Dearly Depotted (24 page)

“If she doesn’t,” Lottie said, “she gets a bill.”

“That would look so tacky,” I said.

Lottie snorted. “Tacky is not paying your bills. We’ll give her a few more days, and if she still hasn’t coughed it up, I will personally send her a statement.”

“Fine, but I’m warning you, there’ll be hell to pay. My aunt will be totally humiliated, Jillian will never forgive me for embarrassing the family, and my mother will have a field day with it. She and my aunt have always had this little competition going.” I sighed forlornly. “I’ll probably have to dye my hair black and move into the witness protection program.”

“Sweetie, business is business,” Lottie said. “Your aunt will just have to suck it up. Am I right, Grace?”

We both looked at Grace. Under normal circumstances this would have been her cue to step in with a quote.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sad sigh. “I’ve got nothing.”

She really was in a bad way.

 

At five o’clock I pulled my bouquet for Vince’s wife out of the cooler and closed up shop for the day. As I locked the door I glanced up the sidewalk and saw Marco coming from Down the Hatch. I raised my arm to catch his attention but jerked it down again when I saw the dark-haired woman follow him out. I watched with a mixture of envy and curiosity as he escorted her to his car and opened the passenger-side door for her.

As she slid inside the car, Marco’s head suddenly turned my way. He gave a brief wave, then got into the car, and they drove away.

Well,
that
confirmed why he’d declined to accompany me to the Vogels’ house.

I stomped off with an annoyed huff. What was he doing, sneaking around town with a stranger?

He wasn’t sneaking. It’s broad daylight. And she obviously isn’t a stranger to him,
my better self chided.
Besides, it’s not like the two of you have agreed not to see anyone else.

There were times when my better self annoyed the hell out of me.

I was so preoccupied with thoughts of Marco and the mystery woman that I missed two turns and almost blew through a stoplight before I found the Vogels’ address. I got out of the car and marched up the front walk of the green aluminum-sided ranch home, determined to put those thoughts aside and concentrate on finding the murderer, which was a lot more important than Marco’s private life. I rang the doorbell and silently rehearsed my opening line:
“Hi, you don’t know me but . . .”

I waited a moment and rang again, and when no one came to the door I opened the screen and knocked on the heavy storm door. I was just about to head back to my car when I noticed an elderly lady watching me from the house next door. She was sitting on her front porch in a wicker rocking chair, a book in her hand. And I had a bouquet in mine.

“Hello,” I called, walking across the lawn toward her. “Do you know when Mrs. Vogel will be home?”

“Suzanne? She should be home soon. Are you a friend of hers? I don’t remember seeing that cute little sports car around here before.”

I had a hunch that this woman knew everything that went on in the neighborhood. “Suzanne didn’t make it to my cousin’s wedding Monday and I was worried about her. I stopped by to see how she was doing.”

The woman was all too willing to share the gossip. “You must not have heard what happened to her. Her migraine got so bad Monday she ended up in the hospital that night. Vincent felt terrible for leaving her, even though he was only gone for an hour. They’ve got her on medication now, but I have to say she gave us quite a scare.”

I thanked her for the helpful information, gave her the flowers, and crossed Vince’s name off my list of suspects.

 

 

 

 

“Y
ou’re still up?” Nikki asked me late that night. “Do you know it’s after midnight?” She flopped down on the sofa, startling Simon, who had curled up next to me and gone to sleep. Nikki had her hospital duds on, and there was a brand-new carton of ice cream in her hands.

“When did you get home?” I asked her.

“Just now. Didn’t you hear me come in? Why are you watching C-Span?”

I blinked at the television screen. “I’m not sure.”

She took the remote and clicked the TV off. “What’s up with you, Ab?”

I picked up the sofa pillow and hugged it to my chest. “There’s way too much on my mind. It’s really getting crowded in there.”

“So what’s got you in a twist?”

“For one thing, I’ve got to clear Richard soon because Grace is suffering. Then there’s my aunt, who still hasn’t paid for the wedding flowers—and I saw Marco with the mystery woman again.”

“Aha! Now we’re getting to the real problem.” She dug into the ice cream and said through a mouthful, “Did you try to call Marco?”

“No way. What if
she
answers?”

“Put on your sexiest voice and ask to speak to Lover Boy. That’ll get her.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I really believed we had some potent chemistry, but I guess the sizzle was all on my side.”

“Wait a minute. It’s not like you haven’t experienced some heavy lip-lock with him. Remember that cozy little picnic in his office?”

“I kissed
him
, Nikki—and I practically wrestled him to the blanket to do it. There’s a difference.”

“No, no. I’m talking about that time when you were standing by the kitchen sink and he was ready to leave but first he kissed you and you said you’d never figure out the male species. Then there was the time you had just escaped from that crazy Tom Harding in Bloomers’ basement and Marco came charging in to rescue you, found you on the floor, knelt down, and laid one on you. Oh, and what about when that Crown Victoria was following you, and Marco told you he didn’t want anything bad to happen, and then he pulled you in his arms and . . .
bosh
!”

Nikki had an amazing recall for kiss stories. I hunched a shoulder. “Yeah, but were those I-find-you-irresistible kisses or gee-you’re-still-alive kisses?”

“You know what you need? Ice cream.” Nikki put down the carton and trotted to the kitchen. “I’ll get you a spoon.”

“Sure. I need to pack on a few more pounds. That’ll really make me attractive.”

She came back and handed me a spoon. “This is Skinny Cow. Very low calorie. Try a bite.”

I slid some in my mouth. “Not bad,” I muttered through the melting sweetness on my tongue.

“See? You don’t even miss the sugar, do you?”

