Seed No Evil (13 page)

Jordan was an orthopedic surgeon who worked for a private clinic in town. He was the middle child in our family and the one I was closest to growing up. Jonathan, my older brother, was a heart surgeon and had always been something of an enigma to me. I would never bet on being able to convince Jonathan of anything, but Jordan was a different matter.

“Jord, remember that scroungy mutt we found when we were kids, the one with mange?”

Jordan chuckled. “We fed him bologna and table scraps that we hid in napkins so Mom wouldn't find out.”

“Do you remember what happened to that poor dog?”

“No, not really. Why?”

“Didn't it ever bother you that such a sweet-tempered dog had to go around begging scraps to stay alive? Don't you wish we could have adopted it?”

“Where are you going with this, Abby?”

Tactic one: Beat around the bush to work up to the point. “We've always had a soft spot for animals, haven't we? How many kittens did we rescue? Remember the whole litter we found abandoned in a box in the alley? How we fed them with doll bottles and found them all homes?”

“Two minutes, Abs.”

Tactic two: Direct attack. “Why don't you have any pets?”

“You called to talk me into getting a pet?”

“So why don't you?”

“Because we're busy people. Hurry it up, Abby.”

Tactic three: Talk fast. “You know Tara has been longing to help animals for a while now, and—”

“No, I didn't know that. Did she tell you that?”

“Would you just listen? Now there's a way for her to help without any obligation to you. And it would teach her social responsibility to give back to the community. I'm talking about being a volunteer with Mom at the animal shelter.”

“You want my daughter to work at a murder site?”

“Oh, come on, Jord. Mom's not afraid to work there, and you know how spooked she can get. She'd love Tara's company, and Tara would get to play with the animals and help care for them.”

“And ask to bring one home.”

“Jordan, everyone who works as a volunteer doesn't bring animals home.”

“Why don't you volunteer then, Abs?”

I should have seen that one coming.

Tactic four: Tell a white lie, then revert to tactic three. “Because I work late hours here at Bloomers and there's no time to volunteer. But your daughter would be so happy if you let her do it. Will you promise to think about it and talk to Kathy tonight? Or I can call her if you'd like. Hey, that's what I'll do, so don't even bother yourself—”

“Don't you have a wedding coming up?”

“This is so important to Tara that I'll make time for it.”

“Why didn't Tara come to me about volunteering?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“Because she knows I'd say no.”

“And if you say no, Kathy would say no, and that would be the end of it. You'd have one brokenhearted girl.”

“But if I say no to you, you'll just keep picking away at me until I cave in. So what are my options here really, Abs?”

Tactic five: Pluck the patriotic chord. “Let Tara do her civic duty, Jord. That's all. Your daughter will love you forever if you say yes. Talk Kathy into it; then call Tara in and let her know how proud you are of her wanting to volunteer. You'll be teaching her so much.”

He sighed wearily and after a pause said, “Okay, Abs. You win. I've got to get back into surgery now, but I promise I'll talk to Kathy about it tonight.”

“Great! I'll call tomorrow to see how it went.”

“Tell you what. I'll have Tara call
you
tomorrow, okay?”

“You're the best brother in the world, Jord.”

“Yeah, right,” he said with a laugh, then added, “Better than Jonathan?”

“Way better.”

I said good-bye, hung up the receiver, and checked to see how long I'd been on that call: one minute forty-nine seconds. I took a bow to the empty room. I really was the best badgerer in the family.

•   •   •

At fifteen minutes before noon, I carried my flyer prototype up Franklin Street and across to Lincoln Avenue to Big Red Quick Print, a shop that had been in business for more than forty years. I stopped to chat with Bonnie, one of the owners, who commiserated about business being slow; then I retraced my steps to get to Down the Hatch.

“Hi, Gert,” I called to the waitress as I started toward Marco's office.

