Slay it with Flowers (28 page)

“Found it.”

“At the dunes?”

“Yeah,” she said guardedly. “Why?”

A tingle of excitement raced up my spine. “Heather, you found a piece of murder evidence.”

T
he sliding glass door opened, and Trudee hurried onto the deck. “Did they hit your car? Ben, you didn’t hit her car, did you?”

The car wasn’t my concern at the moment. “Heather, I’d like to take that case to the police to have it examined.”

She pulled it against her chest. “No way! Finders keepers!”

I appealed to her mother. “Trudee, I think this camera bag may be evidence in a murder case. I really need to have the police check it out.”

“The dunes murder?” Trudee asked, steam practically shooting from her ears as she glared at her daughter. “Heather, what are you doing with that bag?”

“We found it, okay? It was just lying in some weeds, so we took it.”

“Would you be able to show the police where you found it?” I asked her.

“I guess so.”

“Was anything inside or was it empty?”

“Some cloth bags were inside. They’re in Ben’s car.”

Trudee grabbed the strap and yanked the case out of Heather’s arms. “Here you go, Abby. Heather, go get the things you took out of it.”

As Heather clumped off to do her mother’s bidding, Trudee walked around to the front with me to take a look at my bumper. Although the VW was a mere centimeter away, it hadn’t scratched my car. Lucky for them.

“Here,” Heather said, piling four heavy, felt bags into my arms. I could tell by the shape that they held camera lenses.

“Just to forewarn you,” I told Trudee, as Heather stalked back to join her boyfriend, “the police will probably want to question them and take their prints.”

“They’ll be here,” she promised.

I put the lenses in the case, stowed the case in my trunk, and drove away. Boy, did I have a surprise for Morgan. And an excellent bargaining tool. Marco would be so proud.

 

The hands on my watch seemed to move with excruciating slowness as I waited for one o’clock to arrive. Ten minutes before the hour, I alerted Lottie to my departure, picked up a shopping bag with the camera case inside, and headed across the square to the restaurant.

Time had stopped somewhere in the early 1970s at Rosie’s. The walls were paneled in dark wood; the booths that ringed the room were high-backed avocado green vinyl, with polka-dotted Formica tables; the chairs and tables on the raised center platform were chrome and burnt orange plastic; and the floor was a golden brown linoleum. There was a single cash register station by the door, and a kitchen through a pair of swinging doors in the back.

The menu was classic diner food: hamburgers with a selection of toppings; chicken, turkey, ham, and beef sandwiches; a choice of three soups (one always being French onion); batter-fried fish and french-fried potatoes; meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and slices of homemade pies chosen from the glass case next to the cash register. Nothing fancy, nothing vegetarian, nothing expensive, no substitutions, and the place was always crowded. Their only concession to the new century was a selection of gourmet coffees.

I sat at a booth in the back left corner and had barely glanced at the menu when the door opened and a hush fell over the diners.

Morgan had entered the building.

I raised my hand and caught his eye. As usual, every female over the age of twelve turned to watch him saunter toward the back, waiting expectantly to see who the lucky girl was. By that cocky grin on his face, Morgan knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.

“Hello, Abby,” he said, dropping his voice to movie-star range. The female sighs around me were enough to rustle the paper napkins on the tables.

“I’m surprised no one stopped you for an autograph,” I said as he slid onto the opposite bench.

A thoughtful frown appeared, as if he suddenly wondered whether he’d lost his popularity. But then a middle-aged waitress in an orange blouse and black slacks materialized and practically melted onto his shoulder, reviving his flagging spirits.

“Coffee?” she gushed. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Latte? Mocha? Mocha latte?”

He gave her his toothsome smile. “How about a plain old decaf?”

“Cream? Sweetener? Sugar?”

Had she called him sugar or offered him sugar?

“Sweetener. Thanks.”

She twirled and floated toward the kitchen.

“I’ll have iced tea,” I called,
“sugar.”

“So.” Morgan glanced around the diner to see who his audience was. “How is my favorite florist today?”

“Hungry.” I could have said I’d just had a third arm attached and his instant reply would have been exactly the same.

“Great. Say, I hear we’re going to be walking down the aisle together.”

“I’ve heard that rumor, too. It was really nice of you to step in on such short notice.”

He leaned toward me, an angelic gleam in his eyes. “I’m a nice guy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

His timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Now I’d see how nice he really was. As we studied the menu, I said casually, “I have something I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

“Are you wearing it?” He wiggled an eyebrow at me.

Half in jest I said, “You are a shameful human being and a discredit to your profession. I should report you, but then my cousin would be left without a groomsman for the second time.”

“So you’re not wearing it?”

“It’s a piece of evidence for the murder case. So, no, I’m not wearing it.”

Morgan sat forward, all kidding aside. I knew I had his attention when he didn’t even notice the waitress lean over to put his coffee and her breasts in front of him. Since I’d last seen her, her blouse had somehow come unbuttoned halfway down her chest. It was quite a display. Too bad Morgan missed it.

“What evidence?” he asked.

“I had an iced tea,” I reminded the waitress. Wounded by Morgan’s lack of attention, she moped off to get my beverage.

“A camera case—your prime suspect’s camera case, I believe.” I pulled out the shopping bag and set it in the center of the table.

Morgan peered inside the bag. “Where did you get it?”

“From a pair of teenagers who happened to be out at the dunes the night of the murder.” I slid a piece of paper toward him. “Here are their names and an address where you can reach them.”

