Slay it with Flowers (33 page)

T
he door swung open and there stood Onora, clad in high-heeled pink sandals, designer jeans, and a pink chiffon blouse. She took one look at me—guilt plastered all over my face and my purse clamped under my arm like a quarterback making a run for the goalpost—then she stepped inside and shut the door.

“What are you doing here?”

I stood my ground and maintained eye contact, which wasn’t easy given the difference in our heights. The worst thing to do would be to show fear. “I came to pick up—”
Came to pick up what? Think, Abby!
“A necklace. Ursula said she had a necklace I could borrow.”

“How did you get in?” she snapped, her face drawing up tighter than usual.

I considered admitting Jillian’s part in the scheme, but on the off chance the wedding still went on and Onora was cleared, I couldn’t see ruining their relationship. “I—um—borrowed a key.”

“Whose key?”

“That’s not important.”

Onora’s smooth features tightened even further as she advanced on me. “Why don’t I believe you?” Before I knew what she was planning, she had grabbed my purse and was holding it over my head as if I were a five-year-old and she’d taken away my ball.

“That’s private property!” I cried, trying to get it back.

“You invade my space, I invade yours. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Then she proceeded to shake the contents onto the floor. Out fell my cell phone, wallet, keys, lip gloss, pen, pack of tissues, and the wadded glove, which unfurled as it dropped.

Onora snatched it up. “What’s this?”

“My glove,” I said instantly, trying to snatch it back.

“No, it’s not! It’s
my
glove.” Her pupils darkened as she gave me a shove backward. “What are you doing with it?”

For probably the second time in my life I was speechless. I stood there rubbing my shoulders where she’d pushed me, trying to come up with a viable reason for having someone else’s formal glove in my purse.

Her pupils widened. “Omigod. You’re looking for evidence. You’re trying to prove I’m the murderer!”

I eyed my phone on the floor, calculating how many seconds I’d have to grab it, dash down the hallway, and lock myself in the bathroom to call for help. All I had to do was push Onora off balance.

“Where’s the other glove?” she demanded.

“I didn’t find it.”

“Liar!” She started to shove me again, but I dodged her and dove for my phone. Before I could get away, she grabbed me around the waist and flung me onto my side. I rolled onto my back and drew my legs up to kick back, but she neatly sidestepped me, picked up my phone, and stuffed it into her back jean pocket.

“Get up,” she said.

Keeping a wary eye on her, I got up and dusted off my backside.

She tossed the glove onto the table, then pointed to the small sofa. “Sit.”

“Gosh, I’d really like to, but I have to get back to my shop or my staff will be worried and come looking for me. And by the way, there’s also a cop parked outside.” Right. A cop I’d foolishly managed to evade.

Onora’s hands clenched and unclenched, and I could see she was gearing up for one of her emotional rages. “Will you just sit down and shut up?”

I sat.

“Do you think I don’t know I look guilty? I have an IQ of one hundred seventy-six and an MBA from Wharton. I’m not an idiot!” She had screeched the last part, then must have realized how unbalanced she sounded. She scraped her hair back from her face, pulled a chair up to face the sofa, and sat on the edge, leaning toward me. “The truth is, I
can’t
tell anyone where I went last Wednesday evening. It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’d rather be embarrassed than accused of murder.”

“Are you serious?” She thrust her face in mine. “Look at me! Look at my face. Look at my eyes. Do you understand now?”

At the risk of making her even more deranged I said, “Understand what?”

She straightened with a huff. “Don’t pretend you don’t see them.
Wrinkles!
”

“Onora, I am not lying when I say that all I see is smooth skin.”

She jumped up and paced to the door, rubbing her arms as though she were cold. “You’re afraid to tell me the truth. Everyone is afraid to tell me. I look horrible and I know it. My skin is aging faster than my body and I’m powerless to stop it.
Powerless.
By the time I’m forty I’ll look like an old hag!”

“I understand your concern,” I said to placate her, although in truth I thought she was nuts, “but I don’t see what this has to do with the murder.”