“Oh, hey, hon. You might want to wait out here,” she said. “The boss is in a meeting with his brother.” She leaned closer to whisper, “It's a little warm in there, if you get my meaning.”

I was tempted to ask Gert if Marco was having problems with Rafe, but then I decided that Marco would not want me discussing his business with the staff.

In a few minutes Rafe came out of the hallway and went around behind the bar, a none-too-happy look on his face. He saw me and called, “Hey, hot stuff. How's it going?”

“Look!” I said, stepping up to the bar. “No more froggy neck.”

He gave me a puzzled glance.

“Didn't you notice how swollen it was the other night? Oh, right. You were too busy ogling Emma Hardy.”

“A lot of good that did me,” he said grimly.

Marco came striding out at that moment and said to me, “Ready to go?”

“See you, Rafe,” I called. Once we were outside, I asked casually, “What was your meeting about?”

Marco scratched his nose, a sure indication that he didn't like the question. “I was going over a few things with Rafe.”

“Everything okay between you two?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

“You said before that it was taking longer than you thought to train him, so I was just wondering if that was putting a strain on your relationship.”

There was the slightest hesitation before he said, “No. Business as usual.” Marco opened the car door for me, and I slid inside. And those were the only words he said on the subject.

At Justin's towing shop, the same pair of Dobermans bared their teeth at us and the same long-haired man in the same stained blue overalls and red plaid shirt worked on a wad of chewing tobacco—a fresh one, I hoped—as he watched a tiny television propped on the counter in front of him.

He glanced up and nodded in recognition. “Hey, how's it going? You want to see the boss?”

“Please,” I said.

He ambled through the door behind him and was back in a minute. “Boss says to go on in.”

Marco escorted me around the counter, through the doorway, and up the hallway to Justin's office, where we found him seated behind his metal desk. He rose to shake Marco's hand and give me a friendly nod. “What can I do for you today?”

“We'd like to ask you a favor,” Marco said. “We want to talk to your son. Can you set up a meeting for us?”

Holding his good-natured smile, he asked, “Why do you want to talk to Kyle?”

“Same reason we came to see you,” Marco said. “To gather information about Bev Powers.”

“Tell you what,” Justin said, leaning forward in his chair as though sharing a confidence. “You'd be better off going to Stacy for that meeting. She's got primary custody of Kyle. I see him only every other weekend.”

“To be frank,” Marco said, “we asked Stacy, but she said no.”

He sat back and smiled in such a way that I could almost hear his sigh of relief. “Well, then,” Justin said, lifting his hands in a shrug, “there's your answer.”

“She didn't say your son couldn't have a meeting with you present,” I said.

“Still,” Justin said, “I wouldn't go against Stacy's wishes.”

“The thing is,” Marco said, “Kyle may have useful information that will help us with this case.”

Justin tapped his fingers on his desk, as though thinking it over. “Did Stacy mention why she didn't want you to talk to him?”

“She felt he was too young and innocent to be of any help,” Marco said.

“Hey, she's his mother,” Justin said cheerfully. “Mothers know best.”

“He's a teenager,” I said. “That's hardly young or innocent.”

“Frankly, I'm puzzled by Stacy's and your reaction,” Marco said, casually crossing one leg over his knee. “Neither of you seems to want to help find out who's responsible for Bev's death.”

“I've been cooperative,” Justin countered.

“Then what's the explanation?” Marco asked. “Are you afraid of what Kyle might reveal?”

“Me? No! I just don't want to cross Stacy.” As if he were afraid of being overheard, Justin put his hand to the side of his mouth and said in a low voice, “She can be a real ballbuster, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm not buying it,” Marco said. “I think you and Stacy are protecting yourselves.”

Justin's smile dissolved. He sat forward, serious now. “Look, man, all I'm doing is respecting Kyle's mother's wishes. If it were up to me, I'd let you talk to him. But if I set up a meeting and it got back to Stacy, which I'm sure it would, there'd be hell to pay. Been there, done that, got the scars.”

