Throw in the Trowel (7 page)

“Sorry, love. Do you recall hearing anything about that, Lottie?”

“I'm gonna guess that Henry was ready to be his own boss,” Lottie said. “Would you want to work for an eighteen-year-old?”

I continued reading my notes. “After Kermit disappeared, Lila got a divorce and married Rusty Miller. Did Rusty own Down the Hatch then?”

“I want to say he did,” Grace said, “but please do check with Gert.”

“So it's most likely that the key chain belongs to Kermit, his wife, his son, or Henry,” I said. “The question is, does it have anything to do with the body we found?”

The bell over the door jingled in the other room, causing both women to head for the curtain, while I sat at my desk musing. What I needed was someone who could tie the key chain to those bones. I didn't know Doug Cannon, but I did recall meeting Henry Greer. Since Bloomers was his customer, I knew he'd make time for me. Hopefully Henry could shed light on the puzzle.

I pulled the black plastic Rolodex file toward me—a relic from Lottie's days as owner—and rolled through it until I got to the
G
s. I found the card for Greer Plumbing and picked up the desk phone to set up an interview. But then I realized I had a dilemma.

I had a partner's feelings to consider now. Would Marco be offended if I didn't confer with him before setting up a meeting? Would he be hurt if I didn't wait for the coroner's report, like he wanted to do? What would I want him to do if our situation was reversed?

This marriage thing was a real game changer.

C
HAPTER SEVEN

I
was about to put the phone back into its cradle when a little voice of reason in my head whispered,
You could always make an appointment with Henry and then invite Marco to come with you
.
That would open up a dialogue so you could both discuss your feelings on the matter.

Excellent advice. I liked that little voice of reason.

“Hello. This is Abby Knight from Bloomers Flower Shop.” When would I remember to add
Salvare
? “I'd like to speak to Henry Greer, please.”

“He's gone for the day,” a man said pleasantly. “If you give me your number, I'd be happy to have him call you tomorrow morning.”

“That's okay. I'll call you back.” At least I'd have a chance to run it past Marco beforehand. I wrapped the key chain in cellophane, put it in my purse, and plucked the next slip of paper from the spindle.

By four thirty that afternoon, I had cleared away all the orders that had come in and was just about to put finishing touches on an elegant table centerpiece when my niece texted that she was on her way over to see me.

I had made the centerpiece with a rose called Rosa “Joseph's Coat”—a rich orange-red bud that opened to a spray of golden yellow tapering to pinkish orange-red—along with a hybrid tea rose that had creamy white flowers with a sweet rose fragrance, the durable and long-lasting camellia leaf, and the tough leatherleaf fern for my green accents. The Joseph's Coat rose was such a knockout that I liked to keep the rest of the arrangement simple.

“Hey, Auntie A,” Tara said cheerfully, stepping through the curtain just as I attached the gift card. She glanced around. “Where's Seedy?”

“Under the table.”

Tara dropped her purple backpack on the floor and ducked under the worktable to give the dog a good belly rub, then grabbed a water bottle and her cell phone from her pack and climbed onto a stool.

At thirteen going on fourteen, Tara looked like a young, more slender version of me—five feet two, green eyes, freckles, and vivid red hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. She had on a faded blue denim jacket over a long white tunic top and dark blue jeggings with brown knee-high boots. The daughter of my brother Jordan and sister-in-law Kathy, Tara was near enough to me in age that she felt more like my younger sister than my niece. Because we were close, when she needed advice she came to me, knowing I would respect her privacy and not blab to her parents.

“What do you think of this?” I asked, turning the arrangement around so she got a three-hundred-sixty-degree view.

“Awesome! Did you have to, like, dip those big roses in paint to get that splattery look?”

“Nope. Mother Nature did that.”

“A. Mazing.” She leaned forward to bury her nose in one, inhaling deeply and then sighing in pleasure. “I
love
roses. I hope my boyfriend gets me a dozen big fat red ones for Valentine's Day.”

“Don't be disappointed if he doesn't. Roses are expensive.”

She picked up a loose rose petal and pressed it against her nose to sniff it. “Haydn has money.”

“You mean his parents have money.”