“Just don’t tell me what chemicals they’re using as a replacement.” I started to dig out another bite, then stopped. “Great. I’m beginning to sound like Grandma Osborne. And that reminds me. You won’t believe what she did today.”

I pushed all thoughts of Marco out of my head and told Nikki about Grandma and Cowboy Pryce. From there we turned to the perplexing puzzle of Jack Snyder’s killer, and then suddenly we were back to discussing Marco again. By the time we had worn out the subject of the mystery woman I could barely keep my eyes open, so I took myself off to bed, resolving to stop trying to figure out anyone carrying the Y chromosome and instead concentrate on a more important matter—helping Grace.

 

I woke up Thursday morning feeling recharged and ready to track down the killer—with or without Marco’s help. Naturally, that would be the day when a bundle of orders would come in—twelve of them to be exact, all funeral arrangements that had to be delivered to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home by two o’clock that afternoon. On any other day those orders would have had me jumping for joy. Today they felt like an annoyance.

“Let’s rent a van,” Lottie said.

“Good idea,” I said. “Once I get paid for Jillian’s wedding I’m going to see about buying one. I can write it off as a business expense.”

“I’ll call the rental company we used for the wedding,” Grace said.

Seeing her drawn face only added to my frustration. I wanted the old Grace back. I missed her ready quotes and the pleasant tunes she hummed throughout the day. Their absence was like a black hole, sucking up all the light. Even Lottie kept shooting her worried glances as we shared our first cups of coffee in the parlor. But Grace wasn’t one to vent. She bore it all with her classically British stiff upper lip.

Lottie and I took fresh cups of coffee and headed back to the workroom, where, for a few hours, I concentrated on nothing but my flowers. Midway through the morning, though, Grace came back to tell us that Sheila Sackowitz had returned, and she’d brought a friend.

“Great. The chatterbox is back,” Lottie said with a roll of her eyes. “I think I’ll go pick up the van.”

“Coward,” I said. “That’s okay. I don’t mind Sheila coming in, as long as I can get her to chatter about Monday night.”

“Hey there, kiddo,” Sheila called when I stepped through the curtain. She threw a skinny arm around my shoulders and dragged me against her, practically into her armpit—it was one of the drawbacks of being short.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d be back? This is Deb Bartoli. She fills in at the banquet center when they need an extra waitress. Deb, this is Abby Knight, owner of this cute little shop.”

I extracted my head and reached out to give Deb’s hand a shake. She was a stout woman, taller than me but a head shorter than Sheila. Both had on baggy knit pants and a T-shirt, but Deb’s was pink with a teddy bear on it, whereas today Sheila’s had a logo that read, HANDS OFF, ASSWIPE.

“Deb needs to pick up some flowers to take to her mother in a nursing home.” Sheila tapped her head and whispered, “The old lady lost her marbles, you know?”

Deb was standing at the display cooler with her hands cupped around her eyes, peering through the glass, which was steaming up from her breath. I suggested we open the door and she could take a look, but the array of colors and textures seemed to make it even harder for her to select, so I ended up suggesting an arrangement for her. When the door finally closed, the flowers shuddered in relief.

“Hey, come on in the parlor, Deb,” Sheila called from the doorway. “I ordered us coffee and some of Grace’s delicious scones. Do you have time to join us, Abby?”

“I’ll make time,” I told her. I finished wrapping Deb’s bouquet and took it to the parlor, where Deb was munching on one of Grace’s pride-and-joy scones and Sheila was telling Grace how to make cranberry muffins—her specialty, as it turned out.

Grace, with her usual good manners, was standing at the table, coffeepot in hand, listening politely. “I’ll have to try my hand at it,” she said when Sheila had finally finished.

“I’ll bring some by for you to sample,” Sheila offered. “You’ll love ’em. Hey, here’s an idea, Abby. You might want to think about selling them here. I could make a couple dozen every morning and drop them by on my way to work. I’ll give you a real deal on ’em—cost plus twenty percent.”

“I’ll give it serious thought,” I told her, adding a few drops of cream to my coffee. I immediately glanced at Grace and gave her a discreet shake of my head. Grace would run me through the coffee grinder before she let someone else do her baking.

The bell over the door jingled and I heard my aunt Corrine’s voice. I tried to focus on what Sheila was saying, but my mind was too busy sending my aunt a telepathic message:
Pay Abby for the flowers.
So I sipped my coffee and nodded at whatever Sheila was saying.

A few minutes later, the bell jingled again, then Grace came back to the parlor, picked up a carafe, and walked over to refill our cups. At my quizzical glance, she leaned over to say quietly, “Your aunt said to tell you the wedding video will be ready tomorrow.” Then she gave me a little shrug that meant
No check
.

Great. Now Lottie would send a bill, my aunt would be humiliated, my mother would be delighted, and I’d be banished from the family. I grabbed the pitcher of cream, laced my coffee with it, and took a gulp, hoping the butterfat would numb my brain.

“Wedding video?” Sheila exclaimed. “Damn, I’m glad no one taped any of my weddings. There’s no way I’d want to watch those disasters happen again.” Both women guffawed. Then Sheila said, “I wish you could have seen little Abby here in her bridesmaid dress, Deb. She was something, let me tell you, especially when she fell on her ass and took another bridesmaid down with her.”

The women chortled and slapped their knees. I dumped the rest of the cream in my cup and looked around for another pitcher.

“Sorry,” Sheila said, wiping her eyes. “I just had to tease you about it.” To Deb she said, “That was the night I had to work late ’cause that blockhead Gunther took off work early.”

At the mention of Gunther, my brain snapped to attention. “I have a question for you, Sheila. Has it always been Gunther’s job to take out the garbage?”

“Since I’ve been there it has. It’s one of the few things he can’t screw up.” She snickered.

“Is the garbage packaged in black plastic bags?”