Slay it with Flowers (31 page)

The bartender hesitated a moment, then reached for the twenty, which Marco promptly removed. “Like I was saying, I need information.”

“Okay, okay. I remember him. Yeah. He was quite a storyteller. He sat at that table over there in the corner. Everyone in the bar was over there, listening to his jokes.”

Marco took his hand away, leaving the twenty, which the bartender instantly snatched.

“What time did he get here?”

“Like I watch the clock. Some time around six, maybe?”

The hairy snoozer beside Marco lifted his head and mumbled, “Six thirty.”

“How do you know it was six thirty?” Marco asked him.

“M’ wife comes t’ get me ever’ night at six thirty.” He sank back into oblivion. I felt instant sympathy for his wife.

We glanced at the bartender for verification and he said, “Like clockwork.”

“What time did my Irish friend leave?” Marco asked the bartender, just as the jukebox began to wheeze out “Woolly Bully.” Considering the clientele, it seemed an appropriate tune.

“Couple of hours later. He took a phone call, then his friends came to pick him up.”

“Did you get a look at any of these friends?”

“Only one, when she got out of the car to let him in. Tall blonde, a real babe.”

That had to be Ursula.

“What make of car?” I asked.

The bartender scratched his ear. “It was silver . . . a Lexus, I think.”

I whispered to Marco, “That’s Claymore’s car.”

“Did you happen to notice how he arrived?” Marco asked.

“I got better things to do than watch the door.”

“Hey, sweet thang,” I heard a gravelly voice say. I swiveled to see one of the collared animals grinning at me, his full, graying beard coated with the remnants of his last meal. “Wanna dance?”

Marco put his arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, man. She’s mine.”

In my
dreams.
I gave the bearded beast a shrug and said, “Maybe next time.”

In
his
dreams.

Marco took a few sips of beer and looked at me. “Ready to go?”

Was I ever. Once we were back in Marco’s car and I had cleansed my hands with a disinfectant wipe from his glove box, Marco said, “Looks like Bertie’s story checks out.”

“I’m taking his name off my list of suspects. The next one up is Onora. I need to get into her hotel room to search for the red dress and black gloves the hotel clerk saw her wearing that night. If she killed Punch, there would have to be blood splatters on them.”

Marco looked at me with new admiration. “Very good, sunshine. You’re starting to think like a PI. How are you going to get in?”

“With a key,” I replied with a smile, feeling extremely proud of myself, “which I will get from Jillian.” New Chapel Inn and Suites hadn’t yet graduated to the age of computerized key cards. Cutting-edge technology wasn’t a phrase most people were familiar with.

He nodded approvingly. “And how will you prevent her from telling the others about your proposed room-snooping?”

“I’ll threaten to reveal an embarrassing secret. No, that won’t work. She doesn’t embarrass. I know. I’ll threaten to tell her mother about a certain boy she entertained when she was sixteen and her parents were in London. Damn. That won’t work either. She could retaliate.” My smugness dissolved as I frantically searched for the answer to Marco’s pop quiz.

“How about reminding her that her wedding day is coming up and you haven’t found the killer yet?” He turned the corner onto Franklin and pulled up beside my Vette. “Rule of thumb. Stick as close to the truth as you can. It makes life a lot easier. I’m going to give you a head start, then follow you home. I want to see if your shadow comes back.”

“Since you’re coming out my way, do you want to stay for supper? I can whip up a mean grilled cheese sandwich—with real American cheese.”

“Is there any other kind?”

Was it any wonder I liked this man?

“Tempting,” he said, “but I have to get back to work. Thanks anyway.”

No snuggling on the sofa tonight. I slid into my car, started the engine, glanced in my rearview mirror for signs of the black car, checked for the little hooded figure, then pulled out and started home. It was getting to be a ritual.

I caught a glimpse of Marco’s car at the next street, waiting for the light, but that was the last I saw of him. Ten minutes later I pulled into my parking lot, locked the car, and started for the building’s entrance. My cell phone rang.

“No shadow,” Marco said.

“Where are you?”

“Sitting at a corner watching you walk toward your door.”

“Do you like the way I walk?”

“Are you going to start that now?”

I had to laugh. Marco was one of the few men who could make me laugh. I liked that in a guy. I wanted to thank him for bribing the bartender and defending my honor—if not my skirt—and taking time out to go to a stinky dive with me, and just for putting up with me in general, but I knew he’d tune me out after the first five words, so that’s what I gave him—five words that said it all. “Hey, Marco, thanks for everything.”

“Not a problem. Be careful, okay?”

As I put away my phone, the door to the apartment building opened and Peewee the snarling taco dog made straight for my bare ankles. Luckily, Mrs. Sample scooped him up before he did any damage. I bid her a good evening, then jumped inside and pulled the door shut behind me, wondering if it was just me, or if Peewee hated everybody’s ankles.

Upstairs, Simon was waiting patiently beside his food dish. I had barely locked the door behind me when he started mewing, a pathetic cry designed to bring on instant guilt, as though he would expire from malnourishment at any moment. Oddly, his dish was still full from morning.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears. I cleaned out his dish and gave him a fresh glob of cat food from a can in the refrigerator. Simon sniffed it, then turned and walked away. I glanced at the label and saw the reason for the cat’s attitude. Nikki had tried a new variety. It always took Simon one meal to decide if he liked it, which he never did. After that first sample, a week of starvation wouldn’t force him to eat it.

“Okay, Simon,” I called. “I’m getting out your old favorite—kidneys in gravy.” I ran the can opener and Simon materialized at my feet, nearly tripping me as I stepped over to fill his bowl. He finished it before I had a chance to cap the can and put it away.

