzi told me not to believe everything Theda said.”

“Why did that annoy you?”

“She was trying to throw suspicion on Theda.”

“Abby, you know we have to look at Theda as a viable suspect.”

“I know, and I'll put her on the list because it's protocol, but if Theda were guilty, my inner alarm would be ringing like crazy. You know who makes it ring? Mitzi.” I glanced at my watch. “I need to get back. Do we have an appointment with Thorne?”

“Tomorrow at twelve thirty. I wasn't able to reach Dirk's wife, so I'll try to set up that interview this afternoon.”

I brushed my teeth, ran a comb through my hair and hurried back to the kitchen, where Marco was crouched on the floor petting the dog. “Will you keep Seedy with you this afternoon?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks, Marco. And I almost forgot. Tonight is the other book club meeting, and tomorrow night Jillian is coming over.”

“Damn, that's upsetting. I'll be at Down the Hatch both evenings.”

“Yeah, I can see how upset you are.” I gave him a quick kiss, grabbed my purse and keys, and raced out the door, only to turn and walk back inside.

Marco was fastening Seedy's leash to her collar. “I was wondering when you'd remember us.”

“Sorry. Old habit.”

“And by the way, warn me the next time you decide to shop for a vehicle. Now I've got a used car salesman who wants to sell me some silver number you apparently picked out for me.”

“I
really didn't intend to car-shop for you, Marco. I was waiting for Lisa Wells to get back from lunch, and the used car lot was the perfect place to watch for her. I just happened to be standing by a silver Lexus, and the salesman made the leap from there.”

“That doesn't explain how he got the impression
I
was in the market for a car.”

“All I said was why the Lexus wouldn't work for you.”

“And there was his opening. Now I'll have a pesky salesman calling me with cars he thinks
would
work for me.”

Seedy put her paw on the glass and gave a yip, wanting me to roll the window down so she could stick her head out. We were in the passenger seat and Marco was driving. As usual.

“Not today, Seed,” Marco said. “It's too chilly.”

In a stage whisper I said to the dog, “Although it might cool your daddy off.”

“I'm not angry, Abby. I can handle the salesman's calls. And I know you're eager to have your 'Vette back. I just don't think the time is right to take on big monthly payments. You don't mind sharing a ride with me, do you?”

“No.”
Sometimes. Yes.

“When we can afford it, we'll look for a car together. Okay?”

I nodded. He was probably right. I still wanted my car back.

I returned to Bloomers to find Grace wiping down tables in the coffee-and-tea parlor, Lottie ringing up a customer's purchase, and Rosa working on a floral arrangement in the workroom, singing in her off-key voice to a song on the radio. Six completed arrangements sat on the counter, waiting to be delivered.

“Hola,”
she called as I stepped through the curtain. “Where is our little Seedy?”

“With Marco for the afternoon.” I put on my bright yellow bib apron with the Bloomers logo on the front and tied it in back. “You can take your lunch break now.”

“I'm okay. I've been nibbling for an hour. I told Grace to go when you got back.”

I paused to digest that, then plucked an order from the spindle.

The arrangement was for a young woman's twenty-first birthday party thrown by her parents. Besides giving me a price range, their only other request was to use their daughter's favorite colors, purple and yellow.

Inside the cooler I breathed in the fresh floral scents, feeling all my stress melt away as I looked over my inventory. As I pulled out some greenery I heard Grace say, “I'll be popping out now to make deliveries, and then I'll stop for a quick bite.”

I was ready to answer her when I heard Rosa say, “Okay, enjoy your lunch. I will take care of the parlor while you're out.”

Hmm.
Another moment to digest.

Back at the table, I prepped a six-inch square dark purple glass container and then began inserting bluish-purple anemones. Soon I found myself humming along with the music on the radio, happy to be in my haven, doing what I do best.

With the glass pot nearly full, I added a few yellow daisies and pale yellow Futura lilies and then filled in with tree fern. I wrapped it and placed it in the second walk-in cooler, then started on the next order, a get-well bouquet.

