Moss Hysteria (14 page)

“Marco,” I said, trying not to move my mouth, “your mom's here and she's coming this way.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “It's about time.”

I gaped at him. “You invited her and you didn't tell me?”

He reached over to take my hands. “I wanted you here with me when I discuss her boyfriend.”

Marco had set up an ambush and made me his accomplice. Now she'd be angry at both of us. “I'm not saying a word,” I told him, taking my hands away.

“Abby,
bella
,” Francesca said, leaning in to kiss my cheek and give me a hug. She scowled at her son and said, “Marco.” She didn't kiss or hug him, just scooted in beside me and sat facing him.

Francesca was wearing a peacock blue silk jacket over a white blouse with black slacks and flats, carrying a black shoulder bag. She brushed her glorious dark hair away from her face and folded her hands on the table as Gert came to take her drink order.

“A cup of coffee, thank you.” Then, as Gert hurried away, Francesca leveled her gaze at her son. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

He leaned back and put one arm along the tufted orange bench. “Alfred.” Francesca slapped both hands on the table and sat back with a disgusted look. “That's what I thought.”

“
Mama
, that man is deceiving you,” Marco said.

Francesca didn't say a word, just kept her unsmiling gaze on him.

“Alfred Donnerson has been divorced four times. His fourth marriage lasted a year and ended a short two months ago. He lied about having children. He has five, in fact. Five stepchildren, all grown, some with children of their own.”

In a low voice she said, “You didn't ask about
step
children. Only
children.
”

Marco went on. “I found two addresses associated with his name. The first I traced to an abandoned food factory, the other to a multimillion-dollar mansion on a gated property, both a far cry from that cozy lake cottage he told you about. You know what else I found on Alfred Donnerson? Nothing. It's as though someone has gone to great lengths to erase his past. Know what that tells me?”

“That he's smarter than you are.” Francesca slid off the bench, put her purse over her shoulder, and left.

I sipped my tea through the straw, watching my husband's expression change from surprise to anger to frustration and then to determination.

“Donnerson might
think
he's smarter than me . . .” Marco said, picking up his beer bottle. He didn't finish his thought, just tipped the bottle back and took a long drink.

“Marco, drop it. Your mom doesn't want you interfering.”

“Not going to happen. I care about her too much.”

Too much
was exactly the right term.

“You're always asking me to trust your instincts, Abby. How about this time you trust mine?”

W
hen my mom stopped in at Bloomers after school, I was actually relieved to see her and gave her a warm hug. A slender woman with the peaches-and-cream complexion she'd inherited with her English genes and a honey blond bob that never had a strand out of place, Mom wore her standard teacher's outfit of neutral slacks, a coordinating print blouse with a cardigan sweater over her shoulders, and sensible flats.

Rosa and I had been busy putting together arrangements for a bridal shower, but everything stopped when Mom arrived. Even Lottie and Grace joined us to see what Mom had made, no doubt because of her unusual absence the week before. However, she hadn't brought the new art project Rosa had said she'd been working on, just bookmarks she'd had printed for her children's books.

“I love them, Mom,” I said, and handed one to Lottie to see. “Good job.”

“It's cute, Maureen,” Lottie said. “Bright and colorful.” She handed it to Rosa, who said, “I've seen it already,” and passed it to Grace.

“When did you see it?” I asked Rosa with a smile.

Rosa and Mom exchanged smiles as Mom said, “I showed her when she came over to help me with my project.”

After an awkward silence, Lottie said, “So when do we get to see this project?”

“When it's ready,” Mom said, and again she and Rosa smiled at each other.

I smiled, too, and before I made my escape into the cooler, forced myself to say, “I can't wait to see it.”

Mom didn't mean to exclude you,
I told myself.
She's just busy with her books and excited about this new art project.

Inner child to Abby:
She wasn't too busy to share her project with Rosa.

“Abigail?” Mom called.

I gave a start, grabbed a handful of daisies, and stepped out. “Yes?”

“I'm taking off now, honey.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, did the same to Rosa, then headed toward the curtain. “Remember, dinner at our house this Sunday.”

“Are you talking to me or Rosa?” I asked.

“You,” she said. “But, Rosa, we'd love to have you and Petey come, too.”

“
Gracias
, Maureen, but we go to my
mamá
's house on Sundays.”

I turned away so they wouldn't see my relief.

