Shoots to Kill (29 page)

Her story sounded far-fetched except that she had used Oliver’s favorite phrase:
The coast is clear.
How would she have known that unless she’d heard him say it? But what did that mean? Was it possible that my gut feeling was wrong? That Oliver had plotted to kill his mother?

“Why do you think Oliver told you to take the money?” I asked.

Cora leaned closer to the glass. “I think ’e wanted to set orf ’is mum, to tell yer the truth. ’E got a bang out of it, ’e did. ’E stood there watchin’ ’er scream ’er bloody ’ead orf at me, gettin’ a good larf from it. ’E’s tetched in the ’ead, if you ask me.”

I remembered that scene. I also remembered that Oliver had seemed to enjoy watching Delphi chase Cora through the shop. I’d even had to prompt him to phone the cops. Perhaps I hadn’t given Oliver enough credit. Perhaps he was shrewder than he let on. Surprisingly, Cora seemed to be on the level. She had a bus ticket stub, she’d given me the motel name and her alias, and she knew Oliver’s favorite phrase.

“Do you know anything about the bamboo plants Oliver brought to the art shop?”

“All I know is Delphi ’ad a fit ’cause she wanted only three and ’e got four, so she told ’im to take one ’ome. ’E was all flustered-like and said ’e couldn’t ’ave it at his place, so she said she’d take it, then.”

So Oliver hadn’t wanted the fourth bamboo in his apartment. That made the pot under his sink even more suspicious. “Did Delphi take the plant home with her?”

Cora shrugged. “Couldn’t tell yer that. All I know is that Oliver moved it out o’ the shop.”

“Do you drive, Cora?”

“Not ’ere, I don’t. Back ’ome I did, when I ’ad me own car. Cor, that were a long time ago.”

“Could you drive a car here if you put your mind to it?”

“Suppose I could, but I wouldn’t want ter be another driver on the road wif me.” She cackled at her stab at humor, and it wasn’t a pretty sound.

“Have you ever driven Libby Blume’s Corvette?”

She puffed up like an outraged pigeon. “Wot? Me drive that fancy machine? Are you crackers? I’d ’ave smashed it all to pieces.”

“Then why was the Corvette key in your purse?”

“Summin’ put it there, that’s why. I told those coppers I din’t know it were there. Wot reason would I ’ave for it when I don’t drive?” She leaned toward the glass. “I’ll tell you just ’oo put it there. It were Oliver!” She sat back with a firm nod of her head.

Cora seemed sure Oliver was behind everything. “Why do you think he put it in your purse?”

She narrowed her eyes into slits of outrage. “To pin the murder on me, that’s why.”

“You think Oliver killed his mother?”

“ ’Oo else?”

“Libby?”

“Oliver was the evil one. I could see it in ’is eyes, always makin’ ’is evil plans.”

“Yet you took the cash when he told you to. Didn’t that make you wonder if he was up to something?”

She gave me a canny glance. “I didn’t say I was an angel, now, did I?”

Fair enough. “What about Libby? What’s your impression of her?”

“Spoiled rotten an’ always under ’er mum’s thumb. She couldn’t take a piss wifout askin’ permission first. Oliver did ’er a favor, din’t ’e?”

“Are you saying he did her a favor by killing their mother?”

“Wotcher think?”

At that moment the door behind me opened, and Patty stuck her head in. “Time’s up.”

Damn. I quickly finished making notes, then put my notepad away. “Thanks for agreeing to see me, Cora. If I have more questions, would you let me come back?”

She rose from her chair as the guard came to get her. “Long as yer keep yer word about ’elping me. But yer’d better ’urry. I don’t fancy sittin’ in front of no judge anytime soon.”

“Trust me, Cora. With our legal system, it’ll be a good while before that happens.”

“There’s someone waiting outside to see you,” Patty told me as she walked me through the security doors. She whispered in my ear, “Detective Wells.”

“Did she know I was here visiting Cora?”

Patty nodded. “She knew.”

Great. Now the detective probably wanted to know why I was poking around. Well, too bad. I needed time to sort through Cora’s surprising revelations before I gave anything away.

