Shoots to Kill (18 page)

“Why are you arresting her?” I asked Reilly, who had no choice but to notice me now.

He moved me off to the side. “Why is it that every time I show up at a scene, you’re there? Do you wander around town looking for trouble? Do you keep a police scanner strapped to your ankle?”

“All that girl did was come to the viewing. That’s no reason to handcuff her.”

Reilly dipped his head and said quietly, “No, but walking out of Starke-Porter while she was on a suicide watch
is
a reason.”

My mouth dropped open so far, a bowling ball could have fit inside. Starke-Porter was a mental-health-care facility located across the street from the county hospital. “A suicide watch? How long has she been there?”

“Several weeks, until she slipped out three days ago.”

The day before Delphi was murdered. “Do you know anything else about her case, like why she tried to kill herself?”

“Nope. You know everything I know.”

“Sarge,” his partner called, “you want to take this?”

Reilly’s partner was holding something that glinted silver in the streetlight. While Reilly grabbed an evidence bag from the squad car, I stepped up for a closer look. It was a scalpel.

“Found it in a pocket inside her cape,” the other cop said quietly as she deposited the knife into the bag. She handcuffed Kayla, removed her hat, and tucked her in the backseat. Kayla went without a whimper, her head bowed.

Maybe Libby had been right after all. Maybe Kayla
had
come to kill her.

“Fill me in,” Marco said, striding up to us.

I pretended to peer behind him. “Where’d you leave your ball and chain?”

He gave me a scowl. “Libby persuaded Oliver to stand beside her.”

I had a hunch it was Marco who did the persuading. “Reilly, would you show him what you showed me?” I asked quietly.

Reilly opened the bag and Marco peered inside. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Kayla Olin walked out of Starke-Porter three days ago,” I told Marco, “while she was on a suicide watch. And it was the day before Delphi’s murder.”

Marco glanced at Reilly. “Does Detective Wells know that?”

“If she didn’t, she’ll know soon enough,” Reilly said, starting toward the car. “We’ve got to get this woman back to Starke-Porter. I’ll catch you later.”

As the squad car pulled away, Marco turned toward me, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark eyes. “What do you think about Kayla being a strong suspect now?”

“The timing of her escape could be a coincidence,” I said.

“Pretty hefty coincidence, especially considering that bankruptcy ruling three weeks ago.”

“How would Kayla get a copy of Libby’s car key? Or know where Libby lives? Libby hasn’t been in town long enough to make it into the phone book.”

“Kayla could have followed her home,” Marco reasoned. “You have to admit it looks pretty suspicious when she shows up here with a scalpel.”

“Did she threaten Libby with it?”

“No, she bypassed the line and walked directly to the coffin. Something about her behavior struck me as odd, so I tried to engage her in conversation. Then she backed away as though she were afraid of me, and that’s when Libby saw her and started to panic. I alerted Max’s assistants, and they called the cops.”

“How did Libby recognize Kayla? Half of her face was hidden.”

“I’d say by her eyes. You wouldn’t forget those eyes.”

“Why? Were they crossed?”

Marco frowned, not appreciating my attempt at humor. “They were striking.”

“If Libby recognized Kayla, that means she knew her previously, which is inconsistent with what she said at her interview. She led us to believe she was unfamiliar with Kayla and didn’t even know much about the lawsuit because she was away at college during that time.”

“Why would Libby lie about knowing her?”

Maybe because that’s what liars do,
I was about to say. But I held my tongue. “Skip it. Are you going to try to see Kayla?”

“I’ll have to contact her doctor at Starke-Porter to see if Kayla is up to it.” He paused as visitors came out of the funeral home. “I guess we should get back inside.” He strode toward the door, then glanced back when he noticed I wasn’t behind him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“My work here is done. But don’t let me stop you from rejoining the party.”

He frowned in thought as he reached for the door handle, but he didn’t go inside. Instead, he turned around and came back, falling into step beside me as I started toward the parking lot. “I’m done, too,” he said. “Libby doesn’t need a babysitter.”

