Slay it with Flowers (26 page)

I stood there thinking hard, not sure what to do. Marco’s advice would be to get out and call the cops. But if the photos were the only things taken, what would I report? That my pictures of the perverts who frequent the Emperor’s Spa were missing? What was their value? Nothing. Why was I spying on them? Because the cops weren’t doing their job. Wouldn’t that go over well?

Instead of risking the cop’s wrath, I picked up a heavy terra-cotta vase from a floor display and crept back to the curtain. Carefully, I peeked inside and did a thorough scan. Feeling braver, I slipped inside and paused again to listen. Hearing nothing, I made my way slowly around the table to the kitchen. Still nothing. The back door was locked, too.

I peered into the darkness of the basement and decided a smart thief would never have risked being trapped there, so I went back through the shop, inspecting every nook and cranny, until I felt reasonably sure the robber had departed. Then I locked the door and went back to clean up the mess.

Scattered over the floor around my desk were pens, paper clips, lip gloss, breath mints, memo pads, nail files, and other odds and ends. I turned a drawer right side up and put it back in the bottom slot, then followed with the next two. Then I started putting back the contents. As I’d suspected, the only items that seemed to be missing were the photos.

The phone on my desk rang. I grabbed the receiver and put it to my ear, listening for a moment to make sure there was no heavy breathing on the other end. “Hello?” I said cautiously.

“Abby?” Nikki said. “You sound weird. Are you all right?”

Hearing Nikki’s voice unleashed a tidal wave of emotions—shock, fright, relief, and outrage—the strongest being outrage. “Someone broke in and ransacked my desk. My personal desk! And now the spa photos are gone. The spa photos, Nikki. Okay, sure, I left the door unlocked when I ran down to look at Marco’s new gold lettering, but that was an accident. What kind of person would walk right in and help themselves to my things?”

I could hear Nikki talking to someone in the background. “Nikki? Are you listening to me?
The photos are gone
.”

“Hold on. I’ve got Marco on my cell phone.”

“Why are you talking to Marco?”

“I called him, that’s why, and you should have, too. What if you’d walked in while that madman was in your shop?” Her voice started to tremble. “You could have been killed. I might never have seen you again. I’d have to sublet your room.”

Nikki was nothing if not practical.

She sniffled and said, “Marco will be right down.”

At once there was banging on the front door. I peeked through the curtain and there he stood, a cell phone to his ear, a small leather bag under his arm, and a scowl on his face. I unlocked the door and stepped back as he clapped his phone shut. “What happened?”

In the face of his anger, my own faded away, replaced by an odd feeling of calm. Or maybe it was shock. “Someone came in while I was down at your bar, ransacked my desk, and stole my spa photos.”

“Did you call the police?”

“To report that the pictures I secretly took of five perverts are gone? What do you think?”

Marco examined the door. “No sign of forced entry. How did he get in?”

“Remember when you asked me to come look at your sign? I’d just unlocked the door—wait a minute. This is your fault!”

“It’s my fault you can’t remember to keep your door locked?”

“You distracted me. All I intended to do was drop off the table and leave. Just in and out, that was the plan.”

“Well, someone else had a plan, too.” Marco started for the workroom and I followed. “Was anything other than your desk disturbed?”

“Not that I can tell.” I stood just inside the curtain, rubbing my arms to get rid of the goose bumps that had suddenly appeared. “What if I hadn’t gone down to your bar? Would he have attacked me to get the photos? Never mind. I don’t even want to think about it. I’ll have nightmares.”

Marco opened his leather bag, took out a brush and a small tin of metal powder and dusted the drawer pulls and surrounding surfaces. “He must have been watching you, waiting for an opportunity to get inside without setting off the alarm.”

“Thank you. My nightmare video is now loaded and ready to play. Viewing times will be two and four a.m.”

Marco twirled a brush over the powder, then squinted at the results. “No prints.”

Smart thief. He knew what he wanted, where to find it, and how to get it without leaving evidence. “Maybe it was the guy in the Crown Victoria. I think he followed me to the jail this morning when I went to visit Flip.”

Marco pondered that as he put away his kit. “The question is, why would a federal agent break in to steal a couple of photos?”

“Maybe I caught him on camera.”

“That’s a possibility. Have the feds been brought into the murder investigation?”

“If they have, the newspaper hasn’t reported it. I’m meeting with the deputy prosecutor tomorrow. I’ll see what he says.”

Marco leaned a hip against my desk and studied me. “I can’t help wondering how the thief knew where to find the photos.”

“The only person I told was you . . . and Lottie.” I turned my head to murmur, “And Nikki and Bill.”

“Bill the newspaper reporter? The same Bill you didn’t tell to keep your name out of it? Why didn’t you just take out an ad to let the whole town know where you put the photos?”

I pushed him through the curtain. “Too expensive. Let’s go. I need some fresh air. I’m feeling light-headed. No smart remarks about that, please. It’s been a trying day.”

As I strapped myself into the Vette, Marco leaned his hands on the car door and said, “Don’t even think about cooking up a scheme to get more photos.”

“Not a problem. I’m staying away from the spa. If the salon owner has a beef with them, she can deal with it herself.”

“Good girl. Don’t forget to call Reilly. And one more thing.
Keep your doors locked.
”

In reply, I flattened the lock button right before his eyes.

“There you go.” He gave me that little half grin and strode back to the Down the Hatch.

 

When I got home, Nikki and Simon were waiting by the door. Nikki threw her arms around me and gave me a hug. Simon coughed up a fur ball. It was a touching scene.