He tucked the paper in his pocket. “How did you know they had the case?”

“I have my sources.” I paused when the waitress returned with my glass of tea. We put in our food orders and she stalked off, still pouting.

“I’ll get it over to the detectives after my two o’clock hearing.” He reached for the bag, but I pulled it back, setting it safely on the bench beside me.

“You’re not going to blackmail me, are you?” he asked. “I can get a subpoena for the bag.”

“And here I thought you were so nice.”

He studied me for several minutes, trying to figure out my angle. “What do you want?”

I counted the items on my fingers. “One, a little information. Two, justice. Three, the satisfaction of seeing my cousin married. Four, the joy of getting paid for her wedding flowers. That should about do it.”

“You know I can’t divulge privileged information.”

“You don’t have to divulge anything. I’ll ask you something, and you either nod or shake your head.”

“That’s still divulging.”

“Come on, Morgan. I just brought you an important piece of evidence. No one has to know you told me anything. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours—and don’t take that literally.”

He gave me a put-upon glance. I patted the shopping bag and he sighed. Like it was the first time he’d ever helped anyone.

“Has the FBI joined the investigation?” I asked him.

Morgan shook his head. That was one worry gone. “Was Punch’s cell phone found?”

He shook his head again. Cell phone still missing, possibly in the murderer’s possession. “Did you develop the film from the camera and, if so, was there anything helpful on it?”

He broke his silence to say, “Birds and plants. That’s it.” Dead end there.

“Did you get any prints off the camera besides your primary suspect’s?”

He took a sip of coffee, then nodded once and quickly held up three fingers.

Three sets of prints. “Have you identified all of them?”

He shook his head.

The waitress brought my grilled chicken sandwich and Morgan’s mushroom-topped burger and set them down with a vengeful
thunk.
Realizing he’d been neglectful, Morgan thanked her, holding her gaze a moment longer than necessary, causing her to do a quick change in attitude. “Will there be anything else?” she breathed in his ear. I hoped she’d eaten garlic at her previous meal.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Maybe later.”

She giggled and sashayed off, throwing him a longing glance over her shoulder.

“Shameful,” I told him.

“Habit.” He bit into the burger and a huge glob of mustard splattered onto his plate. I was glad the waitress wasn’t there to see it. She’d be mopping it up with the front of her blouse.

“You’ve got three sets of prints from the camera. How many have you identified?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, then held up two fingers.

“Was Bertie McManus’s one of them?”

He nodded.

Finding Bertie’s prints wasn’t too surprising since Flip had mentioned that he knew how to use the camera. But I couldn’t rule him out without verifying his alibi. “How about maid of honor Onora?”

Morgan shook his head.

Lack of her prints was probably why the detectives hadn’t pursued that thread of their investigation. They obviously hadn’t thought it through far enough to realize she might have worn gloves.

“Can you tell if the unidentified prints belonged to a man or woman?”

Another shake of the head.

I paused to take a few bites of sandwich and mull over his answers. “You have an unidentified set of prints. Why are you so sure Flip is the murderer?”

“It’s a classic case of revenge,” Morgan said, chewing a french fry. “And frankly, his alibi stunk. Bump on the head? Temporary amnesia? Overused.”

“Wait a minute. Rewind to that little bomb you just dropped. You said
revenge.
Revenge for what?”

“I can’t tell you that.” Morgan glanced at his watch, then signaled to the waitress for the bill. “I have to be in court in twenty minutes. I’d better go.”

“Will you at least let me know what the detectives find out about the camera case? Fingerprints, et cetera?”

He covered my hand with his and said in that slick, practiced way, “For you, Abby? Of course I will.”

And I wouldn’t hold my breath.

The woman brought over our tab, and Morgan picked it up. “I’ll get this,” he told me, “and I’ll take that.” He pointed to the shopping bag. I let him have both.

As we walked outside, Morgan put on his silvered shades, then patted the package under his left arm. “Thanks.”

“Quid pro quo,” I reminded him. One thing in return for another. It was something that had actually sunk in during my year of law school.

He smiled, and a car full of women nearly veered onto the curb. “Give me a few days, then stop by my office.”

He started across the street toward the courthouse and the cars seemed to part before him like the waters of the Red Sea. If I followed, I’d be run over. My cell phone rang so I pulled it out of my purse and flipped it open.

“Abby, this is Carrie at First Impressions hair salon. Do you have time to stop by this afternoon? There’s something here you have to see.”

That sounded cryptic.

“Hold on. I’ve got another call,” she said. After a minute, Carrie came back on the line apologizing. “It’s a madhouse here today.”

“I’ll head over your way now. See you in about fifteen minutes.”

As I walked back to Bloomers I thought over what I’d learned from Morgan. The key to proving that Flip wasn’t the killer seemed to be identifying the third set of fingerprints. Someone else had held that camera at the murder scene, and I had a strong hunch that if I could find the missing cell phone, I’d find that person. I immediately called Jillian. “Hey, what’s Punch’s cell phone number?”

“Abby, he’s dead.”

“Whew! I’m glad you told me!” I said, emoting. “Would you just give me the number?”

“Okay, but why?”

“I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“What’s all that background noise?”

“The girls and I are shopping on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Here’s his number.”

I punched it in as she recited it. “Thanks, Jill. I’m going to call his phone now. If a cell phone rings in your vicinity, would you let me know when you get a moment alone?”