Seed No Evil (7 page)

“We'll see. Dayton may be used to people trying to work their charms on her. It goes along with the territory of being megarich.”

My cell phone rang and I checked the screen: Jillian. I took a deep breath to psych myself up for the call. “Hello, Jillian. What's going on?”

“Abs,” she said in a chiding tone, “know what I learned today? That Dr. Baybee has a word for people like you.”

“People like me? What did I do?”

“It's not what you
did
; it's what you're
not
doing.
”

“Okay, I'll bite. What am I not doing?”

“You're not supporting my intention to rehearse my pregnancy. You're what is known in the industry as a non-supportress. A
non-supportress,
Abs.”

“I'm a non-supportress,” I said to Marco.

“Sounds like a bad mattress,” he said.

“Do you know what having a non-supportress around a pregnant woman can result in?” Jillian asked.

“No, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Gastric distress and depression.
Depression,
Abs! Does that ring a bell?”

More like the scrape of nails down a blackboard.

“What Dr. Baybee is saying is that it's not hormones causing my problems, Abby Knight. It's you.”

“So what can I do to help you, Jillian?”

“Embrace the ball. That's what Dr. Baybee says.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Pretend that the ball is a real baby growing in my womb. That's all. See how simple that is?”

I had no choice but to say yes or those nails would just keep on scraping that blackboard. “Fine, Jillian. I'll embrace the ball. Does that make me a supportress?”

“Wait.”

I could hear pages turning; then she said, “Now you're an embracer.”

“I'm relieved.”

“Okay, that's all I wanted,” Jillian said happily, and hung up.

“What was that about?” Marco asked, as he pulled up in front of Bloomers.

“Jillian thinks that I'm the cause of her depression because I wasn't supporting her pregnancy rehearsal, and do you really want to hear this story? If you do, I'll fill you in at dinner. We are having dinner together, aren't we?”

“Um,” he said, “let me get back to you on that.”

I hadn't imagined
that
pause.

Gripping the door handle, I stopped to glance over at him. He'd get
back
to me? I felt like one of his beer reps. But Marco was checking his cell phone for messages and didn't even notice, so I got out of the car and shut the door. “See you,” I said through the open window, leaving off the word
later.

“Okay, babe,” he replied without looking up.

I waited on the sidewalk outside the flower shop until he pulled away, hoping for a wave. He never even looked over.

B
ack inside Bloomers, the coffee-and-tea parlor was filled with customers, which was great to see, since the front shop was empty. Lottie was using the time to dust the shelves while Grace handled the parlor with her usual aplomb.

“Hey, sweetie. How'd it go at the shelter? Did you have time to get everyone interviewed? And why is there a wrinkle between your eyebrows?”

“Because I inherited this stupid wrinkle from my mom, and I'm not happy about it.”

“Seriously, Abby,” Lottie said, coming toward me. “Did something happen? You look concerned.”

“Nothing happened, per se, but I think Marco might be”—I shrugged a shoulder to show that it wasn't a big deal, which was a bald-faced lie—“keeping things from me.”

“What kind of things?”

“Business problems maybe? Or personal? I don't know, but whatever problems he's having, he's not sharing, Lottie, and that hurts. Doesn't he trust me?”

Lottie guffawed, just the kind of reaction I was hoping for. “Sweetie, that man is crazy about you. What's he doing that makes you think he's keeping things from you?”

“Lately he seems distracted and not interested in what I have to say. And just now, when I asked him about us having dinner together, which we almost always do, he said he'd get back to me.”

“Who said he'd get back to you?” Grace asked, stepping out of the parlor.

“Marco,” Lottie said. “He's distracted, and Abby thinks he's keeping his problems from her.”

“She shouldn't worry about it,” Grace said, “because he's made it clear he's madly in love with her.”

“That's just about what I told her,” Lottie said.

And exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Did you tell her that men are easily distractible?” Grace asked.

Suddenly I felt like I'd stepped out of the room. “Hello. I'm still here. You can talk directly to me.”

“Abby, dear,” Grace said, putting her arm around my shoulders, “you mustn't take every little thing as a sign that something's amiss.”

“I don't take every little thing as a sign, but there've been a
few
of these little signs and they're starting to add up. It isn't like Marco to ignore me, which is what it feels like he's doing. I mean, I thought I knew him, but lately—”

“Ah, there's the problem,” Grace said to Lottie. “Do you see it?”

