Acts of Violets (8 page)

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Me.”

With a wince of pain, he got out of his chair, came around the desk, and knelt before me, taking my hands in his. “How are you the problem?”

“I’m petrified that I’ll let you down.”

“I don’t know if you understand how hard this is for me, Abby. I’m not used to asking for help. But I’m asking you now because I trust you. You’d be less than human if you didn’t feel scared. You can do this. You won’t let me down.”

If only I knew that for sure.
I studied those dark, soulful eyes and mentally cringed at the hope I saw there. Marco wasn’t a killer. The prosecutor was railroading him—probably at the suggestion of that jackass Kellerman. It was full-blown injustice, and there was nothing I hated more than injustice. I also knew that no one would try as hard as I would to prove Marco’s innocence. But it would be the challenge of my life—and unfortunately Marco’s hung on it.

That chiding voice was right again. I’d never backed down before and I wasn’t going to now. I put my hands over Marco’s and forced out six of the most frightening words I’d ever uttered. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

In return, Marco gave me that heart-stopping grin that made my fears disappear in a wisp of smoke—for now, at least. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine for a full, blissful minute. I responded in my usual, low-key way—I threw my arms around his neck and peppered the unhurt side of his face with kisses.

“Ouch. Okay, Miss Marple. One more thing,” he said, unwrapping my arms. “Let’s keep this quiet. Only you, me, and Dave Hammond will know you’re involved, okay?”

“You’ve got it. Just you, Dave, and me. No one else.”

He leaned back to give me that squinty-eyed cop look. “Do you want to finish that list or should I?”

He knew me so well it was scary. “Okay, Nikki, Lottie, and Grace, too. But that’s it. Well, maybe Reilly—but only if I’m desperate.”

“You’ve got to leave Reilly out. It’s too risky for him.”

“Fine. Reilly is out.” (However, where Marco’s life was concerned, if it came down to the wire, Reilly would be back on that list in a heartbeat. I just wouldn’t tell Marco.)

“So, are you ready to get started?”

I dug in my purse for my little notepad and pen as he went back to his desk. “Ready.”

“Okay. Talk to Dave Hammond first to let him know I asked you to help. Then, unless Dave has another idea, interview Ryson’s neighbors. Find out what they saw and heard Sunday evening. Right now they’re our only hope for solid leads, so talk to as many of them as you can. That should take you a couple of days.”

A couple of days? When I only had a week? I glanced at my watch and saw I still had half an hour of lunchtime left. “Give me Ryson’s address and I’ll start canvassing the neighborhood right away.”

“Atta girl. Check in with me this evening and I’ll buy you dinner.”

I knew exactly which neighbor I’d start with, too—Trina of the Split Ends. I needed to know her motives, and whether she actually did take her son to her mother’s house that evening. Just because she’d asked Marco to handle the problem with Ryson didn’t mean she couldn’t have killed him.

I got up to leave, then paused at the door. “One more thing. My appetite came back. Can I get a turkey sandwich to go? On the house?”

There had to be a few perks with this job.

 

With the enticing aroma of honey-roasted turkey wafting from my purse, I took a quick jaunt around the square to Dave’s law office, a one-man operation in a rented space over a restaurant. His entire staff was composed of two people: one secretary—the extremely capable and loyal Alice—and a part-time law clerk from the student ranks at New Chapel University law school.

A man of medium height and slightly soft around the belly, Dave had a warm smile, a receding hairline, and lots of happy clients. He never tried to dazzle people with fancy legal terms, he got the job done right the first time, and he always returned their phone calls. His philosophy was that the client was paying him, not Alice, for his expertise, so why would he have Alice answer their questions? (Not that she couldn’t have.) I was glad Marco had called him. There wasn’t a lawyer in town I trusted more.

“Hey, Abby. Good to see you. Come in.” He motioned for me to take a seat. As usual, he was slumped in a chair behind his old oak desk working on his computer.

“Sorry to drop in on you like this, Dave—Alice told me you have to get to court soon—but do you have five minutes so I can run something past you?”

He glanced at his watch. “That’s about all I have, but you’re welcome to them.” He sniffed the air. “Why am I suddenly thinking about Thanksgiving?”

I patted my purse. “Because you smell my turkey sandwich. I have to eat on the run today. Anyway, Marco asked me to tell you that I’m going to investigate the Ryson murder—”

“Whoa. Hold it, Abby. You know I love you like a daughter, but you’re not a licensed investigator. I can’t send you out to question people and hope to be able to use it in court. You know the law.”

“Not to worry. I know how to get around the law.”

He clapped his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear this.”

“Come on, Dave. I want to help.”

“Do I really have to remind you that as a licensed attorney I can’t have you going
around the law
to represent my office? In any way, shape, or form? Besides, I’ve already put in a call to Pete Peters to see if he’s available.”

“Pete Peters? You’re not serious.”

“What’s wrong with Pete?”

“First of all, the guy moves at the speed of a turtle on Valium. He’d never uncover anything useful in a week.”

“Pete has ten years of experience behind him. I think he knows what he’s doing.”

“Second,” I said, ignoring Dave’s feeble argument, “Pete isn’t a people person. He’s good at stakeouts, line tapping, and hiding in alleys. That’s not what this case needs.”

“Abby.”

No way was he going to stop me now. I was on a roll. “And then there’s his name—Peter—twice. What were his parents thinking? Do you have any idea what kind of heckling he must have endured in school because of that moniker? The guy has to have issues, Dave. Is it any wonder he enjoys sitting in a dark car for hours on end, drinking stale coffee and spying on people?”