“He has a job, Aunt Abby.”

I hated to sound discouraging, but a paper route, or whatever thirteen-year-olds did for money, wasn't going to go far when it came to a bouquet of expensive flowers, even if I gave him a discount.

She flicked the rose petal into the air and watched it float down. “Why do they cost so much, anyway?”

“It's complicated. Let's just say they are highly prized. In fact, did you know that roses were considered the most sacred flower in ancient Egypt?”

“Like with pharaohs and pyramids and stuff?” Her phone buzzed, prompting her to check her messages as she talked. “So they had roses way back then?”

“Way before then, Tara. Historically, the oldest rose fossil was found in Colorado, dating back thirty-five million years. Thirty. Five.
Million
. Years.”

“Huh,” she said, texting with her thumbs. Clearly she was fascinated with my florist trivia. With a sigh, she set her phone down. “He's so dreamy.”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “My boyfriend? Remember back to, oh, about a minute ago, when I said I hoped my boyfriend got me roses for Valentine's Day?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, I said, “Is this someone new?”

“Uh-huh.” She took a swig of water, then said coyly, “I really shouldn't say anything else about Haydn.”

Translation:
Please ask me about him because I can't tell my parents.

My inner antennae rose like a periscope. Something about that boy was bothering her.

I pulled the other wooden stool closer and sat on it facing her. Planting one elbow on the table, I propped my chin in my hand and said, “Why shouldn't you say anything else about your boyfriend to your favorite aunt with whom you share everything?”

“With whom?” She burst out laughing. “Are you an English teacher now?”

“Hey,” I said. “I try to set a good example. Now answer the question.”

Getting serious, she narrowed her eyes, studying me, then suddenly brightened. “Okay.” Taking another drink, she capped her bottle and set it aside, then mimicked my posture so we were eyeball to eyeball. “He's tall and has dark hair like Uncle Marco and pale blue eyes and is really smart and popular and plays basketball and writes poetry—how deep is that?—and has his own car and”—she hesitated a second, then blurted—“is seventeen. And he's totally into me.”

Mystery solved. Antennae down. Hackles up.

I had to restrain myself from grabbing her shoulders and giving her a hard shake, which I knew would instantly snap those lines of communication. Instead, in a calm, mature voice, I asked, “Don't you think he's kind of old for you?”

Translation:
Are you kidding me?

“No!” she cried, gazing at me as though I'd just crossed into enemy territory. “Haydn
just
turned seventeen, Aunt Abby, and I'm almost fourteen, so that's only three years difference, and then there's that whole thing about girls being two years older than boys of the same age, so actually I'm almost sixteen, so that makes it like a year between us, and what's the big deal about one stupid year?”

“Tara,” I said, “I'm talking about more than just an age difference. You've never dated before—your parents won't even let you date
now
—and this guy's probably had girlfriends and has gone on dates and is, you know,
experienced
.”

“Experienced, like he's had sex? Aunt Abby, Haydn isn't like that. I mean, he writes
poems.
Besides, he's very respectful of me.”

“Tara,
all
guys are like that. I don't care how many poems he writes or how respectful he is of you, if you two are alone and start making out, and he wants, well,
more
—”

“Ew!” She gazed at me with a disgusted expression. “Ew!” Then she jumped off the stool and picked up her backpack, angrily stuffing her water bottle and cell phone into pockets. “You don't know me at all.” And then she stormed out.

Snap
.

I felt something bump against my foot and glanced down to see Seedy gazing up at me as if to say,
You've still got me.

•   •   •

At five fifteen, I stopped playing FreeCell on my phone in order to watch the weather report on the television mounted above the bar. I was in the last booth at Down the Hatch, waiting for Marco to join me. Seedy lay under the table, gnawing on a rawhide bone. Both of us were damp from the rain that had started just before we left Bloomers. I hadn't had my umbrella with me, but fortunately there were awnings between my shop and the bar.

“Hey, doll,” Gert said in her gravelly voice, “what can I get for you?”

“A glass of that new Australian Shiraz and the answer to a question. When did Rusty Miller become the owner of Down the Hatch?”

