Acts of Violets (22 page)

The hairs on my nape rose as I glanced behind me. Was she talking about a ghost?

“Don’t be afraid. Raise your hands in welcome.” To demonstrate, she held up her palms as if she were pushing away the ceiling and tilted her masked face up.

So as not to offend her I imitated her movements, then closed my eyes, silently counted to ten, and gave her a shrug. “Sorry. I’m not getting anything.”

“You’re a skeptic. You need to open your mind.” She fingered one of the yellow mum petals. “This flower has a spirit, you know. But you must know. You work with them every day. They’re what calm you, give you peace. Their spirits enter your body each morning, filling you with purity and light, and that’s why you have a healthy aura.”

“I’d never thought of it that way, but you’re right. They do give me peace.”

“You asked about Trina.”

It took a moment for me to redirect my thoughts. “Trina, right. Did you see her leave her house Sunday night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the time?”

Eudora nodded her head, brushing dried herbs off the table into her hand.

“Was it early evening? Late?”

“Twenty-seven minutes after seven o’clock.”

How could she be so precise? Did she keep a clock by her window? “Are you sure it was after
seven
o’clock, not eight o’clock?”

She sat absolutely still for a long moment, giving me the distinct impression that underneath the mask she was glaring at me, as though offended by my question. The problem was, I needed to be sure, because if Eudora was correct, then my theory about Trina was wrong.

She rose suddenly, making me jump, but she was merely taking the crumbs to a white plastic trash can. With her back to me I could see her hair, a drab brown-gray mix hanging below her shoulders, crudely chopped at the ends, as though she’d cut it herself. She brushed the crumbs into the can, then, with her hands folded, mumbled something that sounded like a prayer. Was she praying for the crumbs’ spirits?

Silently, Eudora glided back to her chair. “Anything else?”

Obviously she felt she’d said enough about the time issue. I’d have to come back to that later. “Did you see anyone visit Dennis Ryson Sunday evening?”

The mask actually trembled. “You mustn’t speak that one’s name. He has an evil spirit. Call him Sinned.”

“Sinned?”

“That’s his name backwards.”

That was eerie. “Okay, did you see anyone visit Sinned on Sunday evening?”

“Many visited him.”

“Can you describe them?”

“It would be dangerous to do so.”

“Dangerous how?”

“They might visit me.”

“I’m not clear on this. Are you talking about real people or spirits?”

“The two are one. They cannot be divided.”

Oh, brother. This wasn’t going well. “Okay, then can you tell me anything about Den—Sinned’s—activities on Sunday? For instance—”

Her arms went skyward and she resumed her chanting, drowning out the rest of my sentence. At first her words seemed unintelligible; then I caught, “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,” which I was pretty sure came from an old Beatles tune.

Okay, so she didn’t want to tell me about Ryson’s activities. But why was that? Had Ryson done something to frighten her?

I waited until she paused for a breath; then I said, “Mrs. Mazella, I understand the subject makes you uncomfortable, but if you could just answer one more question? Did Sinned ever harm you or threaten to do so?”

The mask trembled again. “Evil spirits do great harm and must be dealt with.”

I decided to take that as a yes. “I’m not really up on these things, so can you tell me how one would deal with an evil spirit?”

She stared at me for a long moment, making me wonder whether she’d dozed off. Then she whispered, “You must purify the spirit.”

“How do you do that?”

Her shoulders rose in an elegant shrug, as if the answer was so simple, it was staring me in the face. “By cleansing.”

“How does one cleanse?”

“By purging.”

We were going in circles. “Okay, and to purge an evil spirit, what tools are needed?”

“Purity of heart. If one has that, the key lies within reach.”

Either she was talking nonsense or I was getting dizzy from the smoking herbs that clouded the air. I glanced at the white clock on her wall. It was one thirty and I had work to do back at Bloomers, so I decided to just come out with it.

“Mrs. Mazella, I’m trying to find out who killed Den—Sinned. If you know anything at all about what happened at his house Sunday evening—”

“Stop!” she shrieked. “You’ll bring him here!” She shot out of her chair, grabbed the bundle of herbs from their holder, and began to wave them around her as she turned in circles.

“Who, Mrs. Mazella? Who will I bring here?”

“Sinned!” She resumed her chanting, her movements growing frantic, making me fear that she was going to have a nervous breakdown. When she went to sprinkle more ash on me, I ran for the door, slid back the bolt, and got the hell out of there.

No wonder Ed hadn’t wanted me to visit her. The woman was a fruitcake. But was she a harmless fruitcake or a fruitcake with information about Ryson’s death?

I
was still shaking when I got to the car. That was definitely an encounter I wasn’t eager to experience again. Perhaps I’d better stick with questioning Ed.

I started the engine, fastened the seat belt, then got out my phone to check my voice mail. Still no call from Marco. Was he ignoring my calls or hadn’t he received my messages? I phoned Down the Hatch, but he wasn’t there, so I tried his cell phone again. It rang three times, and then I heard a woman say, “Hello?”

A woman was answering Marco’s private cell phone line?

“Hello?” the voice repeated. “Who is this?”

“Abby. Who is this?”

“Francesca Salvare.”

An Italian accent, a throaty, mature voice . . . Omigod. It was Marco’s mother. I cleared my throat to say in as pleasant a voice as possible, “Mrs. Salvare, hi, I’m Abby Knight from Bloomers Flower Shop. Maybe Marco has mentioned me? Anyway, is Marco there by any chance?”

“Abby who?”

“Knight.”

“My son is away, Abby, but if you tell me what you want, I will let him know as soon as he comes home.”

