Shoots to Kill (30 page)

“So do you believe Libby’s aim was to take revenge on you?”

“Why else would she go to all that trouble—unless she had another motive?”

Lisa gave me a piercing look. “By another motive, are you implying that Libby might have copied you so she could kill her mother and blame you for it?”

Damn. That was the dilemma that got me involved in the investigation in the first place. Very cautiously, I said, “I’m not implying that.”

“Then, if I understand you correctly, you think she went to all that effort—and that truly was a hell of an effort—simply to get even with you for not hiring her? Even though she had the means to open her own shop? Doesn’t that strike you as highly improbable?”

Was Lisa trying to get me to say I thought Libby was the murderer? “Maybe you should ask Libby why she did it.”

Lisa tapped her pen against the table. “Could she be protecting someone?”

“Like who? Her brother?”

Lisa pounced on that at once. “Why did Oliver come to mind?”

“Because Libby doesn’t have anyone else to protect.”

“Do you think it’s possible that Oliver killed his mother?”

I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Anything is possible, right? You’re not dealing with rational people. Libby goes around stealing people’s identities, and Oliver dresses like a solider, plays war games, and imagines that enemies are spying on him. And I won’t even start on the obsessive control Delphi had over her children. The Blumes aren’t normal, which is probably one reason why Libby wormed her way into my family. She needed some normalcy in her life.”

“Excuse me, honey?” I glanced over at the doorway and there was my mom waving at me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Abigail, but could I ask you a quick favor?”

Lottie stood just behind Mom, shrugging apologetically.

“I’m kind of busy right now, Mom.”

“That’s okay,” Lisa said. “It’s your mother. Go ahead.”

“Oh, good,” Mom said, then hurried across the room to shake Lisa’s hand. “Hi, I’m Maureen Knight.”

“Lisa Wells.”

No mention of her being a detective, I noticed. Was that a strategic move to keep Mom from interjecting herself into the interview in order to protect me—or was Lisa trying to save me from a second interrogation— from my mother? “What did you need, Mom?”

“Your father and I are going to a meeting tonight and I don’t want to leave Taz alone. Can you come over for a while?”

Oh, no! I’d just told Lisa my family was normal.
Please don’t say anything about the llama!
“I’ll check my schedule and call you in about an hour, okay?”

“Okay, honey. Don’t forget.” Then to Lisa she said, “Taz is a teenager, and you know what mischief teens get into.”

“Lottie, do you want to show my mom those new roses that came in today?” I said, giving Lottie a look that said,
Get Mom out of here!

Lottie tried to steer her out of the room, but Mom held her ground. “So you can only imagine the mischief a teenaged
llama
could do,” she finished.

Too late. I cringed as Lisa asked in amazement, “You have a llama?”

“Would you like to see a picture of him? Taz is such a sweet animal, and his belly can be shaved to produce knitting yarn.”

I dropped my forehead into my hands as Mom proudly displayed the photo she’d snapped with her new cell phone. So much for the normal family.

“You know, Mo, my boys would love to meet Taz,” Lottie said, ushering Mom out.

I darted a glance at Lisa, who was writing in her notebook.I could only imagine what her notes said. “My mother is a kindergarten teacher,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “She took up knitting as a hobby and thought it would be novel to grow her own yarn. She’s always trying new ideas. Just ask my dad. He was a cop, by the way. You probably knew him. Sergeant Jeffrey Knight? He was wounded in the line of duty and had to retire.”

Lisa took a sip of coffee. My pedigree was clearly not impressing her. “I’d like to talk more about your impressions of Oliver. You mentioned he liked to dress like a solider and play war games. Do you know how realistic he got? Did he use guns, swords, or maybe instruments of torture?”

Instruments of torture?
“I honestly don’t have a clue. Why?”

“We found tiny shards of bamboo stalk under what remained of Delphi’s fingernails. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but bamboo shoots have been used as—”

“Yes, I know,” I said, cutting her off as the blood drained from my face.
“You just jam those suckers right under the fingernails. The pain is unbearable.”
I took a deep breath and explained, “When Oliver came down to buy the plants, he asked if I knew that bamboo shoots had been used to torture people in World War Two, but I never thought he intended to . . .”