No flowers were specified, so I stood in the cooler, looking at my choices. What would be an uplifting color scheme? Yellow, of course, and I had a fine selection of yellow roses. Maybe red poppies and bright white tulips . . . with lily grass and leatherleaf fern as my greens. But it needed something more, something soft and delicate. My gaze landed on the white larkspur. Perfect.

I chose a six-inch-by-six-inch pale yellow ceramic pot in the shape of a sprinkling can, got out my tools and wet foam, and set to work. I was in the zone, my fingers working in tandem with my brain as the design in my mind's eye took shape. Everything else fell away; it was just me and the flowers, their floral scents, silken textures, and rich hues making all my senses vibrate with energy even as I felt an immense serenity of spirit.

By the time Grace returned from lunch and Rosa rejoined me, I'd finished five more arrangements and was back to my usual sunny nature.

At three thirty, Tara, my fourteen-year-old niece, stopped by on her way home from high school. In bygone days, she'd drop by to watch me work and share the latest schoolyard gossip, but lately it was because Bloomers was handily situated near a popular shop on the square called Jangles. We had, in effect, become her bathroom stop.

Tara Knight was the only child of my brother Jordan and his wife, Kathy. Since Tara and I were only thirteen years apart, she'd always been like a kid sister to me. We even looked alike, with our red hair, freckles, short stature, and feisty tempers. Tara had also adopted Seedy's cute little puppy Seedling when we adopted Seedy.

Until she discovered boys, Tara had loved hanging out with me, admiring my entrepreneurship and love of investigations. Against everyone's better judgment, she had even helped Marco and me solve a murder case because, just like me, Tara was headstrong and curious.

Now, with a quick “Hi,” she dropped her backpack on my desk and headed to the restroom. She returned to slide onto a wooden stool and hold out her skinny arm so we could see her stack of colorful bangle bracelets. “Look what I got at Jangles.”

“Let me see, let me see,” Rosa called excitedly, coming around the big slate-topped table to take Tara's hand. “How pretty they are! And look, they
do
jangle!”

“Everyone's wearing them.” Tara began to pick them out individually. “See, this one has a bike insignia on it because I ride a bike, and this one has a dog's face that looks a little like Seedling, and this one has a computer, this one has a book, and this one has a basketball.”

“You don't play basketball,” I said.

Rosa gave Tara a wink. “But I'll bet her boyfriend does.”

They giggled conspiratorially.

“Well, duh, of course,” I said, trying to be the cool aunt. “That's Zeth, right?”

“Zeth?” Tara gave me a look of horror. “Aunt Abby, that's so over.”

Hmm.
I used to be Aunt Amazing. But apparently that was over, too.

“It's Dimitri now, Abby,” Rosa said, nudging my niece. “Right, Tara? With his big brown eyes and curly black hair . . .”

They giggled again.

“Want a can of sparkling water?” I asked Tara.

“No, but I do want to
thank
you”—she emphasized the word with a roll of her eyes—“for foisting Aunt Jillian's zoo on me tomorrow evening.”

“I didn't foist. I
suggested
she ask you.”

Tara looked at Rosa and rolled her eyes again. “Same difference. I'm still babysitting—on a Friday night!”

“So?” I asked. “You'll earn good money. You know Jillian pays well.”

“You do it, then,” Tara snapped.

“Hey, now,” Rosa said, planting her hands on her hips and giving Tara a chiding look. “You do not talk that way to your aunt. You're hurting her feelings, and she was only trying to do you a favor. Now you owe her an apology.”

Actually, I was trying to do
myself
a favor, but Rosa had a point.

Tara hung her head. “I'm sorry, Aunt Abby. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

I put my arms around her and gave her a hug. “Thank you. And if you don't want to babysit for Jillian, I won't suggest you again.”

Tara squeezed me around the waist and smiled. “Thanks. I wouldn't mind if it weren't on Friday. My friends and I always go out for pizza and a movie on Fridays.”

Rosa made a waving motion. “Go, Tara. I will babysit for Jillian at my house.”

I glanced at Rosa in surprise.

“Thank you,” Tara said brightly, hopping off the stool to embrace her. “I mean,
muchas gracias.
You're amazing.”

I heard a stifled moan and realized it came from me.