Yes!
“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat,” I said. “I’m going home to enjoy a leisurely bubble bath, a glass of chilled wine, and a big chunk of rich, dark chocolate.” I sighed dreamily, then cast him a quick glance to see if my daydream had had any effect on him.

Oh, yeah. Marco was gazing at me as if I were a hot fudge sundae. Perhaps he was even picturing me in that bubble bath.
Gaze on, hungry man, because you aren’t getting so much as a nibble until you apologize for believing Libby and not me.
“So what are your plans?”

“I”—he paused, then sighed wearily—“have to get back to the bar.”

I was halfway home when I remembered that I was supposed to find out who was tailing Oliver. So much for the leisurely bubble bath. I turned around and went back to Happy Dreams, where I drove around looking for any sort of big black sedan in the area. When that produced no results, I parked around the corner from the funeral home, a good distance away from the streetlight so no one would spot my yellow Corvette, and walked back to the parking lot to do a visual search. I found an older-model black Cadillac, but an elderly couple came out of Happy Dreams and drove away in it. The Blume’s van was still there, I noticed, but not Libby’s car. I wondered if the police were still holding it as evidence.

For the next hour I stood in the shadows of a recessed doorway kitty-cornered from the funeral home, shivering with cold, because I hadn’t brought my warm coat and I couldn’t risk being spotted in my car. Had I known I was going to be doing surveillance, I would have borrowed Nikki’s little beater car. At least I had on dark clothing.

When the last of the visitors had gone and the parking lot had emptied out, Libby and Oliver came out and drove away in the van. I waited to see if anyone pulled out behind them. Then I dashed to my car and followed at a safe distance as Libby took Oliver to his apartment over Delphi’s garage.

The Blumes’ stately redbrick home sat on a large corner lot in a historic part of town, built at the end of the horse-and-buggy era, when coach houses were still a necessity. Delphi had converted hers into a three-car garage with an apartment above. Both the home and the coach house had black shutters and gray slate mansard roofs. A ten-foot-tall black wrought iron fence enclosed the property, with gates both front and rear.

I had to park on the side street to avoid being seen— a yellow car could be a real handicap when working a case—but I was still able to watch Oliver enter the fenced-in yard through the rear gate and climb the wrought iron stairs to his apartment. The house and most of the grounds had been sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape, but the cops had left a path open for him.

I saw a light come on in his window; then I waited another half hour to see if a black sedan happened by, but finally had to leave when my eyes kept shutting. Stakeouts weren’t really my thing, especially when I hadn’t planned for them. I’d have to do better if I wanted to earn that thousand bucks.

On Thursday morning I arrived at Bloomers well before eight o’clock, hoping that Oliver would decide to show up after all. But the next hour came and went, and then it was nine and customers started to come in, most heading for the parlor for their morning coffee. Because of his mother’s scheduled funeral service, not to mention his desire for privacy, I knew there was slim chance of him stopping by later.

“Sweetie, last night your mom took to knitting like a duck to water,” Lottie gushed as we snipped flowers at our big table in the workroom. “You’d think she was born to those needles. The gals loved her, too. I think she’s found herself a new hobby.”

“That’s great, Lottie. Now she can knit in the evenings and keep my dad company in front of the television instead of throwing clay in her studio. And there won’t be any art to sell, either, so everyone wins.”

“Abby, love,” Grace said, coming back to the workroom, “you have a phone call from Oliver Blume. He said it’s urgent.”

I dashed over to my desk to pick up the receiver. “Oliver?”

“Where were you last night, ma’am? You were supposed to keep watch.”

“I did. I sat outside the funeral home until you left. Then I parked near your apartment for another half hour, and not one suspicious car passed by. I really wasn’t prepared to stay longer. That’s something I have to plan for.”

“He came by. By and by.”

“What time?”

“Midnight. Night after night at midnight. I saw him from my window. Flash, flash, flash.”

“Did he take photographs?”

“Yes, ma’am. Night after night.”

“Did you see his camera?”

“Didn’t have to, ma’am. It’s what he does every night.”

“But how do you know?”

“Why else would he slow down?”