I couldn’t finish the thought. It was too gruesome. I grabbed my coffee cup with both hands and took a drink, thinking over what I knew about the murder. Yet what I knew still didn’t convince me that Oliver was the killer. “All this evidence—the red wig, the planted car key, the body left behind my flower shop, the bamboo plant under the sink, and the shoots under the fingernails— wouldn’t that indicate the work of a cold, calculating murderer? Because I don’t think Oliver could pull that off.”

“Oliver’s fingerprints weren’t on the pot, Abby. The only prints on the pot were yours.”

I gaped at her. What did that mean? Had I been set up? Was my prediction coming true?

Your arrest was a mistake, Abby,
Dave had assured me.
You’re not a suspect.

“Look, Lisa, I told you how my prints came to be on that pot. I didn’t kill Delphi, and if you’re going to keep insinuating that I did, then I
am
going to call a lawyer.”

“I’m not insinuating, Abby, only trying to figure out what happened.”

“Well, so am I, so instead of putting me on the defensive, why don’t you let me help you find the real killer?”

She seemed taken aback. “That isn’t necessary.”

Not necessary for whom? I wracked my brain for a way to turn the focus off me.
Think, Abby. Pump those brain cells! Why aren’t the killer’s prints on the pots? Because . . .?

I had it! “When Oliver came into Bloomers asking for the bamboo plants, he was wearing a camouflage outfit that included a pair of gloves. If he always handled those pots with his gloves, that would explain why his prints aren’t on them, right? So it stands to reason that the killer was wearing gloves, too.”

Lisa leaned toward me, her gaze sharp and focused. “You’re sure he had on gloves?”

“Yes. If you check his bedroom closet, you’ll find three camouflage outfits, including gloves. He’s probably wearing the fourth. He buys four of everything.”

She wrote it down. “Did Oliver ever say anything about or against his mother? Ever hint at a reason why he might want to kill her?”

“Not that I recall. I heard her yell at him once for dropping an art print, but I can’t imagine that triggering her murder.”

“What was his reaction to her yelling?”

“I don’t know. Oliver speaks very softly, and I wasn’t in the room with them. But I never heard him refer to his mother in a negative way. Whenever I saw Oliver, he was behaving as a soldier and didn’t seem to mind taking orders. I know he was rejected by the army, so obviously he never got it out of his system.”

“Do you know why he was rejected?”

“All I remember is that he broke into the high school computer lab and destroyed the computers. I’m sure you’ve come across that in your investigation.”

Lisa didn’t answer, only kept reviewing her notes. “Oliver’s sister claims that he tried to kill her by planting a poisonous snake in her mailbox. What’s your take on that?”

Lisa must have interviewed Libby before coming to see me. At least I’d managed to shift the focus off me. “My take is that Libby is jumping to conclusions. She seemed as surprised to learn about the snake’s existence as we were, so how would she know whether it was poisonous? Conveniently, the snake is gone and so is Oliver, so there’s no way to verify her claim.

“And here’s another thing that puzzles me,” I continued. “Oliver told me that Libby was his ally, so why would he want to harm or possibly kill her? If he really wanted to kill Libby, putting a snake in her mailbox wouldn’t be a very effective method.”

“Not for a rational person.”

I couldn’t argue that point.

“I understand that Oliver is hiding in a forest preserve in Starke County, and you’ve been in touch with the friend who took him there. Want to tell me about that?”

I gave her the rundown on Tom McDoyle, his black Buick, the spy game that Oliver forgot, and the phone call to Tom in which we learned Oliver’s whereabouts.

“Do you expect to hear from Oliver or Tom?”

“Tom is supposed to call when he finds Oliver, but I haven’t heard from him yet. I
hope
to hear from Oliver. He owes me a thousand dollars.”

“That’s a pretty hefty fee for an amateur PI.”

“That’s what he offered to pay me.”

She pulled out her business card and handed it to me. “If you hear from either of them, will you let me know?”

“Sure.” In my own good time.