•   •   •

As I took Seedy for a walk around the neighborhood after work that evening, I saw Rye Bishop coming out of the model home wearing a thick black belt loaded with tools. My first inclination upon seeing him was to do an about-face and hurry the other way. But common sense intervened; the investigation was more important than my embarrassment, and the opportunity was just too perfect to pass up.

“Let's go talk to Rye, Seedy. He won't hurt you.”

She began to growl and got low to the ground, just as she'd done after Rye had been to our house. Her reaction was odd—Seedy usually hid when she saw a strange man—so I had to pick her up and carry her. As we approached him, she tucked her head under my elbow, still growling.

“Evening,” Rye said with a shy smile. He had on his usual hooded sweatshirt, baggy work pants, with his baseball cap on backward. “Hi, Seedy.” He tried to pet her, but she merely increased her growls and stuck her head farther beneath my arm.

“I'm surprised you're still here,” I said. “I thought your day ended at four.”

“A toilet problem in the model needed a fix.”

“You do plumbing work?”

“If it's an emergency situation and not too complicated. Brandon can't sell homes if people see problems in the model.”

“So, listen, Rye, I know Marco talked to you, but I wanted to tell you myself how sorry I am that I brought up your name in our meeting with Brandon. I know it's not an excuse, but I was operating on two hours of sleep.”

“I know you didn't mean nothing by it. Besides, maybe it's time Brandon got a wake-up call so he's aware that people are finding out what's been going on.”

“I'm not sure about that wake-up call. He stated firmly that all the homes here passed inspection.”

“They passed, all right. My point was that some of them shouldn't have.”

I walked with him as he headed back toward the clubhouse. “If you were aware of the fraudulent home inspections, why didn't you tell Brandon?”

“Because Dirk said I shouldn't try to usurp his authority by reporting it myself. He gave me his word he would report it.”

“And yet Brandon seemed shocked by the news. Do you think Dirk lied about telling him?”

Rye shrugged. “Either that or Brandon knows and is lying to you. Guess it comes down to who you want to believe.”

We paused to wave at a neighbor driving by, then I said, “Did you ever see Jane Singletary here in Brandywine?”

“Yep, on a couple of occasions when she had to bring Dirk to work.”

“Do you remember what kind of car she drove?”

“It was an SUV—a Honda CR-V, if I remember correctly.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

The color worked but not the model. “Do you know anyone who drives a black sedan?”

Rye scratched his neck. “Seems like Dirk had a black sedan of some sort—or maybe it was navy. He mentioned it once, but I never saw him drive it. He liked his big blue Toyota Tundra too much. And then there's Mr. Thorne's black Lexus.”

“The residents would recognize Brandon's car, wouldn't they?”

“I'd expect so.”

“And I hate to ask you again, but what time did you say you left last Friday?”

“Four o'clock. Is there a question about the time?”

I couldn't mention what Connie had told us, so I said, “I forgot to write it in my notes and couldn't remember what you'd said. But you're sure it was four?”

He took off his hat and scratched his head, then put his hat back on. “Now that I think back, it might've been later. Seems like I remember getting stuck at the Nabhans' house fixing more things than I'd planned to. So maybe it was later than four.”

“Duly noted. By the way, congratulations. I hear you got that promotion you wanted.”

Rye's face turned red. “Yeah, I was surprised.”

“Why didn't you tell us about it when we talked Thursday?”

“Well”—he took off his cap again and put it back on, a nervous habit, perhaps—“I wasn't sure I was going to be staying here. I was hoping to get another job, but that fell through.”

That seemed a plausible reason. “I don't want to embarrass you, Rye, but would you be honest with me about why Dirk wanted you fired?”

He glanced at me in surprise. “Who said he wanted me fired?”

The name was on my lips when I remembered the rule. “I can't divulge that.”

He studied me a moment. “So Mr. Thorne told you. I have to say it's the first I've heard of it, but I'm not too surprised.”

We stopped behind Rye's pickup parked in front of the clubhouse's small lot. “Why is that?”

“Dirk didn't like me because I knew how often he was getting to work late and how many times he left early.”

“Did you ever tell Brandon about Dirk's work ethic?”

He shook his head. “I don't do that to people. I'm just grateful Mr. Thorne didn't listen to Dirk.”

“Quite the opposite. Brandon said you've always done a fine job . . .” I stopped abruptly, realizing I'd just broken the rule again. Fortunately, Rye didn't notice.

“That's good to hear, especially since it looks like I'll be staying.” He climbed into the bed of his truck and unlocked a built-in chest to put away his tool belt.

“Here's another question for you,” I said. “Is there another location besides the supply closet in the clubhouse where tools and equipment are stored?”

