Dearly Depotted (20 page)

“Hey there,” she said with a big smile when she saw me. “Isn’t this one helluva heat wave? If I hadn’t needed a birthday gift I wouldn’t have stepped a foot outside until it was time to go to work. Look, I even remembered my coupon. Hey there, Lottie. That’s the way to stay cool.”

Lottie had just come from the back with an armload of fresh carnations and was arranging them in the display cooler. She waved from behind the glass door.

Sheila picked up a hand-painted ceramic vase, checked the price on the bottom, and set it down. She did the same with a porcelain dove. “I’d forgotten what a nice shop this is,” she said in a way that meant,
Wow—too expensive for me.
Then she spotted a pair of tall, vanilla, tapered candles set in a shallow basket of dried flowers. She turned over the tag to see the price, then said happily, “I’ll take this.”

I rang up the total, which came to under ten dollars with the coupon. As Sheila pulled crumpled bills from her purse, she said, “I’ll have to bring my friend Deb around. She loves this kind of stuff.”

Never one to turn down an opportunity to do a little sleuthing, I said, “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

“Are you kidding me? I love coffee. I don’t drink as much as I used to—I’m too busy working my butt off in that kitchen—but when I was at the bank I’d suck up a gallon every day.”

“Then wait until you try our coffee. It’s the best in town.”

“You don’t have to sell me, kiddo,” she said, following me into the parlor. “Would you look at this fancy wallpaper? And these cute little white tables and chairs. Don’t they call this style Victorian? Hey, are those scones?”

I took her up to the counter to meet Grace, then, armed with cups of coffee and a plate of Grace’s scones, we headed for a table in the corner. I was hoping to learn more about Gunther, the absentee dishwasher, but after fifteen minutes of listening to Sheila complain about her rotten ex-husbands—all four of them—her crummy job, and her drunken father, I was beginning to wonder whether that was going to happen anytime soon.

“Sheila,” I said, when she stopped to munch on her second scone, “I have a question for you. What do you know about Gunther?”

She gazed at me as if my ears had sprouted feathers. “Tell me you’re not interested in that loser. Oh, wait. This is for your investigation, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know much . . . Let’s see, his last name is Bundle. Gunther Bundle—ain’t that a kicker of a name? He lives in the trailer park over by the university. He’s about thirty years old, he has a short fuse, and he isn’t too swift”—she pointed to her head—“upstairs.”

“That name isn’t familiar. Is he from this area?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, stuffing her mouth with buttery scone. “He’s a strange one. Always hanging around. Except, now that I think about it, he didn’t show up for work yesterday.” Her forehead wrinkled as she slurped her coffee. “He might have called in sick, though. Grace, these scones are dee-lish,” she yelled across the room.

Two women talking quietly at a nearby table stopped to turn and glare. I gave them an apologetic smile.

Sheila glanced at her watch and gasped. “Oh, lordy. I gotta get home and change for work. I’m sorry to cut you short, Abby. You want me to have Gunther call you from the center?”

“Thanks, but if I need to talk to him I’d rather do it in person. It always helps to see someone’s reactions to my questions rather than just hear them.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s not what you’d call sociable.” She drained her coffee cup, gathered her packages, and rose. “Good to meet you, Grace,” she called. “I love your scones.”

“Thank you, dear,” Grace whispered. If she was hoping to send a message, it didn’t work.

“Any time, Grace,” Sheila called back, then headed for the door. “Well, this was a real treat, Abby. Maybe I’ll see you out at the center soon, huh?” Halfway out, she paused to add, “Say, you wouldn’t have another coupon handy, would you?”

I pulled one from beneath the front counter. “Here you go. Thanks for answering my questions.”

“No problem. Mention me to your friend Reilly.” With a wave, she was gone.

“What a chatterbox,” Lottie remarked. “I didn’t think you’d get a word in edgewise. So are you going out to the Garden of Eden to talk to Gunther?”

“I don’t think so. Other than Gunther leaving work early, there’s nothing to tie him to the murder.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Grace said, “but shouldn’t you be getting ready for your lunch date with Mr. Morgan, dear?”

My lunch date! Yikes. I had ten minutes.

 

 

 

 

T
he clock in the nearby church tower had just tolled one o’clock as I cut across the courthouse lawn to reach the restaurant on the opposite side of the square. Because of the humidity I couldn’t move too fast or my hair would frizz up like a big red Brillo pad, but I also hated to keep anyone waiting, so I held down the ends of my hair and plowed forth.

Rosie’s Diner liked to advertise itself as being “ ’fifties inspired,” but the truth was that it had actually been built in the nineteen fifties and never redecorated. It had avocado green vinyl booths, a jukebox in the back, and graffiti carved into the wooden stall doors in the bathroom that said, among other things,
Class of ’59 rocks and rolls!
Not to mention the infamous
Janey Sadenberger loves Tommy Thurman
, the couple who later became
The Magic Act of Jane Berger and Tom Thurm
and was now
J. Sadenberger, plaintiff, vs. T. Thurman, defendant,
in a custody battle over a white rabbit named Merlin.

Rosie’s offered standard diner fare: hot and cold sandwiches, breakfast anytime, and a daily special of either meatloaf and mashed potatoes or fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It was Greg Morgan’s favorite place, partly because it was handy but mostly because the waitresses rolled out the red carpet when he walked in. The only surprise was that they didn’t lift him on their shoulders and carry him to a booth. He was already there when I walked in, holding court with three waitresses at a highly visible front booth while other diners grumbled about the poor service. I slipped onto the bench opposite him and had to clear my throat several times before he noticed I was there.

“Abby! Good to see you,” he said. Two of the waitresses shot me dirty looks, huffed in annoyance, then sashayed away. The third pulled out her ticket pad and scowled, obviously not thrilled to see me, either.