How about for the stop sign on the corner? I sighed inwardly. So what did I have? A dark sedan that drove by at midnight every night, and a guy whom Oliver had never seen who took photos of him with a camera he’d also never seen. Either Oliver was smoking something potent or he was paranoid. Maybe both.

“I’ll be there before midnight tonight, Oliver. If someone is shadowing you, I’ll find him.”

There was a click and the line went dead. I hung up and rubbed my temples. What had I gotten myself into? I was starting to wonder if a thousand dollars would be enough.

Nine orders had come in overnight, so Lottie and I dug in, happy as larks doing what we loved best. For me, that did not include thinking
or
talking about Oliver or Libby. Sensing my mood, Lottie occupied herself by humming along with a Willie Nelson song on the radio as she covered a foam cross with ‘Milva’ roses in a lovely peachy gold color. I simply immersed myself in the delightful aromas and textures of the flowers.

Thirty minutes later I had created a contemporary funeral spray of pink roses, white lilies, purple hydrangeas, and an Oriental lily called ‘Tiara’ that I particularly liked because it was pollen free and had gorgeous pink and purple flowers. I was so blithely in the moment that I even joined Lottie as she belted out a chorus with Willie. Midway through the morning, however, Grace appeared to snap me out of my reverie.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, dear, but Dave Hammond is on the line.”

With a regretful sigh, I put down an uncut stem of French tulips for the next arrangement to answer the phone at my desk. “What’s up, Dave? And don’t say Marco’s frustration level. We’re cooperating.”

“Maybe you two are, but Kayla Olin isn’t. Marco talked to her doctor first thing this morning and got permissionto interview Kayla, but when he got to Starke-Porter, Kayla refused to see him. Do you want to try?”

So the Salvare charm had failed to work, had it? “I’ll go over during my lunch hour. Will you let the doctor know I’m coming?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I hung up and there stood Grace and Lottie, waiting eagerly for me to update them on the case. So, feeling in lighter spirits, I filled the women in on the latest developments, including the information Dave had gathered, my visit to the funeral home, Kayla’s surprising appearance there, and my new job as Oliver’s private eye.

“Are you sure working for Oliver is a good idea?” Lottie asked, frowning in concern. “He seems to have a few bats in his belfry, if you know what I mean.”

She meant wacko, and I couldn’t disagree. “I won’t put myself in danger. Besides, I’m not convinced anyone is actually following Oliver, but I’ll humor him and see what turns up.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” Grace said. “Libby hired Marco to find her stalker, and now Oliver has done the same with you? Don’t you find that a bit odd?”

“Everything about Libby and Oliver is odd,” I said. “And that reminds me, I never got a return phone call from Roshni Shah. Maybe she didn’t get my message.”

“Is she the young woman who wrote the letter to Libby?” Grace asked.

“Yep, the one with the angry writing. She might have no connection to what’s going on here, but I think it’s worth pursuing.”

“Would you like me to follow up on the wig by calling costume shops in the area?”

“That would be a big help. Thanks, Grace. Oh, and would you do one more favor? See if any of the pet shops in town have sold a big brown scaly snake recently, and if so, to whom.”

I finished the arrangement, stowed it in the cooler, then sat at my desk to make the call. This time, a young woman picked up the phone. “Roshni Shah?” I said.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

After I explained who I was and my purpose for phoning her, she said angrily, “What is it with you people? I’m trying to cut Betsy out of my life, and you keep pulling me back in.”

“Okay, wait. You lost me. Is
Betsy
Elizabeth Blume?”

“Yes. She was my roommate at U. Pitt. last year. We shared an apartment off campus. And what a nightmare that was.”

Boy, could I empathize. Once a pest, always a pest, no matter what anyone said. “Has someone else contacted you?”

“A detective from New Chapel—Lisa Wells I think her name was. And a private investigator, too, with an Italian-sounding name.”

“Marco Salvare? Did you talk to him?”

“No way. I wouldn’t even talk to the detective until I got confirmation from the police that she was for real. I don’t trust Betsy and I don’t want anything more to do with her. So I’m sorry, but please don’t bother me anymore. ”