Suddenly, I heard the growl of a male voice in the background; then Mrs. Salvare said, “I think he just came in. Hold the line, please.”

Marco came on and he didn’t sound happy. “Hey. What’s up?”

Was he kidding? I had to unlock my jaw to speak. “Lots of things are up. We need to talk. Are you going to be at the bar tonight?”

“I’ll be there. How’s five o’clock?”

I noticed he didn’t ask me to go into detail about our forthcoming meeting. Either he was afraid his mother would overhear or he’d heard my teeth grinding. “Five o’clock is fine.”

In the background I heard his mother whisper, “Invite her over. I want to meet her.”

He shushed her, then said to me, “I’ll see you at the bar.”

I tossed my phone onto the seat. Okay, so Marco didn’t want me to meet his mom. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to schmooze with her, either. Having steam coming out of your ears tended to make a bad first impression, and I was fried that he hadn’t told me about his history with Ryson. Add to that the problem he seemed to be having returning my phone calls, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was next. Would I find out he actually
did
kill Ryson?

I clapped a hand over my mouth as though I’d spoke those traitorous thoughts out loud.
Take that back this instant, you doofus. You don’t believe for a moment that Marco had anything to do with Ryson’s death. You’re just angry.

Yes. That was absolutely it. I was so angry I wasn’t thinking rationally. I started up the engine and headed back to Bloomers, trying to convince myself that once Marco explained everything, the anger would go away and we’d be fine.

 

I got back at one forty-five to find Grace alone in the parlor, blowing her nose, and Lottie behind the counter in the shop, apologizing profusely as she rang up purchases for two women, both of whom were having sneezing fits. I saw a dust mop behind the counter sitting beside a pile of colored down. What I didn’t see were the feathered frames and fans. Had a windstorm blown them away, or had someone bought them all? Did I dare hope?

“Grace?”

She balled up the tissue and dropped it in the trash container behind the coffee counter. “Hello, dear,” she said in a nasal tone.

“What happened to my mother’s stuff?”

There was a long pause. “Perhaps you should ask Lottie.”

Passing the buck wasn’t like Grace, and that made me nervous. Before I could probe further, she pulled a piece of paper from her sweater pocket. “I was able to get the information you wanted on Trina Vasquez. Jake’s BP Amoco is located on Route 20 in Michigan City. The owner—his name actually is Jake—verified that a blue minivan was serviced for a Trina Vasquez at 8:10 Sunday evening. I asked him to describe her, and I must say, she left quite an impression on him.”

“She has that effect on men.” I cast a disparaging look at my short body. What was it about Trina? My hair was just as silky as hers—a little too red and not nearly as long—but still, it was thick and natural. And I had curves—lots of curves. It had to be her long legs.

Grace handed me the note. “Jake said to call if you wanted a written statement.”

There went my Trina theory. At least Marco would be happy that I’d crossed her off my list of suspects. But what did that leave me with? A very weak Ed Mazella and a mystery girlfriend.

“How is your investigation going, dear?”

“I don’t have one solid suspect, Grace.”

“Something will come up. Be diligent and have faith in your abilities.”

“And there we have it, Grace, the crux of the problem.” I plunked down on a chair. “My abilities are arranging flowers and growing plants, not finding murderers.”

Grace clucked her tongue. “This is not the Abby I know. Give yourself some credit, dear. Not only are you a whiz with flowers, but you’re also a marvelous busy-body, and that makes for an excellent private investigator. Something else is bothering you, isn’t it? Would you like to talk about it?”

The bell jingled as customers left the shop, and Lottie quickly hustled into the parlor, rubbing her hands together, saving me from giving Grace a lame excuse. “Goody, we’re all alone. Tell us about your lunch date with Mr. Gorgeous.”

Who’d have thought Greg Morgan would become my bargaining chip? “Not until you tell me what happened to the frames and fans.”

Lottie glanced at Grace, and they both heaved guilty sighs. “Not to hurt your feelings, sweetie, but I couldn’t take those feathers one more minute. I swear the fans were waving at me every time I passed by, and poor Grace, with her sneezing and blowing . . .”

On cue, Grace pulled a fresh tissue from her sleeve and sneezed into it.

I rubbed a spot above my right eye, feeling a tension headache coming on. “Okay, what did you do with them—or do I want to know?”

“I packed everything into two big boxes and set them by the basement door.” Lottie shrugged, palms up, as if to say,
“What else could I do?”
They watched me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.

“You want to store my mother’s art in the basement?”

Both women nodded.

“Okay, then. Let’s get those suckers downstairs.”

The plants in the next room quivered as the two sighed in relief.

“And if there are no customers when you return,” Grace called as Lottie and I headed toward the kitchen, “we shall have a tea break and sample some of that lovely cake you brought in this morning.”

I’d completely forgotten about Eve Taylor’s cake. “You’ve got it,” I called back.

We stowed the boxes against the rear basement wall beside stacks of terra-cotta pots, then joined Grace at a table in the parlor where she’d already poured cups of tea and distributed forks, napkins, and cake on dessert plates.

“What are you going to tell your mom about the feathers?” Lottie asked, her mouth full of chocolate.

I licked creamy frosting from the tip of my fork. “I don’t know. I need a really convincing story, though.”

Grace cleared her throat. “As Mark Twain once said, ‘When in doubt, tell the truth.’ ”

Sure, the truth was one way to go, but I was thinking more along the lines of a little white lie. I decided to keep that to myself, however. One quote per slice of cake was enough.

“Yummy,” Lottie said, diving in for another forkful, while Grace picked the crystalized flower petals from her icing before trying her first bite.

“The blossoms are edible, Grace. Eve assured me she wouldn’t use them if there was any risk of harming customers.”