I consumed a grilled cheese sandwich in record time and was cleaning up in the kitchen when the phone rang. I grabbed the handset on the wall.

“Hi, Abs,” Jillian said in her Little Miss Innocence voice.

“No, I haven’t solved the case yet.”

“How do you know that’s what I was calling about?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Fine,” she said petulantly. “Bye.”

“Wait, Jill. I need a favor. Are you going shopping with the bridesmaids tomorrow, and if so, can you get me a key to their hotel room without them finding out?”

“Is this about the murder investigation?”

“No, actually I’m planning a burglary. Of course it’s about the investigation.”

“Then yes, I can.”

“Great. I’ll stop by in the morning to pick it up.”

“How early in the morning?”

“Seven forty-five.”

“Too early. How about, say, noon?”

“That’s not morning.”

She huffed impatiently. “Eleven fifty-nine, then.”

Talk about splitting hairs. “Fine. What time are you leaving to go shopping?”

“I have to shower,” she said, thinking aloud, “do my hair, pick out something to wear—”

“So around dinner time?”

“One o’clock, smart-ass.”

I rolled my eyes at Simon, who had just dropped a wet rubber band on my bare foot and was gazing up at me patiently. I plucked it off and tossed it down the hallway. “Remember, Jill, don’t say a word to anyone—unless you
don’t
want me to find the killer.”

“My lips are sealed.”

That would be a first. I hung up just as Simon came trotting back with the rubber band. Before I could stop him from dropping it on my foot again, the phone rang. “Now what?” I asked, expecting to hear my cousin’s voice again. But there was no sound at all.

“Jillian? Hello?”

There was muffled noise in the background, as if someone had put a hand over the phone. I expected the heavy breathing to start at any moment. “Who is this?” I asked, digging in the junk drawer for my whistle.

“Abby Knight?” a man said in a hushed voice. “They’re on to you. Be careful.”

Goose bumps sprang up on my arms. “Who’s on to me? Who are you?”

The line disconnected. I hit the code to find out the caller’s number and was told it was blocked. Someone was on to me? What did that mean? Who was I supposed to watch out for? A light tap on the knee made me look down. Simon sat at my feet, a paw on my leg, waiting. I tossed the rubber band as far down the hallway as I could. He started after it and, halfway there, plunked down on the floor to give himself a bath.

I poured myself a glass of V8 Splash and stood at the window scanning the parking lot and the homes across the street from the apartment building. The problem was that I didn’t know who or what to scan for. The FBI? The little old man? My only hope was that the guy would call back so I could get more information.

But by eleven o’clock that night no more calls had come in, so I hit the sheets and fell into a restless slumber filled with eerie dreams. At five o’clock in the morning, tired of tossing and turning, I got up, deciding I might as well get an early start on the day. My to-do list was as long as my arm.

I did my walk in the predawn light, showered, ate breakfast, and was in the Vette on my way to work by the unheard-of time of seven o’clock. As I passed the alley that ran behind Bloomers, I took a glance down it, as I usually do, expecting to see it empty. Not today. Today the black Crown Victoria was parked there, directly behind my shop. If that was someone’s idea of being discreet, someone needed to go back to spy school.

I made a sharp turn into the alley and roared up behind the black car. The driver didn’t even turn. Ready to do battle, I got out of the Vette and marched up to his window, pushing aside the thought that maybe confronting this man wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

Then again it really didn’t matter. The man was dead.

I
jumped back with a gasp. His face was a mottled purple, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tongue lolled—yet still I recognized him. Dark blond ponytail, light brown goatee—the man I’d captured on camera at the Emperor’s Spa, and most likely the man who’d driven past when I was chasing the old Chinese guy. This guy had to be with the feds.

My hands shook as I dug for my phone and called 911, all the while glancing around to make sure the murderer wasn’t lurking nearby. “There’s a dead man in my alley,” I said, trying not to hyperventilate. “I think he’s with the FBI.” I gave them the location, then called Marco.

“Hey, sunshine,” he said sleepily. I could hear the stir of sheets in the background. “What’s up?”

“Not too much,” I said with false lightness. “Just a Crown Vic behind my store with a dead man inside.”

I heard the sheets whip back as he murmured a curse, then he said, “Where are you now?”

“In the alley waiting for the police.”

“Get away from the car. Go inside the store and lock the door behind you.”

Up to that moment I hadn’t decided whether to be mildly or completely freaked out, but the urgency in his voice tipped the scales in favor of completely freaked. I backed up all the way to the big iron door, but my hands were trembling so hard I had trouble unlocking it.

“Okay, I’m inside,” I reported at last, trying to sound calm and collected rather than completely unhinged. “And here come the police.”

“Good. I’ll be down there soon. Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths.”

How well he knew me.

Four squad cars arrived from either end of the alley, with sirens blaring and lights flashing. I watched from the doorway as they got out, drew their weapons, and cautiously approached both my Vette and the Ford. An ambulance arrived next, and within minutes the police had swarmed the black car and were taking photos and collecting evidence—with the corpse still in the front seat. Another squad car pulled into the alley and Reilly got out. He walked up to one of the officers on the scene, got the scoop, spotted me, then headed my way.

“Tell me how this happens. You report a black Crown Vic tailing you and the next morning a man in a black Crown Vic ends up dead.”

I massaged my temples, which were starting to tighten. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

He scowled at me as he reached for a notepad and pencil. “Is this the same car you said was following you yesterday?”