“You betcha,” Lottie said.

Having no sweater edges to hold, Grace folded her hands together and put her shoulders back, assuming her alternate lecture pose. “As that wise man Friedrich Nietzsche once said, ‘One should never know too precisely whom one has married.' And what that means is, you'll never know Marco completely, nor should you want to. Let him be a little mysterious. You're always going to discover new things about him, and perhaps one of those things is that he doesn't always pay attention. I've practically got to stand on my head to get my Richard's attention during a sports game.”

“And I've told Herman my birth date a hundred times,” Lottie said, “but he always gets it wrong. Thing is, he doesn't do it on purpose. He just has a lousy memory.”

“So you're saying I should ignore it when Marco doesn't listen?”

“Unless it becomes habitual,” Grace said. “Then it would need to be addressed. Always keep those lines of communication open, love.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you both so much. I feel much better now.”

“Then our work here is done and I must get back to my customers,” Grace said. “I could use a hand in there, Abby, if you wouldn't mind.”

I was about to ask Lottie if I had orders waiting, but before I even opened my mouth, she gave a little shake of her head, so I followed Grace into the parlor and grabbed a pot of coffee.

Bummer.

•   •   •

At three thirty, the bell over the door jingled, and I heard my mom's voice up front, so I left my cleaning project in the workroom and stepped through the curtain. In Mom's hand was a large plastic bag, which she held up with a smile.

“Guess what I've been doing, Abigail.”

“I hope you're going to say working on an art project.” Wait. Had I actually said that?

“Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I felt so much better knowing you and Marco were on the case that I stayed up late working. This is just a prototype, but I wanted you to see it before I made any more.”

As always when Mom showed me a new project, my stomach knotted, knowing she would ask me to sell it in the shop and that I probably wouldn't want to. Once she'd made a footstool that looked like a giant bare foot, toe hair and all. Another time she'd made a hat stand that looked like a giant bowling pin with a Homer Simpson face, with pegs sticking out of his neck, à la Frankenstein. And then there was the beaded jacket, made out of giant wooden beads, and the brightly hued feathered picture frames. So I braced myself as she pulled something out of the bag.

“Ta-da!” she said, holding out a rooster-shaped water pitcher.

It looked remarkably like the one on a display shelf behind her, which was handcrafted in Italy. My version had a rose-colored cock's comb, a soft yellow beak, and a leafy vine in a pale green that twined around it. The top was open, as was the rooster's mouth, which functioned as a spout. I had it displayed as a vase.

Mom's rooster, on the other hand, had a bright red cock's comb, a shocking yellow beak, and neon green leaves on the twining vine.

“What do you think?” she asked, hope shimmering in her eyes.

Bunching my shoulders into an
I'm so sorry; please don't hate me
shrug, I pointed to the pitcher behind her.

She turned around, saw the Italian version, and her shoulders slumped. We Knights were definitely shoulder people. I wondered if the medieval armor makers had problems suiting up my relatives.

“Well, that's that,” she said dejectedly, letting her rooster dangle from her fingers. “I still don't have my creativity back.”

“You'll get it,” I said, putting my arm around her. “Give it time. And meanwhile, I have a request. Would you make a list of all the volunteers who work at the shelter? With phone numbers?”

“Of course, honey. Anything to help.”

“While we're on the subject,” I said, “did you hear that the vote to start euthanizing was postponed until the next board meeting?”

“Yes, I heard it from Susan O'Day, and we've already organized a protest for the meeting.”

I gave her a hug. “I knew you'd be on top of this.”

“I'm worried, though, Abigail. When Dayton Blaine pushes for a change, she's usually powerful enough to make it happen.”

The phone rang and Lottie answered at the cash counter. “Bloomers Flower Shop. How may I help you?” She listened a few moments, then said, “Until five o'clock. You're welcome.” She hung up and glanced at me with a smile. “Wedding customer coming in later.”

If my mom hadn't looked so down in the dumps, I would have done a pirouette.

•   •   •

At five minutes before five o'clock, Marco called to see what time I would be down for supper, as though there had never been a question about me coming at all.

“I can be there in five minutes,” I said. “Business has been slow today.”

Not only slow, but disappointing. The wedding customer was interested only in shopping for prices, so she'd been in and out in thirty minutes.

“Good,” he said, which I thought was pretty insensitive. Or was it just another example of him not paying attention? “I've got an appointment set up with Emma Hardy here at six, and that will give us time to plan beforehand.”