I slipped on my boots, donned my peacoat, put my purse over my shoulder, and walked out the front door of the jail, instantly experiencing that heady rush of freedom. At once, Detective Wells came toward me. She wore an open trench coat, a stylish black suit, a colorful silk scarf at her throat, and two Oriental hair picks through the blond bun at the nape of her neck.

“Abby,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Lisa Wells.”

“I remember, Detective,” I said, shaking her hand. It was firm and confident, a no-nonsense grip.

“Call me Lisa.” She smiled as though trying to befriend me. “I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the Blume case. Why don’t we go back to my office and talk?”

I glanced at my watch. “Can we make it another time?”

“I’d really like to talk to you now.”

There was something in her tone that made me uncomfortable. “I thought you had the case sewn up. I heard Corabelle Finklestein was indicted for the murder.”

“Actually, Cora was indicted for theft. You’ll have to tell Sergeant Reilly to be more careful with his information next time.”

Yikes. Lisa knew about Reilly. But how had Reilly gotten the wrong information?

“So why do you want to talk to me about the Blume case?” I asked lightly. “Am I a suspect now?”

She smiled, revealing an attractive set of white teeth. “Not if you can explain why your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

My heart began to race with panic. “My prints can’t be on the murder weapon. I’ve never even been inside Delphi’s house.”

“Do you know what the murder weapon was?” Lisa was watching me closely, trying to detect signs of nervousness.

“The wine bottle?”

“It was the clay flowerpot that you removed from beneath Oliver Blume’s sink. I understand it came from your shop.”

My mouth fell open. Oh, dear God.
That’s
why the pot was broken. But did Lisa actually believe I had used it to kill Delphi? “I think I should have a lawyer present before I answer any more questions.”

“If you’d feel more comfortable, Abby, please do. But if you’ve got nothing to hide and can clear this up with a few simple answers, then why bother, especially when you know the ropes? You’ve got a year’s worth of law school under your belt, don’t you?”

Very clever of her to appeal to my vanity. Well, fine. Let her bring those questions on. I’d sat in on enough interviews to know how to handle myself. But it would be better to be on my own turf. “Why don’t we go back to my flower shop, then? I can offer you gourmet coffee in a cozy Victorian tea parlor.”

“I wouldn’t mind good coffee for a change. I’ve heard your scones are to die for, too.”

That was a phrase I could have done without.

As we walked the two blocks to Bloomers, Lisa asked me questions about the floral business, which I was guessing was her way of getting me to let down my guard. But I wasn’t about to let that happen. That year at New Chapel Law School hadn’t been a total bust.

Lottie and Grace were at the cash register when we strolled in. After introducing them to Lisa, I said, “Detective Wells wants to interview me about Delphi’s murder, so I convinced her to come here to sample your delicious coffee and scones, Grace.” It was my way of letting them know what was going on.

“Of course, dear,” Grace said as she and Lottie exchanged concerned glances.

I led Lisa into the parlor and we sat at the corner table near the bay window that Reilly always preferred.

“This is charming,” Lisa said, glancing around admiringly.

“It was Abby’s idea to add the parlor onto Bloomers,” Grace said as she set out place settings and a basket of scones. “She always strives to please her customers.”

“And talk about honest!” Lottie exclaimed, pouring our coffee. “Why, Abby’s as honest as the day is long.” She stroked the top of my head as if I were her pet.

“Honorable is how we describe our Abby.” Grace struck her theatrical pose, raising her voice to say, “
‘Honor virtutis praemium
.’ ‘Honor is the reward of virtue.’ ”

“And you want to talk about someone who fights the injustices of the world,” Lottie said, “well, you’re looking straight at her.”

“‘Justitia omnibus,’”
Grace cried dramatically. “ ‘Justice for all.’ ”

“Ladies,” I said quietly, “thanks for your testimonials, but it’s not necessary. Lisa just has a few questions for me.”

Lottie and Grace exchanged worried frowns, then slipped away. I knew they’d be hovering outside the doorway, though, ready to swoop in if the situation warranted it.

“This coffee is delicious,” Lisa said, sipping the brew straight, while I doctored mine with half-and-half. She took a bite of scone, chewing with her eyes closed. “M-m-m. Heavenly. I can see why they’re so popular.” She reached into her large leather purse and pulled out a thick notebook. Flipping to a fresh page, she got down to business.

“Why don’t you tell me how your fingerprints came to be on that broken pot?”