“I can appreciate that you don't want to go against your ex-wife's wishes,” Marco said, “so let's toss out the idea of a formal meeting. But what if we dropped by while you and Kyle were together and had an informal conversation with him with you present?”

“I don't want another court battle on my hands,” Justin said, “so I'm going to have to go along with Stacy on this.”

“Do you understand that by denying us access to Kyle,” Marco said, “it makes it look like you have something to hide?”

“Hey, man, don't pin this on me,” Justin said, placing his open hands on his chest. “This is Stacy's decision. Have you considered that
she
might have something to hide?”

“Are you saying Stacy might have had something to do with her sister's death?” Marco asked.

“Interpret that any way you want,” Justin said, rising. “Nice talking to you.”

“W
e could always ambush the boy after school,” I said to Marco as we drove back to town.

“Not ethical,” Marco said. “We need an intermediary.”

“Such as whom?”

“I'll have to work on it. What do you think of Justin now?”

“He really threw Stacy under the bus, didn't he, eager to put all the blame on her?”

“You said it, Sunshine. He could have set up a meeting between us and Kyle, and Stacy couldn't have done a thing about it.”

“I don't know that she couldn't have done a thing about it, Marco. Exes have ways of making lives miserable. I saw plenty of that when I clerked at Dave Hammond's law office.”

“You're right. So the question is, was Justin protecting himself from our further investigation or from his ex-wife's retaliation?”

“I can almost buy Stacy's protective reaction to our request to interview Kyle,” I said, “but not Justin's. He seemed relieved to have an excuse to deny us that meeting.”

“My thoughts exactly. We'll have to turn up the heat and see what happens. As long as it's still early and we're on this side of town, let's stop at Blaine Manufacturing to see if we can catch Dayton Blaine in her office.”

“It's twelve forty, Marco. She's probably out to lunch.”

“Then where would she have lunch?”

“Adagios. It's the nicest place in town.”

“Adagios it is.”

•   •   •

But Adagios it wasn't, and we were unable to get any information from Dayton's secretary, so we returned to Down the Hatch for a quick soup and salad lunch; then I trotted up the block to Bloomers.

“How'd it go?” Lottie asked. “Make any progress?”

“We hit a wall,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “We really need to interview a potential witness, but the teen's parents are being protective and won't let us. And then there's Dayton Blaine, who's never in and won't return Marco's calls.”

“Why don't you and Marco take flowers to her?” Grace asked, coming out of the parlor. “We've delivered orders to Blaine Manufacturing before. If you stress that it's a time-sensitive arrangement, someone will make sure you get it to her right off. Then, once Marco gets a foot in her door, he can work his charm on her.”

Grace was my Yoda. “Perfect. And if Dayton's not there, someone should be able to tell me where we
can
deliver the flowers. But won't it look odd for me to need a guy at my side to hand over a flower arrangement? I'm afraid we won't get any farther than the front desk.”

“Then go alone,” Lottie said. “You've interviewed suspects before, right?”

“But this is
Dayton Blaine
we're talking about,” I said. “Do you know what people call her? The Donald Trump of New Chapel. She's merciless, and that frightens me a little—okay, a lot—and you know I don't frighten easily.”

“Hey,” Lottie said, “Dayton puts on her pants one leg at a time just like everyone else. Don't you be frightened by her.”

“The thing is,” I said, “I'm still not the most skillful interviewer in the world, and I can't afford to screw this up. It could be our only shot at talking to her.”

Grace straightened my shoulders. “Stand tall, love, and remember these words by Eleanor Roosevelt. ‘We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face . . . we must do that which we think we cannot.'”

“Remember who you're doing this for, sweetie,” Lottie said. “Your mom is counting on you.”

“And you know how you love a challenge,” Grace said.