“Nope. That's it. Why?”

“Marco noticed that there weren't any hammers or large wrenches in it.”

“Things go missing a lot around here,” he said, closing the chest. “Subcontractors take things and never return them. That's why I keep my stuff locked up. If there's anything in particular Marco needs, he can borrow it from me.”

“He'll appreciate that. In fact, you don't happen to have a large wrench, do you?”

Rye opened the chest again and pushed his tools around. “That's strange. It's not here.”

O
nce in a great while, Jillian surprised me by being normal. And for a short while she did so at Theda's house, as we dined on scrumptious food and laughed at stories of Theda's crazy Greek family. It helped that Theda did most of the talking, and when she paused, I jumped in with questions so Jillian couldn't get the proverbial word in edgewise. No sense tempting fate.

But the normalcy ended at the conclusion of a story in which Theda mentioned her late husband.

“Poor Theda,” Jillian said, before I could start a new topic of conversation. “I can't imagine losing my husband. Can you, Abs? Who would take care of me?”

“You'd learn to take care of yourself,” said Theda, a reflective look in her eyes.

Jillian leaned forward on her elbows. “How did your husband die?”

“He drowned in our swimming pool.”

Jillian turned to me with wide eyes. “Can you imagine?”

“Will you look at the time?” I tapped my watch. “We'd better get started on my living room project, Jillian.”

She was not to be deterred. “Who found him, Theda?”

“Jillian,” I said, poking her under the table, “it's a painful subject.”

Theda put down her wineglass. “That's okay, Abby. I was the one who found him.”

My cousin put her hand over her mouth, her eyes welling with fat tears. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. “How horrible.”

“I try not to dwell on it.”

“We're both very sorry for your loss,” I said, scooting back my chair. “I apologize if we upset you. Jillian, we really should be going. Thanks for a lovely dinner, Theda.”

Jillian didn't move. “Was it like in the TV shows, where the police try to get you to say you pushed him in?”

“Jillian, stop,” I hissed.

Theda wiped her mouth with her napkin, placed it on the table, and said calmly, “Exactly like that.”

Jillian looked at me again, her eyebrows making tiny tents above her shocked gaze. Then to Theda she said, “But you didn't, right?”

“Time to go,” I said as I tugged my cousin to her feet. “I'm sorry, Theda. Jillian has a bad habit of blurting the first thing that comes into her head.”

“I didn't mean to offend you, Theda,” Jillian said.

“I understand. And to answer your question, Jillian,” Theda said, trying to keep a straight face, “I didn't push him in. That's not to say I hadn't thought about it.”

We laughed, but there was something about the gleam in Theda's eye that said she was quite serious.

•   •   •

Jillian sat on the sofa with me and scrolled through my photos. “You're sticking with the playroom theme, I see.”

“I can't help it. I like color. But Marco likes black and navy, so what do we do? I refuse to live with this old beater sofa another month.”

Jillian tapped her chin then typed something on her tablet and began to scroll through more photos. “How about something like this?”

She showed me a white leather sectional. “Nope. No leather and not white. I want something colorful, comfortable, and cushiony.”

She went back to scrolling. “Do you believe Theda's story?”

“Which one?”

“That she didn't push her husband into the pool.”

“Of course I believe her. What I don't believe is that you asked her about it.”

“You have to admit it's freakishly coincidental that another man drowned behind her house, and, yes, I know it's not the same house, but it
is
the same woman. And that last comment she made? How telling is that?”

“Oh, come on, Jillian. She was joking.”

Jillian studied me a moment, then with a grin, pushed my arm. “You don't believe that's a joke any more than I do. She may have been smiling, but she was dead serious.”

“She's not a killer, Jill. She's my friend and next-door neighbor.”

“Okay.” She gave me a skeptical lift of her eyebrows. “You know what they say, though. There are no coincidences. So how do you feel about this sofa?”

Tuesday

I didn't get a chance to talk to Marco until breakfast the next morning, where I relayed my conversation with Rye and the information I'd gleaned from it.

“So he can fix plumbing when necessary, and one of his heavy tools is missing even though he keeps the chest locked,” Marco said over his second cup of coffee. “We may have found our mystery plumber.”

“I'm not so sure. I asked Rye how it was possible for someone to take his wrench, and he said he might have left it behind when he was working at one of the models.”

“For someone who keeps his tools locked up, his cavalier attitude about leaving one behind raises a red flag with me. We'll need to follow up on that to see if he located the wrench. I'd love to get my hands on it first and have it tested for blood residue.