She dropped down onto the sofa beside me, a frantic tone in her voice.“Punch broke up with me because he couldn’t stand to look at my face. I tried to win him back. I even dressed up like his little Chinese tart. Know what he did when he saw me? He laughed.”

Onora laughed, too, but not in a natural way. More the way a maniacal murderer might laugh just before she chops someone into bite-sized wedges. “Do you know how humiliating it is to dress in the sexiest outfit you can find and throw yourself at a man, only to have him laugh at you? Do you know how it feels to be made to look like a fool?”

“On more than one occasion,” I told her somberly. If this woman didn’t have a motive for murder, no one did. She was crazy, and I was beginning to wonder if I was going to get out of that room without one or both of us suffering bodily harm. I decided to try to reason with her, if that was possible.

“You know, it might help to talk to someone. In fact, I know the very person you need, so why don’t I call him?”

“A therapist? I don’t need a therapist. I need a plastic surgeon!”

Actually, I was going to suggest a cop, but at that point I’d do anything to get out of there. “Okay, that’ll work. Let’s call a plastic surgeon right now. Would you hand me my phone? Please?” I gave her a tentative smile.

“For God’s sake, will you stop acting like I’m going to kill you?”

“I will if you’re not.”

“I didn’t kill Punch!” she cried, banging a fist on the sofa. “What will it take to make you believe me?”

“Calming down would be a good start. Then you could tell me where you went in your car that evening.”

She glared at me for a moment, still seething, then turned her head and began to rub her forehead, smoothing all those nonexistent lines. Her lips started moving as if she were having an internal debate, so I gathered my scattered belongings and put them back in my purse—gingerly, so as not to interrupt her discussion.

Finally, in a resigned voice she said, “Okay, fine. What have I got to lose except my dignity? The truth is I got the name of a New Chapel doctor from my dermatologist back in New York—in case my last injection wore off—which it did! I went to his office that night.”

“Your last injection of what?” I asked stupidly.

She pointed to her eyes. “Botox! Bo. Tox. There! Are you happy? Now you can tell everyone that Onora gets Botox injections!”

What she needed was a sanity injection. “There’s a doctor in this town who keeps evening hours?”

“Believe me, I paid dearly for it.”

“Can you prove you went to see him?”

“Call his office. I’ve got his card in my purse.”

“Let me make sure I understand. You went to Punch’s room and tried to seduce him. When that failed you went for a Botox treatment.”

“What was I supposed to do? Punch said he couldn’t stand to look at my face. I thought if I could just smooth out these horrid wrinkles maybe he’d take me back.” She looked at me with such sad desperation that I almost felt sorry for her. I also had a sneaking suspicion that if Punch had said he couldn’t stand her face, he hadn’t meant it literally.

“What did Punch do after you left his room?”

“I don’t know. When he told me to get out, I ran back to my room, called the doctor, and left.”

“Did you see Punch’s—um—date in the room?”

“Passion Flower?” Onora’s upper lip tried to curl back but had to give up the struggle. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I
wish
I’d run into her.”

“Is that her real name? Passion Flower?”

“That’s what Punch called her. I had another name for her.”

“Do you think he went to meet her at the dunes?”

She shrugged. “He only said he had to leave.”

“Just one more question. Why is there blood on your glove?”

“Because that dermatologist was a hack,” she said bitterly. “When I got back in the car, I looked in the mirror and saw spots of blood where he’d injected me. I must have touched them.”

“Why did you hide the gloves?”

“I didn’t hide them. I threw them.”

Probably in the throes of another temper tantrum.

Onora toyed with a lock of her hair, looking suddenly like a little girl. “Are you going to tell the others my secret?”

“Not unless you want me to. What you do to your skin is your business.”

She blinked rapidly. I think she would have cried if she could have moved the right facial muscles.

“But you’re going to have to tell them something about that evening,” I warned her, “because everyone is wondering where you went.”

“Well, I did have a terrible headache, and I did stop at a drug store. I’ll just say I went out to get a pain prescription filled.”

“That’ll work. Now I suggest you call Sergeant Reilly and get your name off his short list.” I held out my hand. “Phone?”

“Why don’t we just ask that cop to do it?”

“What cop?”