Grace and Lottie had just said the magic words. “You're right. I've never backed away from a challenge, and I'd do anything to help my mom.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “So what if Dayton is one of the most powerful people in town? That doesn't mean I can't talk to her woman to woman. Or I should say daughter to daughter. Everyone has a mother, right?”

“That's the spirit,” Grace said.

“I'll make up a beautiful arrangement right now and take it over there,” I said. “Maybe by suppertime, I'll have some news to report to Marco.”

The bell over the door jingled and three customers walked in, so while Lottie went forward to help them and Grace returned to the parlor, I slipped into the workroom to begin Dayton's floral arrangement.

Half an hour later, I turned the pale purple ceramic container around to get a 360-degree view. I'd filled the bowl with a striking arrangement of Iris Rendezvous, a deep purple blossom, white pompom mums, and vibrant pink hydrangeas edged with
Pelargonium graveolens
“Lady Plymouth” greenery that I liked for its sweetly scented, pale green leaves with frilly white edges. The effect was just what I'd hoped—feminine yet powerful.

“Wow, sweetie, that's a knockout,” Lottie said, coming into the room. “If that doesn't get you in to see Dayton Blaine, I'll eat my hat.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Grace said, walking up behind us. “Remember, dear, persistence and determination will carry the day. If at first you don't succeed . . . and all that.”

“Got it. If Marco calls here, just tell him I'm out on a delivery.”

•   •   •

Blaine Manufacturing was a huge one-story brown brick building that took up an entire city block, forming a big U with a parking lot in the middle. Five reserved parking spaces sat close to the main door, each marked with a sign for the various Blaine family members. The one marked
Dayton Blaine w
as occupied by a big black Cadillac sedan with fancy chrome wheels. I hoped that meant she was in.

I drove to the visitor parking
area and pulled into a space where I could see Dayton's car. With my nerves strung tight, I carried the clear-wrapped floral arrangement into the beautiful lobby at Blaine Manufacturing, crossed the shiny white-tiled floor, and approached the neatly dressed woman behind the reception desk. There was an older gray-haired man seated to her right who was watching a bank of television monitors.

“Delivery for Dayton Blaine from Bloomers Flower Shop,” I called cheerfully, holding up the arrangement.

“You can leave it here,” the woman said with a smile. “We'll see that she gets it.”

Yikes. Not going according to plan. I put the arrangement on the counter so the receptionist could see it. “I'm Abby Knight, the owner of Bloomers, and this is time sensitive. I can guarantee the flowers for only so long. I'd prefer to deliver it myself so I know that it gets to Ms. Blaine right away.”

“Don't worry,” she said. “I'll send it right up.”

Plan B: Try to look sweet and innocent and play on her sympathy. It was one of those rare times I was glad for my freckles because they made me appear younger. “Would it be okay if I took it? I'd really love to meet Ms. Blaine.”

“Only those on the approved list can go up,” the man said without glancing over at me. “Company policy.”

“How do I get on that list?” I asked.

“Let me call Ms. Blaine's secretary,” the receptionist said, pushing buttons on her phone. She listened a moment, then said, “Hi, Joan. Would it be all right for a florist to come upstairs to deliver an arrangement to Dayton right now?” She listened again, then said, “Okay. Thanks.”

“Can I go up?” I asked.

“No. Ms. Blaine is in a meeting and has to leave for another meeting shortly, but I promise to get these up to her within the next few minutes.”

Rats
. I'd have to fall back on Plan C: Parking lot ambush.

“Okay. Thank you for your help.” I handed her a flyer. “Remember Bloomers for all your floral needs. We have a great coffee-and-tea parlor, too.”

Then I returned to my car to wait for Blaine to come out the door.

Promptly five minutes later, Dayton exited the building. She was wearing a navy pantsuit, a white shirt, and brown shoes, and with her short blond hair, bulldog face, and tall, thickset body, I nearly mistook her for a man.

I hopped out of my car and dashed over to hers, calling, “Ms. Blaine, hi! I'm Abby Knight, the owner of Bloomers Flower Shop. Did you like your complimentary floral arrangement?”