Lisa finished her coffee, put away her notebook, and stood up. “Thanks for your cooperation, Abby.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Am I still a suspect?”

She smiled cannily. “I haven’t ruled anyone out.”

I stared out the parlor window, thinking about what to do next. Damn Libby for entangling me in her life. Now look at the mess I was in.

The bell over the door jingled and a moment later I saw Lisa pass by on her way back to the police station. At the same time, Lottie and Grace came rushing over to the table.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Lottie asked, taking my hand in hers and rubbing it. “She really put you through the wringer.”

“The nerve,” Grace huffed. “Grilling you as though you were a common criminal. Clearly, all signs point to Oliver as the killer. Why isn’t the detective out searching for him?”

“I think she will search for him,” I answered. “But I don’t think it’s clear that Oliver killed his mom. Whoever did it planned it very carefully, setting others up to look like suspects, and I don’t think Oliver is capable of that.”

“Do you think it was Libby?” Lottie asked.

I rubbed my throbbing forehead. “Libby could have stashed that pot in her brother’s kitchen cabinet, I suppose, and planted the key in Cora’s purse. But why would she need to purchase a red wig? Her hair
is
red. And she wouldn’t have had to move her car seat back, either.”

“Then perhaps it
was
Oliver,” Grace said. “Perhaps he hides his cleverness behind his so-called paranoia.”

“Grace is right, sweetie,” Lottie said. “Oliver has been playing military games for a long time. He might be very smart when it comes to planning and carrying out missions.”

“He
has
used the term
mission
,” I said. “But our speculation is moot because
my
prints were on the murder weapon. Not Libby’s, not Oliver’s, not even Cora’s. Mine. And not only did I handle the weapon; I also supplied it. If no other evidence comes to light, I’m afraid it could come back to who held that bamboo plant.”

“Can I get you anything?” Grace asked. “Calming tea, perhaps?”

“No, thanks.” I rested my head in my hands. “Can the day get any worse?”

“I’m sorry your mom interrupted,” Lottie said. “I tried to stop her without letting her know what was going on, but you know how she can be.”

“I appreciate the effort. I’m just thankful she didn’t recognize Detective Wells and figure out I was being interviewed by the police. I’d hate to worry her or Dad for no reason. At least I hope there’s no reason.”

I got up and started to stack the cups and saucers, but Grace stopped me. “We’ll see to that. Go do what you need to do.”

Which was what?

I could call Marco. He’d know what to do next.

Out in the shop I hit speed dial number two and Marco answered in one ring. “Hi, it’s Abby,” I said. “Are you busy right now? I’d like to run something by you.”

There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “Hold on.”

In the background I heard Libby ask, “Who is it?”

I ended the call. Who needed Marco anyway?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

My cell phone rang and I checked the screen to be sure it wasn’t Marco calling back, but it was Tom—at last!

“I found Oliver,” Tom said, “but he won’t leave the forest preserve until he talks to you.”

“Why?”

“He’s scared. He said the cops are looking for him.”

“Did he say why they were looking for him?”

“He’s not saying much of anything. He’s sitting on the ground with a blanket wrapped around him, rocking back and forth and making moaning sounds. He’s really freaking me out, man. I’ve never seen him like that. You’ve gotta get out here soon.”

It sounded like Oliver was coming unhinged. “Do you know if he’s contacted his sister, or heard from her?”

“I don’t think he talked to her, because he won’t use his phone. He told me he had to bury it in the woods becausethe cops were listening in. He says you’re the only one he can trust . . . well, besides me.”

I debated about whether to go. If Oliver had murdered his mother, then he was dangerous. If Oliver was in a bad way because he was off his meds, he could also be dangerous. If the two were both true, he was definitely dangerous. But if he hadn’t killed Delphi and was hiding simply because his paranoia had kicked in again, then maybe I could calm him down enough to get some answers. Because, boy, did I have questions. But should I go or not?

Oliver trusts you. Why would he hurt you?
my little voice of reason said.
Besides, do you really believe he’s a ruthless killer?
No, I didn’t. No matter how the evidence appeared to point to Oliver, I couldn’t shake the growing feeling that Libby was the culprit after all.