We heated split pea soup and while we ate I gave her a rundown on the theft. She thought Bill Bretton had been the most likely leak of information, and I was having a hard time disagreeing. Bill had probably gone to his editor to get the okay to do the article, and who knew how many other reporters had heard about it? One of them might have been a patron of the spa. I’d have to call Bill in the morning. I needed to let him know about the missing photos anyway.

“I almost forgot,” Nikki said, licking her spoon. “Greg Morgan called.”

“Please don’t tell me he canceled lunch tomorrow.”

“No. He verified it. Lunch at Rosie’s at one o’clock. And as soon as we finish our soup, we can go find something hot for you to wear.”

“It’s just a lunch meeting, Nikki.”

“But it’s with Greg Morgan, Abby! This is the guy every woman in town drools over. You have to look good.”

I scraped the last remnants of soup from my bowl. “Why bother picking out something special when he won’t even notice? The only reason Morgan gazes into a girl’s eyes is to see his own reflection. ”

“Are you serious? I’ve seen the way he watches you when you’re not looking.”

I paused to consider her comment, the spoon almost to my lips. “What about that black off-the-shoulder blouse I found on sale last week?”

“With your black-and-white print skirt? Perfect.”

 

Monday morning started with a fast walk around the track, a quick shower, and then the short drive to the shop. I kept an eye out for the Crown Victoria, but with the heavy morning traffic it was difficult to tell if anyone was following me. When I pulled into a space around the corner from Bloomers, I shut off the engine, glanced around for any suspicious characters, then pulled out my cell phone to call Bill Bretton. I’d decided not to say anything about the break-in to Grace and Lottie because they’d only worry more, if that was possible. With any luck they wouldn’t remember that I’d had the photos anyway.

“Features desk,” a man said in a bored voice.

“Bill?”

“Bill stepped away for a minute. Who’s calling?”

“Abby Knight.”

Hearing my name, the voice perked up. “May I tell him what this is about?”

“Just tell him I have a question for him.”

“Anything I can answer?”

He was definitely fishing for information. “No, but thanks anyway, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mike Green. I’m the features editor.”

“Congratulations. Give Bill my message, will you? Thanks.”

“Hold on. Here’s Bill now.”

The phone changed hands and Bill came on the line. “Bretton,” he said.

“Hey, Bill, this is Abby Knight. Remember those photos of the Emperor’s Spa I promised you? They’ve been stolen.”

There was dead silence on the line.

“Bill? Are you there?”

“Interesting,” he said.

“Very. It certainly proves something fishy is going on. If you need more photos, I’ll call the owner of the salon next door to the spa and—”

“That’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

He was talking in a very stilted way, making me think someone was listening. “Bill, if you can’t talk now, why don’t you call me when you can?”

“No need.”

“No need? You’re not going to look into it?”

“Looks that way.”

“Bill, come on! This could be a huge story.”

“I understand.” He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I was told to drop it, Abby. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Who told you to drop it?”

“Nice talking to you.” The line went dead.

S
omeone had put a clamp on the story. An editor? The police? On the off chance that I could wheedle that information from Reilly, I dialed the nonemergency line. “I’d like to speak with Sgt. Sean Reilly, please,” I said to the switchboard operator. “This is Abby Knight.”

“Abby? How are you, honey? It’s Georgia. Remember me? I used to babysit you and those naughty brothers of yours.”

I had no recollection of any Georgia. I also had no recollection of naughty brothers. Jonathan and Jordan had been so well behaved, I’d been forced to get them into trouble just to keep from looking so bad myself. “Georgia! How have you been?”

“Just super. I hear you bought Bloomers. Good for you, Abby. You can’t flunk out of that, can you?” She guffawed. A pained chuckle was the best I could manage.

“Georgia, is Sgt. Reilly around? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Who wouldn’t? Now there’s a good-looking devil if there ever was one. But he’s out right now. Is this business, or a social call?” She put special emphasis on the last two words.

“One hundred percent business. Tell him to call me when he gets in.”

“Will do, hon. Pinch your brothers’ freckled cheeks for me, will you?”

“With pleasure.” I put my phone in my purse and got out of the Vette, checking up and down the street for the Crown Victoria and/or the little old man. I saw neither, but as I rounded the corner onto Franklin I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I swung around, but no one was there. It happened twice more before I reached the shop. Anyone watching me stop suddenly and pivot would have thought I was crazy. I was certainly starting to feel that way.

When I stepped into the shop, Grace was grinding coffee beans in the parlor, and Lottie was in the kitchen serving up her Monday morning breakfast. I stopped to check on the wire orders and saw that we’d received nine. Not a bad start for the week. My coupons had been pulling in customers, too, and I still had the contest drawing, which I hoped would garner some newspaper attention.

“Don’t you look like a hot potato today,” Lottie said, shoveling a mound of eggs onto a plate. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you had a date with that courthouse cutie.”

I adjusted my black top. “Because I’m wearing this old thing?”

“You bought it last week, hon. You showed me, remember?”

I stuffed a bite of toast in my mouth and reached for the pepper.

“Abby? You do have a date with him, don’t you?”

“Not a date,” I said, interrupting her dance of joy. “A lunch meeting.”

“Right,” Lottie said with a wink, “a meeting.”

Time to change the subject. “Remind me to do that drawing tomorrow. I’m going to ask Bill Bretton to write it up for the newspaper.”

The phone rang, and moments later Grace called, “It’s your cousin, dear.”

Was there any better way to kick off the week? A toothache? A broken heel? A flat tire? I took the call at my desk. “I want you to know you’re interrupting my breakfast.”