“The one you said was parked outside.” With a wry smile, which was about all a stiff-faced person could do, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out the phone. As I opened it and hit the police’s number she said, “You’re okay, you know?”

I wished I could say the same for her. I got Reilly on the line and quickly explained the situation.

“How the hell did you get away from your detail?” he bellowed. “I’ve got half the police force out looking for you.”

“All six of them? Just kidding. I think I lost him when I stopped to get my car washed. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

He muttered a few words under his breath that I chose not to hear, then he told me Onora would have to come down to the station to give a statement. I relayed the information to Onora, but she wasn’t happy about it. She’d had the crazy notion that the police would come to her.

I left her in her room and started for the elevator just as a maid got off carrying a red silk dress. Deciding to play it safe, I gave the girl a tip and took the dress with me. I believed Onora’s story, yet I’d been fooled before. Let the detectives do what they wanted with it.

Now I was down to the last suspect on my list: Passion Flower. If she didn’t pan out, then I’d have to admit that Flip was most likely the killer. But how was I going to find her?

Sitting in my car in the hotel parking lot, I put the top down, then tried Punch’s number again. It rang six times, and I was about to give up when I heard it connect. “Hello,” I said quickly. “Who is this?”

“Wong numbah.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up. What’s your name?”

“Wong numbah,” the whispered voice said again.

“How did you get Punch’s phone? Are you Passion Flower?”

There was a slight intake of breath, then the call disconnected. It had to be her. But where was she?

Since I couldn’t get inside the spa to look for her, I settled for my second option, which was to check out the new Chinese restaurant to see if she worked there. As I pulled out of the lot, I saw a squad car come up the street toward me. The officer stopped even with my car and rolled down his window.

“A car wash, huh?” he said with a scowl.

“Yes, sir. Doesn’t this baby shine? And just so you know, I’m on my way to the China Cabinet.” I gave him a friendly smile and drove away.

The Chinese restaurant smelled pleasantly of sweet-and-sour sauce, fried pork, and garlic, and was decorated in the standard red-and-gold color scheme, with hanging paper lanterns over the tables, red cushioned chairs, hand-painted folding screens, jade statues, and a small water fountain at the entrance. Most of the tables were filled, so I grabbed a vacant one near the door and ordered an egg roll and green tea.

“Nice place,” I told the young Chinese waitress when she brought my order. She looked to be about twenty, with pretty, dark hair pulled into a twist at the back of her head. Her name tag said KIM.

“How is business?” I asked her.

“Good,” she said blandly, not paying much attention. “You want to order something else?”

“No, thanks. Do you know a young woman by the name of Passion Flower?”

“Passion Flower?” she asked, looking genuinely puzzled. “What kind of name is that?”

“Oddly enough, that was my next question.”

The waitress stepped aside as her boss, who also served as the host, seated a group of college kids at the table behind me. “Sounds like someone from the old country,” Kim said. “Who is she?”

“That would have been my third question. I don’t know who she is and I need to find her. I have a sneaking suspicion that she works at the Emperor’s Spa.”

There was a look of sympathy in Kim’s eyes. “If she does, then I feel very sorry for her.”

Her boss snapped out something in Chinese, then she said, “I have to get back to work.”

I ate my egg roll and took a few sips of tea, then went to the cashier to pay. When I returned to the table to leave a tip, Kim paused behind me to whisper, “The spa is a very bad place. The girls come from China and are guarded like prisoners. The owner is a very powerful man in Hong Kong and he doesn’t like anyone interfering in his business. I wouldn’t go near there if I were you.”

I turned to thank her, but she’d slipped away.

An absentee owner and a guard. If that didn’t sound suspicious, nothing did.

 

As I hurried back to Bloomers, I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and groaned at the amount of time I’d spent working on the murder. I needed to put everything else aside for the rest of the afternoon and concentrate on business, especially Trudee’s party. I still hadn’t come up with an idea for her foyer or figured out the logistics of the floral flag. Thank goodness I had Lottie and Grace to help. Once the wedding and the party were over I’d have to take my assistants out to eat. It would strain my checking account, but they deserved a bonus.