“Gee whiz,” Gert said, scratching her thinning thatch of graying brown hair, “you're really testing my memory. I want to say Rusty took over the bar in nineteen sixty-nine or seventy.”

If Gert was right, then Rusty had owned Down the Hatch a lot longer than thirty years. More like forty-three.

“Let me think about it and get back to you.” Gert glanced around to find Marco standing behind her. “Sorry, boss. Didn't see you there. What'll you have to drink?”

“How about the microbrew we got in this morning?”

“You got it,” she said, and hurried off.

Marco gave me a kiss, then slid in opposite me. “What is Gert going to get back to you about?”

“Rusty Miller. I asked her what year he took over the bar.”

“Abby, if this is about the bones—”

“Yes, Marco, it's about the bones, but would you hear me out before you say anything? Please?”

He gazed at me with brown eyes that at that moment were telegraphing his disgruntlement. “Go ahead.”

I took the wrapped key chain out of my purse and slid it across the table to him. “I put this in my purse yesterday by mistake when Connor came to our table. So since I had it, I enlarged a photo of it and found a Cannon Construction logo on the front. You can just make it out if you look closely.”

As he examined it, I said, “Grace told me she remembered that there had been a big scandal in town when Kermit Cannon, the original owner of Cannon Construction, allegedly ran away with Parthenia Pappas. You know who she is, don't you?”

“The artist.”

“Right, aka the Duchess of Tenth Street. My mom's taking lessons from her.” I paused while Gert set our drinks in front of us.

Marco took a sip of his beer, then said, “Go on.”

“Grace has never completely bought the story of them running away together, so that got me to wondering if it might be Kermit in the basement.”

Marco seemed a fraction more interested now. “Why doesn't Grace believe the story?”

I filled him in on all the information Grace had given me, watching for signs that Marco was becoming as intrigued as I was. But I didn't see them, so I said, “I want to dig a little deeper to see if I can find a link between the key chain and the bones, and I thought I'd start by talking to Henry Greer, since he was Kermit's partner back then. I want to set the meeting for tomorrow . . . And I'd like you to come with me.”

“I thought we agreed to wait until we got a date on those bones before we decided whether to investigate. All I agreed to do was take a closer look at the key chain.”

“Actually”—I wiped a drip of wine off the rim of my glass—“what you said was that if the bones were old enough,
you
would agree to investigate. We didn't agree that I
wouldn't
investigate.”

“Didn't we have this discussion?”

“Look, Marco, all I plan to do is talk to Henry to see what he remembers about the key chain. I won't go any further than that until we—you and I—talk over what I learn, if there is anything to learn. And if you believe that I'm in danger, I'll stop and wait for the coroner's report. Okay?”

He tapped his fingers on the side of the beer glass, watching me. “Is there anything I can say to dissuade you?”

“No. Is there anything I can say to
per
suade you to come with me?” I reached across to take his hand, that big sturdy hand that I loved. “Because I'd really rather be doing this with you.”

He seemed to soften at that. “Sunshine, you know I'd try to lasso the moon if you wanted it, but there's something about the bones that makes me uneasy. You know how you're always talking about your gut feelings? Well, it's like that. It's a strong feeling.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I really don't want you investigating alone, babe.”

“But I'm only talking about having a simple conversation with Henry Greer, Marco. You know him, don't you?”

“No, I've never met him. But think about it, Abby. Henry Greer was Kermit's partner, and partnerships are often disputatious. You're talking about meeting with Henry to see what he knows about the key chain, and I'm telling you that you have to consider him a suspect. And you know that any suspect is potentially dangerous.”

I sat back, disappointed. “So that's a no?”

Marco sighed deeply, his eyes holding mine. “Are you sure I can't try for that moon instead?”

That was a yes! I clapped silently. “Yay!”

“Let's make this clear,” Marco said. “All we're talking about is a conversation with Greer. Then we'll decide whether to take it any further. But I have to be honest, Sunshine. If I had my way, we'd wait to see what the coroner's report says even before we took this step.”

“You two ready to order?” Gert stood at the end of the table with her pencil and tablet in hand.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I'll have a great big juicy burger topped with goat cheese, Kalamata olives, mustard, and pickles.”