“That’s easy enough. Oliver Blume showed up here one day asking for four bamboo plants for his sister’s art shop. I rang them up and helped him carry them to his van. The other three pots should still be at Blume’s.”

“Let’s talk about the one you found under the sink. How did you know it was there?”

“I saw dirt spilled on the floor and thought it was out of place in his spotless apartment.”

“How did you happen to be inside Oliver’s apartment? Did he invite you in?”

Oops. Nice move, Abby.
“He was supposed to meet me at eight o’clock last night and he never showed up, so I decided to investigate and”—I shrugged—“his door was unlocked.”

“Was it standing open?”

I had a feeling I was digging myself into a hole. I prayed there was no tombstone above it. “No, just unlocked. I turned the knob and it opened.”

“So you let yourself inside?” she asked, writing.

“Absolutely not! I phoned Oliver first, several times, in fact. Then I went up to his door and knocked. When I found the door unlocked, I started to worry that something had happened to him. People don’t usually leave their doors unlocked, especially not paranoid people. Under those circumstances, wouldn’t you have gone inside and looked around?”

She smiled. “What happened next?”

I decided I’d better condense it. Less to get me in trouble. “Marco helped me look for Oliver. Then Libby showed up because she was concerned about him, too. Then I called Oliver’s friend Tom, who told me Oliver had gone into hiding. As we were leaving, I noticed dirt on the kitchen floor, so I opened the cabinet to investigate and pulled a broken pot from beneath the sink. And that would be how
more
of my prints got on the pot.”

She wrote it down, checked back in her notes, then glanced up at me. “Why did you insist that Sergeant Reilly bring the pot in to be tested? What made you think it was important to our investigation?”

“I didn’t know it had anything to do with the murder investigation. I just thought it was odd because after seeing his apartment, it’s obvious that Oliver has an obsessive-compulsivedisorder. He wouldn’t leave dirt on his floor or keep a broken pot stuffed inside his cabinet. Someone else had to have put it there, and it must have happened after Oliver left home yesterday, because someone with his compulsions would have had to clean up the spilled dirt before he left. And, by the way, if I had killed Delphi, I certainly wouldn’t have volunteered that pot for testing.”

That seemed to score a point in my favor. “Did you notice anything unusual about the pot, other than it being damaged, I mean?” she asked.

“Only that the bamboo shoots were broken. Why? Should I have?”

“We found blood and pieces of scalp on the edges,” she said, making my stomach churn. “I thought you might have noticed that.” She waited a beat, then said, “How well do you know Oliver?”

“I have a business relationship with him. He hired me to conduct a private investigation.”

“Why did he hire you? You’re not a licensed PI.”

If Lisa knew that, she’d done some checking up on me. “Oliver knew that I’d helped solve a few murder cases, so he felt safe asking for my assistance, I guess.”

As Lisa sipped her coffee, I asked hopefully, “So, have you heard about those cases I helped solve?”

“Yes, I have.”

And was obviously not impressed. She took another bite of her scone, wiped her fingers on a napkin while she studied her notes, then glanced up at me. “Marco Salvare was hired by Libby Blume for another investigation. Since he was already employed by a family member, can you explain why Oliver didn’t use Mr. Salvare’s services?”

“Oliver has trust issues.”

“Yet he trusted you. How did that come about?”

“When he came to Bloomers to buy the plants, he told me I was
one of the trusted ones.
That was his phrase. I’m not sure how he came to that conclusion. He did say he saw in Libby’s scrapbook—which is another story in itself—that I’d helped solve murder cases.” I shrugged. “Or maybe I just have one of those faces.”

“A face that looks remarkably like his sister’s.”

Ouch. That struck a nerve. The bell over the door jingled out in the shop, signaling an incoming customer. From the corner of my eye I saw Lottie scurry away from the other side of the parlor doorway, but I was more concerned with convincing Lisa that she was questioning the wrong person than with who had entered Bloomers.

“Look, I had this face before Libby did. She came back to New Chapel, asked to be my intern, and when I said no, she began to copy everything about me and worm her way into my life in every way possible, even showing up for a family dinner. Ask around. People in town can’t tell us apart. And FYI, Libby did the same thing to one of her professors at school, trying to steal the professor’s husband.”