Dearly Depotted (21 page)

“Looking for the boss?” a waitress named Kim asked as she cleared a table.

“Yes. Is he in his office?”

“He had to go out. He should be back any minute. You want to sit and have something cold until he gets back?”

“No, thanks.” I saw an opportunity to do some fishing, so I grabbed it. “So what’s up with Marco lately? He’s never here.”

She started to reply, then shut her mouth.

“I’m here,” Marco said, walking up behind me. “Come on back.”

I glanced at Kim and she gave me a shrug.

I followed Marco to his office, where he pulled out one of the black leather chairs for me, then took a seat behind his desk. I could tell immediately that he wasn’t in the best of moods.

“Find out anything new from Morgan?” he asked, opening a desk drawer and removing his notes.

“Not much, other than the police are looking at four suspects—Josiah Turner, Richard Davis, Vince Vogel, and a fourth whose name he claims not to know. It took some doing, but I managed to convince Morgan to check into that and the autopsy report for me.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “Want to know how?”

He pinned me with a look that answered my question. Okay, so he didn’t want to know.

“What else do you have?” he asked.

“Nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. I hope you’ve got something, because I’m starting to get nervous.”

Marco sat back, tapping his pen on the desk as he looked over his notes. “I tracked down the name of the detective who handled Davis’s case in Texas and put in a call to him, but I got a machine, so I left a message. I’ll follow up on that again tomorrow.” He took a folder from a drawer and slid it across the desk. “Here. Have a look.”

Inside was the report he’d read to me on the phone. It was exactly as he’d described it, with just enough information to worry me and not enough to know whether I had good reason to be worried. “Why doesn’t it tell how the case was settled?”

Marco shrugged. “The Feds work in mysterious ways.”

“I’ll ask Morgan about it when I see him tomorrow.” I paused, hoping Marco would want to know why I was seeing Morgan tomorrow. Then I took a long look at Marco’s tense features and said, “Are you okay? You seem kind of distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he said instantly.

He wasn’t fine, but since he wasn’t in a mood to discuss it, I let it go.

“When are you going out to the Turner farm?” he asked.

“Soon.” I was procrastinating and we both knew it. I wasn’t sure why I had such a fear of Josiah. It wasn’t like he’d ever been cruel to me; it was just that he always seemed so angry—on the verge of exploding—and I wasn’t in any hurry to be there when that happened.

“You’d better move that up to soon-
er
. The prosecutor is pushing hard for the cops to name their man.” He checked his watch. “What do you have planned for the next hour?”

“I can spare an hour. What do you have in mind?”

“A little drive to the country to talk to Josiah.”

Distracted or not, he was still my hero.

 

I made a quick stop at Bloomers to let Lottie and Grace know my plans, then hopped into Marco’s dark green Chevy Caprice, and we headed out of town to the rural farmland that surrounded New Chapel. I directed Marco to the narrow road that branched off Route 2, then ran about five miles, the last mile sloping down to a creek. There were only three homesteads on the road. The Turner farm was the last.

We wound through cornfields almost as tall as me before I spotted the old two-story white frame house. Marco pulled up the gravel driveway on the left side of the house and stopped the car. “Ready?” he asked, unbuckling the seat belt.

I gave him a nod, gathered my purse and my courage, and got out while Marco walked to the front of his car and did a visual sweep of the area, probably a habit he’d developed in the army. There was an old wood-frame one-car garage at the back of the driveway, and beyond that, a large red barn, a chicken coop, a tall silo, and several smaller outbuildings. A wooden porch ran across the front of the house, on which were arranged pots of red geraniums and two cane-back rocking chairs. The storm door was standing open, but the screen door was shut.

On the right side of the house was a flower garden, where I could see tall spires of red salvia, white phlox, purple globe thistle, blue and pink delphinium, and stalks of lavender. Next to the garden was a big square of lawn partially shaded by a row of maple trees that ran along the outside edge, probably planted as a windbreak for the house. A playpen had been set up in the shade, and I could see a tiny figure inside. On the far side of the lawn I spotted the ankles of a woman who was apparently hanging wet bedding on a clothesline. I was betting it was Melanie. I didn’t see Josiah and breathed a sigh of relief.

“People still hang clothes out to dry?” Marco asked.

“Josiah has plenty of money. You’d think he could spring for a dryer.”

As we drew near the flower garden, I took a closer look at Melanie’s delphiniums. The spikes had to be more than eighteen inches high, the individual blossoms were gargantuan, and the intensity of the colors—the richest violet, the iciest blue, the hottest pink I’d ever seen—was incredible. I came to an immediate halt, gasping in amazement.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself yanked into a crouch position beside Marco.

“Who is it?” he hissed in my ear, his body beside me radiating tension. “Turner?”

“Flowers,” I wheezed, trying to catch my breath.

There was a pregnant pause, then Marco muttered something under his breath, stood up, and hauled me to my feet. “Don’t gasp unless you mean it.” Apparently, my gasp had startled him, kicking in his police and Army Ranger training.

I straightened my clothing with a huff, resisting the urge to defend my gasp, and made myself a note to ask Melanie what she fed her blossoms. At that moment she peered out from between sheets—no doubt to see what the commotion was—saw us, and nearly tripped over her feet in her rush to get to the playpen, as though she were afraid we’d harm the baby.

“Hi, Melanie,” I called, trying to be extra cheerful and therefore harmless. “How’s it going?”

She held the baby tightly against her chest and watched us with frightened eyes. “What are you doing here? Who’s he?”