•   •   •

The Books and Bottles club was totally different from that of the Brandywine Babes, aka the Bees. The seven women with me that evening were all about their selection of the week, discussing it at length and in great detail, whereas the Bees seemed more interested in getting through any book talk so they could gossip.

At least I didn't feel underdressed. The code was completely relaxed—jeans and khakis, T-shirts, button-downs, and even a sweatshirt, flats, athletic shoes, and in one case, flip-flops. I fit right in. Reagan's house, too, was comfortably designed, with a cushy but worn brown tweed sofa and matching love seat, a pair of beige armchairs, and a few oak kitchen chairs brought in to seat the overflow.

The novel under discussion was set during World War II, a period I knew little about, so I sat quietly and sipped my glass of wine during their dissection. When they stopped and brought out the appetizers, I was relieved and raring to pick up the latest scuttlebutt on Dirk Singletary's death.

But that didn't happen. Talk turned instead to recipes and garden plans and the latest news about a Whole Foods Market coming to town. I was shocked. A murder had occurred in their neighborhood and they weren't talking about it?

When Reagan realized I hadn't said much, she turned her attention my way. “You've lived in Brandywine a whole six days now, Abby. How do you like it so far?”

Choice: go into what might turn out to be a lengthy discussion of my floor situation or pump them for information about Dirk?

“So far, so good,” I answered chirpily. “Well, except for Dirk's tragic death. There's nothing good about that. I didn't know the man well, but what do you all think?”

“About . . . ?” Reagan asked. They were all gazing at me with blank stares.

“About the tragic circumstances of his death,” I said.

“It's definitely tragic,” Reagan said, prompting nods all around.

This wasn't going to be easy. “Do any of you feel apprehensive about how he died?”

“I think we all agree it's a matter of concern,” said a blond named Carissa. “We're hoping the police will resolve the matter soon.”

Spring, the young woman wearing flip-flops and a braid down her back, said, “I feel sorry for his wife.” This was addressed to the others, who murmured their agreement.

They weren't getting it. Maybe this club
was
just about books and bottles. I was going to have to be blunt about what I needed.

“It's time for dessert,” Reagan announced, rising from the sofa.

“Okay, but before that,” I said, standing, “I'm not sure you all know, but my husband and I are investigating Dirk's death. So if you have any information—even a tiny bit—that might add to what we know about Dirk's last day, which was Friday, would you share it with me?”

“Of course,” Reagan said, heading toward her kitchen. “I work during the day, so I don't have anything to add. Girls? Anything?”

They looked at each other, then looked at me and shrugged.

“Have any of you had run-ins with Dirk?” I asked.

None of them had.

“And no one had jewelry stolen?” I asked.

Another negative response.

Be blunter, Abby!

“Do you know anything about Mitzi Kole?”

“
She
had jewelry stolen,” Spring said.

I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. With hopes of learning anything relevant fading fast, I finally threw in my last gambit. “Has there been any gossip about her and Dirk having an affair?”

I almost fell backward at their burst of laughter.

“Abby, there's always gossip going around about Mitzi,” Reagan said, as she and Spring served up the desserts, “some of it from Mitzi herself.” She handed me a plate with a brownie topped by a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, then put her head near mine to say quietly, “We try to keep that kind of talk out of our meetings. Why don't you stay after and I'll give you some information that might be helpful?”

•   •   •

When the meeting was over, Spring stayed to help Reagan clean up, so I joined in. Afterward, Reagan poured us more wine and we sat at her kitchen island to talk.

“I'm sorry I interrupted the meeting,” I said. “I expected the gossip to flow as freely as it did at last night's book club.”

“We understand,” Reagan said, “and I think you'll find we operate differently from the Bees.”

“Another thing to keep in mind,” Spring said, “is that this is your first time with us. We don't know you very well, so things we might normally discuss, we won't in front of a guest.”

“So let us tell you what we know about Mitzi and then you can ask questions,” Reagan said.

“Fair enough.”

“As I mentioned earlier,” Reagan said, “some of what we hear comes directly from Mitzi herself because she takes pride in her conquests.”

“When you say
conquests
,” I said, “does that mean Mitzi has had affairs within this community before?”