Dave stared at me as if I’d sprouted Chia greens from my ears. “What does his name have to do with his ability to investigate this case?”

“I needed a third item because the list was thin. Look, I’m not thrilled that Marco asked me to find the killer. In fact, I’m scared out of my mind to have his fate in my hands. I know I don’t have enough training or experience, or a license, but I do have one thing—determination. I care a lot about Marco. A. Lot. And someone has to find the real killer quickly. The police aren’t going to do it, and Peter Peters, well, I’ve said enough about him. Whether you like it or not, Dave, Marco asked for my help and I’m going to give it to him.” I folded my arms across my chest and lifted my chin defiantly. “Your turn, counselor.”

He gazed at me for a long moment, his thumb and index finger plucking his lower lip as though he were preparing his cross-examination. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this?”

“Nope.”

“So it would be a waste of breath to argue any further?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head in bemusement. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Stand back and watch me go.”

He heaved a sigh of resignation. “Okay, then—go find the killer, tiger. I suppose I’ll just have to be the beneficiary of anything you find out.”

That was
his
way of going around the law. Shrewd guy, that Dave.

He started packing files into his briefcase, preparing for court. “I
am
going to insist you follow some rules, though. Pay attention now because there’ll be a quiz at the end. One: My name is never to be mentioned. Two: You are not working for me. Three: You can’t claim any official standing of any kind. Four: Follow the first three rules. Got that?”

“I can’t use your name and I’m not your employee or a licensed private investigator. Got it.” I followed him out of his office, waved to Alice as we passed, and tagged after him down the steep staircase. “Have the police shared any information with you yet?”

“Not a lot. I should get more discovery tomorrow—and, yes, I’ll share it with you. But you should know that what I do have points directly to Marco.”

Dave opened the door for me and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. He put an arm around my shoulders and gave them a friendly squeeze. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, kid. Good luck.”

I watched him head across the street toward the courthouse, his suit coat flapping in the breeze. Luck? With no attorney to back me up, no friendly cop to lean on, and no licensed PI to take the lead, I’d need a whole lot more than luck. I’d need a miracle.

D
ennis Ryson lived on a block of homes built in the 1940s, a mix of narrow, old-fashioned, two-story frame homes and one-story bungalows. All the homes had detached garages at the rear of lots that were accessed from side driveways. There were no curbs, only narrow sidewalks that heaved and bulged like a roller coaster from the thick roots of the old maples and elms that lined the streets.

I parked in front of Ryson’s house, balled up the paper wrapper that my sandwich had been in, checked my teeth in the rearview mirror, and got out of the car. His house was a dingy brown bungalow badly in need of a paint job, window screens to replace the ones that were ripped and dangling, and a big bag of grass seed, along with a heavy dose of weed killer for the ground that was supposed to be a lawn. The front door had yellow crime scene tape across it, and I suspected the back door did, as well. There was no point in even trying to get in until it was unsealed.

I turned to eye the house directly across the street, where Trina Vasquez lived. This, too, was a bungalow, but it was well cared for. The house and one-car garage were painted a soft blue with white trim. The yard was neatly mowed, and as I approached, I saw that the backyard had been fenced in. I stepped onto the stoop and rang the doorbell. It was answered shortly by the dark-haired woman I’d seen at the parade, carrying a sniffling child in blue pj’s on one hip, with several more crowding around her to gawk at the visitor.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Trina Vasquez?”

“Yes,” she said warily.

“Hi, I’m Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop on the square. I’m working on the Ryson case and I have a few questions for you.”

She tilted her head like a puzzled cat. “Abby Knight?”

“From Bloomers. I’m a friend of Marco’s.”

“Marco sent you here?”

“Yes.” In a roundabout way. “Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

Trina gave me a distrustful once-over. “Why didn’t Marco come himself?”

“Because of some boring legal technicality that prevents him from working on his own case. You know how that goes.”

“No, actually, I don’t. Couldn’t he phone me with the questions?”

“Um, well, no. He can’t do that, either.”

She still didn’t seem convinced. “I’m going to have to call him before I agree to talk to you. I’m sorry, but I have kids to protect.”

“I understand.”

She shut the door and I heard the lock click into place. I glanced down at my outfit. Was I that dangerous-looking?

I turned around to study the houses across the street and caught a quick glimpse of a chalky, strange face peering out at me from a window of the house to the left of Ryson’s. Instantly, the drape dropped back into place. I stared a moment longer, watching for it again, but then I heard the lock click open behind me so I turned back. “Did you reach him?”

“Yes. You can come in.” Trina didn’t sound pleased about it.

She stepped back, taking with her three toddlers in long-sleeved T-shirts and Pampers. She escorted me through an obstacle course of toys to the small kitchen in the back, where she had me sit at the kitchen table.

“Coffee?” She indicated the giant coffee machine on her counter, probably her lifeline to get through the day.

“Sure.” I needed something to wash down the turkey sandwich anyway.

Trina put down a sniffling toddler who instantly began to cry. “Just a minute, pumpkin,” she said in a soothing voice as she reached for a mug and poured some of the brew into it. “I’m going to get this pretty lady some coffee, okay?”

Now I felt bad for the derogatory comment about Trina’s hair, which today was tied back at her neck. She had on jeans and a blue T-shirt that showed off her curves without being suggestive, which I thought was appropriate for a child-care worker. I glanced down at my own clothing—a white T-shirt with a stripe of flowers down each shoulder, freshly washed blue jeans, and a pair of Adidas walking shoes. Quite appropriate for a florist, but maybe not so much for a private investigator.