“She agreed to meet at the bar?”

“She seemed pretty eager to clear her name. She said she and her friend were looking for a place to eat anyway, and she'd never been to Down the Hatch.”

“Okay. I'll see you in a few.”

The bar wasn't busy yet when I got there, so Marco and I were able to grab the last booth in the row, or “our booth” as we called it, and have a quiet meal. It would have been quieter except I kept up a steady stream of chatter to fill the blank spaces, because again, Marco seemed distracted until we began to discuss the murder investigation.

“From what I could find out about Emma Hardy,” Marco said, reading from his notes, “she's had the position of developmental director for a little more than a year. Before that, she worked at a marketing firm in Maraville for just over a year, and before that she was in college. She's single, an only child, and has an apartment here in town.

“Also, I spoke with Reilly about the police investigation. So far they've done basic interviews but are waiting for more autopsy and tox results before they go any further.”

“Tox results? Do they think Bev might have been drugged?”

“Toxicology reports are standard police practice. The main thing is that we're ahead of them, which is exactly what we want. How's your mom doing?”

“Still nervous but relieved that we're investigating. On a different topic, we never finished our discussion on how all my clothes are going to fit in your apartment.”

“They'll fit. I'm cleaning out drawers and my closet is half empty.”

As though that would be enough room. Marco had so much to learn.

He checked his watch. “If you want to freshen up before Emma gets here, you'd better go now. I'll go get the notepad and pen.”

When I returned from the washroom, Emma had already arrived. She looked curvy and cute in an aqua off-the-shoulder knit top. Taking in her glistening, wavy golden brown hair falling onto her bare shoulders and her peaches-and-cream complexion, I suddenly felt every freckle on my face and, but for my hair, totally colorless in my drab shirt and khaki pants. It made me wish I'd brought a change of clothing to work. And maybe a mask.

I slid in next to Marco and reached out my hand to Emma as he introduced me.

“Emma Hardy, this is Abby Knight,” he said, putting his arm around me. “She's my assistant and my fiancée and owns Bloomers Flower Shop.”

He said that with so much pride, I didn't feel quite so colorless. Still freckled, though, especially when I shook Emma's creamy-skinned hand.

We exchanged the normal pleasantries; then Gert came to take our drink orders, which Marco said were on the house. “A peach margarita for me,” Emma said in a way that made the drink sound exhilarating.

“I'll just finish my beer,” I said. Boring, colorless Abby.

“I
love
your mother, Abby,” Emma gushed. “I got to know her at one of our rallies. She is
so
sweet. You're
so
lucky to have her. My mom is bor-
ing.
”

That was one thing I couldn't say about my mom. Anyone who could create a Dancing Naked Monkeys Table was definitely not boring.

Emma gazed at me with twinkling blue eyes, waiting for my bright, bubbly response. I had a feeling she'd been a cheerleader in high school.

“Thanks.” That was all I had. Super-exuberant women like Emma stunned my system.

“Let's get started,” Marco said, sensing that I was not on my game. “We appreciate your meeting with us, Emma. As I told you on the phone, we want to make sure Abby's mom isn't considered a suspect, so we're taking precautions by running our own investigation.”

“All my mother did was find a body and call it in,” I felt compelled to add.

“Oh, for sure,” Emma said. Her hands were folded on the table in front of her. I was sitting on mine. “I
totally
get it. I'm just relieved you're not looking at me as if I had something to do with Bev's death. I mean, me? Really?” She held out her arms. Apparently that was so we could see she wasn't carrying any weapons in her armpits.

“Bev was my boss,” she continued, “and we had a solid working relationship. I did everything she asked and more. Isn't that the kind of employee everyone wants?”

She focused her smiling face and twinkling eyes first on Marco, until she got his nod of agreement, then on me. I quickly obliged, though a red flag went up. Why was she trying to convince us that she was a wonderful employee? Could it have anything to do with what Stacy had told us about Bev wanting to fire her? Was Emma laying groundwork in case we'd heard anything?

Rafe appeared with a tray bearing our drinks. He didn't normally deliver drinks when Gert was around, but by the way he was smiling at Emma, I knew why he'd made an exception.

“I've got a beer for Marco, nothing for Abby, and a peach margarita”—he set it in front of Emma with a flourish—“for the beautiful lady here.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said with gusto, twinkling up at him. She turned her head to look at Marco, then back at Rafe. “You
have
to be brothers.”