“Know what you want?” she said to me, scratching a hip.

I reached for a menu stuck behind the napkin dispenser and opened it, skimming the list I knew by heart anyway. “Why don’t you start, Greg?” I said.

“Hon, I already
know
what he wants,” the waitress said with a laugh that came out as a deep, hoarse rumble. Quite an attractive come-on. All she needed was a lipstick-smudged cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Ladies first,” Morgan said to me.

“I’ll have a grilled ham and cheese on rye.”

“Swiss, American, cheddar, or mozzarella?” the waitress asked in a bored voice.

“Swiss.”

“All we got today is American.”

I rubbed my left eyebrow, gazing at her thoughtfully. “I can’t help wondering why you asked, then.”

“They tell me I have to ask, so I ask. What’ll you have, doll?” she said to Morgan.

“Burger and fries—hold the onions—and a Diet Coke.”

She wrote it down, winked at Morgan, and sauntered off, hips swaying, shoulders slouched forward.

“Excuse me,” I called. “I’d like some iced tea with that.” She didn’t acknowledge my request, so I gave Morgan a sad shake of the head. “She’s something else.”

He leaned forward, chin planted on one hand, and gazed at me with vivid blue eyes that put the sky to shame. If I hadn’t known what he was like underneath that gorgeous face I’d have fallen for him just because of those eyes. “Funny,” he said wistfully, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Greg, honestly, does that line work on
anyone
?”

“You’d be amazed.” He paused to bestow a smile on a flirtatious fortysomething female who had to be on the lam from the fashion police, then he said, “Fill me in on what I missed Monday night.”

“The main thing you missed was walking up the aisle with me. I can’t think of anything else really interesting except, of course, the murder. Other than that, it was your average wedding.”

Morgan snickered. “Have you heard what the police have dubbed the case? The Jack-in-the-Pulpit murder.”

“I figured someone would get around to that. Have you heard who their top suspect is?”

“No, who?” he asked, as if I were telling
him
a joke.

“There is no punch line here, Greg. I’m asking you who their top suspect is.”

Morgan wasn’t quick on the uptake, but he was pretty fast on the recovery. “Right. I knew that. They’re looking at several people.”

I leaned in to say in a whisper, “Josiah Turner, Vince Vogel, and Richard Davis?”

“And one more.”

“Who is it?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t actually studied the file.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on, Abby. You know I can’t divulge information.”

I paused as the waitress plunked down our drinks. I was impressed that she’d actually remembered my glass of tea. “I’m not asking you to divulge the whole name. Just give me the person’s initials. Are they M.T.—as in Melanie Turner?”

“Why are you so curious?” he asked, unwrapping his straw.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll blab to the police.”

He scoffed. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You did it to me two months ago!”

“That was an accident. And it wasn’t to the police; it was to my boss.” He saw me trying to hold back a laugh, and since he knew my mouth was full of iced tea, he said, “Fine. I’ll read the file and see what I can do for you. Now would you swallow, please? This is a new suit.”

I swallowed. “I knew I could count on you, Greg. Now I have one more, itty-bitty favor to ask.”

He glowered. “You’re pushing it.”

I paused as the waitress delivered our sandwiches, then I leaned toward him and said quietly, “All I need for you to do is take a peek at the autopsy report when it comes in and let me know the results.”

Morgan was about to chow down on a limp french fry, but at that he stopped. “Do I look like a complete idiot to you?”

I couldn’t bring myself to answer that, so I sat back and reached for my glass instead.

“It’s unethical,” he said. “You’re asking me to put my career on the line, and for what? So you can satisfy your curiosity?”

“For heaven’s sake, all I’m asking for is the cause of death. Even if your boss found out, you wouldn’t lose your job. Everyone in the courthouse adores you, and you know it.”

He couldn’t argue that.

“Besides, it’s more than idle curiosity.”

“So what is it, then?”

I took the top slice of bread off my sandwich and squirted mustard on the ham. “Are you sure you want to know? It has to be off the record. You can’t breathe a word to anyone.”

He had another fry and thought it over. “Fine. Off the record.”

“Okay, here it is. My assistant Grace is dating Richard Davis.”

Morgan made a circling motion with his hand. “And . . .”

“And . . . that’s why I’m trying to find out who killed Jack.”

“That’s it?” he said with a laugh. “You want me to stick my neck out because your assistant is seeing one of the suspects?”

“Would you feel better if I were spying for a foreign government? Yes, that’s it, Greg. I’d like to know Grace isn’t in any danger, but I don’t want the whole town to know I’m investigating. Is that a good enough reason?
Now
will you get me that information?”

He toyed with his fork for a moment, looking perturbed. But then his gaze met mine and his mouth curved into a wily grin. “I might be persuaded to help you.”

There it was—the dreaded dinner invitation. I sat back and folded my arms. “All right. When do you want to go?”

His grin faded. “Go where?”

I felt my face begin to burn. “To dinner.”

He rubbed an earlobe, looking sheepish. “Actually, I was thinking along the lines of a dozen roses for my secretary’s birthday. But if you want to go to dinner—”

“Roses it is. When do you want them?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’ll have that information for me then?”

He grinned slyly. “Like I said, I need the roses tomorrow.”

“Deal.” I tucked into my sandwich, smiling inside. That had worked out a lot better than I’d thought.

 

After leaving the diner, I cut across the street to Down the Hatch to see whether Marco had dug up anything new. As usual, the bar was filled with its regular lunchtime clientele: lawyers, judges, bankers, secretaries, and other local businesspeople. I stopped to say hello to my former employer, Dave Hammond, and several secretaries who frequented my coffee parlor, then made my way to the back.