“This is my friend Marco—maybe you remember him from the wedding. He was one of Claymore’s groomsmen. I couldn’t help admiring your beautiful flowers. What kind of fertilizer do you use?”

“Cow manure,” she said, eyeing Marco with suspicion.

Cow manure—good product, but not something that would go over well in the flower shop. I smiled at the little girl, who had chubby cheeks and wide eyes and wore a pink sunsuit with bunnies on it. “She’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Josie,” Melanie said tersely.

Josie
sounded awfully close to
Josiah
. I wondered whether that had been Melanie’s attempt to ingratiate the baby with her father. Speaking of whom, I noticed that Melanie kept glancing at the fields around us, probably keeping an eye out for him.

“How old is Josie?” Marco asked, letting the baby wrap her fingers around his thumb. He looked so domestic that I wanted to throw my arms around him and give him a big sloppy smooch.

“She’s nine months.”

Since Melanie didn’t seem inclined to chattiness, I tried the sympathetic approach. “Actually, Melanie, we stopped by to express our condolences.”

She said nothing. She wasn’t making this easy.

“It must be rough losing the father of your baby,” I said. “I’m sure you had some feelings for him.”

She hunched a shoulder as if she didn’t really care, but I caught the flash of agony in her gaze before she looked away. She did care. The problem was how to get her to admit it. I was about to try flattery when Marco pulled out his private investigator’s license.

“We’re investigating Jack’s murder. I need to ask you a few questions about Monday night.”

The blunt approach. How typically male. Marco just didn’t understand the subtle touch needed with an introvert like Melanie.

She put the baby in the playpen and straightened, giving a little sigh of resignation. “What do you need to know?”

I pulled out my notebook and pen and wrote, “Blunt approach can be highly effective with introverts,” then readied myself to take notes.

“Why did you and your father leave the reception early?” Marco asked.

Her gaze did a quick sweep of the fields. “Josie was sick. I didn’t want to leave her too long.”

“Who was watching her?” Marco asked.

“Mrs. Walsh, our neighbor up the road.”

“What time did you get to Mrs. Walsh’s house?”

“Around ten fifteen.”

As I jotted it down, Marco said, “Did your father stay home after he brought you back, or did he leave again?”

“He stayed home.”

“Did you see Jack after the fight?”

She shook her head hard. “No.”

“Do you know of any reason why he might have wanted to come back to the reception?”

“No.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and I could tell it made her nervous. She began to scratch her forearm, leaving long red streaks on her skin.

“Was he coming back to the reception to see you?” Marco asked bluntly.

“No!” she said instantly.

“Had you had any contact with Jack since he got out of prison?”

She hesitated.

The screen door shut with a bang, causing Melanie to gasp and Marco to turn quickly and reach for a gun that wasn’t there. Josiah came rushing down the front porch steps, his big work boots thudding, a look of rage on his face, and a shotgun in his arms.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered to Marco, slipping my notebook and pen in my purse in preparation for flight.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he replied in a steely voice. Then he calmly turned to face the charging bull.

 

 

 

 

“W
hat the hell is going on?” Josiah demanded, striding toward us. His face was dark red with fury and his chest was puffed out like a pigeon’s. Fortunately, he wasn’t aiming the gun at us—yet.

“We’re talking to Melanie,” Marco replied calmly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Melanie
is
my business.” Josiah marched past us, reached into the playpen, scooped up the baby, and thrust her at Melanie. “Get yourself into the house. You’re done talking to them.”

He turned defiantly, legs planted firmly on the ground, and glared first at Marco, then at me, giving me a harsh once-over. “You’ve always been a little snoop, haven’t you?”

“Papa, don’t,” Melanie said in a pleading tone.

“Did you hear what I told you?” he snapped back.

“She’s an adult, Turner,” Marco said as Melanie hurried away. “She can make her own decisions.”

“Here’s
my
decision,” Josiah said. “I’m giving you to the count of ten to walk yourselves over to that car and get in.”

I had no problem with that. In fact, I would have gladly sprinted to the car, but Marco put a restraining hand on my arm, saying nothing.

“One,” Josiah said, drawing the shotgun up to take aim.

Before he could count to two, Marco reacted as only an Army Ranger could, and suddenly Josiah’s arm was twisted behind his back, Marco’s arm was around his neck, and the gun was on the ground. He had moved so swiftly that I had to blink to be sure it had really happened.

The look on Josiah’s face was one of utter disbelief, complete mortification, and a surprising note of fear. He attempted to break free, but Marco’s grip was iron-strong. I rocked back on my heels and watched Josiah squirm. It was so satisfying to see the tables turned.

“Do you have something to hide, Turner?” Marco asked in a voice so icy it made me shiver.

Josiah was so outraged he could barely talk for all the spittle flying. Marco released him and gave him a push forward, then bent to pick up the shotgun. He opened it to eject the shells then turned it around so I could see that both barrels were empty. Josiah had been bluffing.

“Start talking,” Marco commanded.

Josiah thrust his chin forward in an attempt at bravery even as he rubbed his sore shoulder. “I don’t have anything to hide. Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you’re behaving like a guilty man. What do you know about Jack Snyder’s death that you haven’t told the police?”

“Melanie, call the sheriff,” Josiah shouted.

“Yes, do that, Turner,” Marco said evenly. “Get the sheriff out here so I can tell him about your warm reception.”

“I told the police everything I know,” Josiah yelled.

“Then you shouldn’t mind telling me.” Marco glanced at me and lifted an eyebrow in Melanie’s direction, which I took to mean,
Go talk to her.