She gave me a cursory glance as she unlocked her car door with the remote. “Nothing in life is free. What's your angle?”

“I don't have an angle. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

She glanced at her watch, a heavy gold timepiece with a mother-of-pearl face. “I'm on my way to a meeting. Make it quick.”

Oh geez. Here it went. I took a deep breath and dove right in.

“My mother found Bev Powers's body at the shelter and may be the police's top suspect unless I can clear her, so I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the events of Monday evening.” I took a breath. “Will you?”

She blinked at me several times, as though absorbing my words, then said, “No,” and opened her car door.

“No, you won't help me?”

“That's right.”

I was stunned for all of two seconds; then my indignation kicked in. “You won't help an innocent woman who may be wrongly accused of a crime? You can't spare even five minutes for a good cause?”

“Right.” She got into the car, but I stepped forward so she couldn't close the door.

“I'm shocked, Ms. Blaine.
You—
the woman who is known for her philanthropy—
you
don't care about another woman's life? A
mother's
life?”

“I have a meeting across town. I don't
have
five minutes.”

What bull. She had the power to hold up a meeting for as long as she wanted. “Could we set up a time afterward, then?”

“I'm too busy. Now, step away from my car, please.”

“But what if your mother were in jeopardy? Wouldn't you want someone to help her?”

“My mother wouldn't be so foolish. Step back or I'll call security.”

“Fine. You call security, and I'll call my friend Connor McKay, who writes for the
New Chapel News.
He's always looking for juicy celebrity news, and you
are
a local celebrity, Ms. Blaine. He'd love to hear how you wouldn't extend a helping hand to a gentle kindergarten teacher who may be wrongfully accused of murder, especially when she's been a loyal member of PAR and a long-standing volunteer at the animal shelter that you are supposed to be working for.”

Dayton pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and opened it. “You're pushing your luck, Miss Knight.”

“That's what I do for people I love, Ms. Blaine, and if you'd only admit it, I'll bet you'd do the same thing if you were in my position. I don't really want to call the reporter, so won't you please talk to me after your meeting?”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “What is it you're looking for?”

“Not what,
who
. The killer.”

“There's your problem. I don't know who killed Bev or anything about her movements on that day. A meeting would be a waste of time and money.”

I had to pull out all the stops now. “Are you afraid to talk to me?”

Dayton let out a low, throaty laugh. “Young lady, I'm not afraid of you or anyone else.”

“Then why won't you give me a few minutes of your time?”

“Because
time
,” she said, enunciating the word as though I were slow, “is money. Got it? It's always about the money, Miss Knight.”

“Please, Ms. Blaine, won't you at least talk to my boyfriend, Marco Salvare, a private investigator who's been trying to track you down for an interview?”

“Salvare is your boyfriend?”

“My fiancé, actually. Why?”

“He's making a nuisance of himself. Now—”

“Did you get along with Bev?”

“No. Now
back up.
”

“What changed?”

She huffed in irritation. “What are you talking about?”

“I spoke with Emma Hardy, who said you and Bev got along until a few months ago.”

“Don't tell me you actually consider Emma Hardy a reliable witness. Did Emma happen to mention that Bev caught her moving money out of the PAR account and into her own?”

I didn't want it to appear that we hadn't uncovered that important fact, so I just said, “See there? You do know things that would help us investigate Bev's death. All I need are ten minutes.”

“So now it's
ten
minutes. You're a headstrong young woman, aren't you?”

“Please meet with us, Ms. Blaine. I'll bring you fresh flowers every day for a week if you'll just give us ten minutes of your time.”

“Every day for a week, is it?” She looked me over. “You remind me of myself when I was your age—unstoppable and plenty of spunk. Okay, here's the deal. I'll meet with you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock right here in the parking lot. But for only ten minutes and only you alone. No professional PI tagging along. Got it?”