“By the way, the garden shovel was sent for DNA testing, but the police won't get results for weeks, so we have to assume any heavy tool could be the weapon. And as for the black sedan, we'll need to ask the neighbors whether they would recognize Thorne's car. I have a strong feeling that if we find the owner of that Ford, we'll find our killer.”

I finished my coffee and got up to rinse my cup. “The Ford could have belonged to Dirk. Rye said Jane drives a Honda CR-V, but Dirk owned a third car that he didn't use for work. Maybe he brought it that day.”

Marco brought his bowl to the sink. “Doesn't work, sweetheart. If it was Dirk's car, it would've been there when the police came.” He paused, thinking. “Still, we should find out what his third car is. I'm off tomorrow evening, so let's pay Jane a call either at noon or after dinner. I'll phone her to see when she's available.

“And I did talk to someone in Maynard Dell's office, but she said his lunch hour varied. She suggested we drop by at eleven forty-five. Can you get away that early today?”

“I'll make it a point. I'm sure Rosa will
love
taking over for me.” I followed that with an eye roll.

“What's going on, babe? I thought we had that sorted out.”

I waved it away. “Never mind. I was trying to be funny.”

Marco studied me a moment. “I know you too well, Sunshine. You're going to dwell on this thing with Rosa until you get it resolved. How about sitting her down for a talk? She might not have a clue how she's coming across to you.”

That was true; she probably didn't. And if I told her, she'd be hurt and upset and go overboard trying to convince me otherwise, making the situation even more uncomfortable. But I didn't feel up to a debate on the subject, so I brushed it off with a simple “Good idea.”

“About Maynard Dell,” Marco said, “my strategy is going to be to first get him to admit to his deficiencies and then tell him we know Dirk was blackmailing him. His reaction will show us whether we hit the nail on the head. And Abby, I know how eager you are to tear into the man's work ethic, but you have to keep in mind that all we have are Rye's allegations. That doesn't mean we can't ask hard questions, but we have to maintain a professional attitude while interviewing him. So if you don't mind, I'll do the questioning. I think you're a little too touchy about the subject.”

That stung. “If you're basing this on what I did at our interview with Brandon, you know I was asleep on my feet. It won't happen again.”

He leaned over to kiss my cheek then got up to rinse out his cup. “What did you and Jillian decide about the living room?”

“She isn't happy about it, but I convinced her to work around your recliner.”

“That was nice of you,” he said. “Any sofa decisions?”

“No, but now she has an idea of what we like, so she's going to put together a plan, and we'll meet again Friday evening.”

“Did she behave at dinner?”

I rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “You know Jillian. She always manages to stick her foot in her mouth.” I didn't mention her questioning Theda about her husband's drowning because I knew it would only raise Marco's suspicions further. “So are we meeting at your bar or at Bloomers before we go see Maynard?”

“I'll walk down to get you.”

I backed toward the hallway. “Great. I just have to brush my teeth and then I'm ready to go. Want to put Seedy's leash on?”

•   •   •

As I opened Bloomers' yellow frame door I could hear all three women chattering happily in the coffee-and-tea parlor. But at the tinkling of the overhead bell, all talk ceased. I shut the door and bent down to unhook Seedy's leash.

“Abby?” Lottie called.

“I'm here.”

I heard whispers and then Grace called, “We're in the parlor, love. Come join us for coffee.”

Seedy jumped up into the big bay window at the front of the shop, taking her usual spot on a dog cushion Lottie had bought for her, so I tucked her leash under the counter and walked into the parlor. There I found my assistants sitting at a table near the beverage counter in back. A place had been set for me.

As I sat down, Grace poured my coffee and returned to her seat. I noticed them casting glances at each other over the rims of their cups, so I peered into the creamy liquid. “Did you put poison in my cup, or what?”

“No!” Rosa exclaimed, looking offended. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because you all have guilty looks on your faces.”

“Sweetie,” Lottie said, “you're working that murder case too hard. Take a look around. Notice anything different?”

I did a quick surveillance and was about to say no when it hit me. We had new centerpieces, small white ceramic baskets, about four inches in diameter, each basket holding an arrangement of crepe paper flowers in lime green, light pink, and white. I wasn't sure what the purpose was of having fake flowers when we had a shop full of live blossoms, so I merely made a comment to the effect that they certainly were bright.

And then I asked what they were.

“The Marisol. My namesake flower,” said Rosa. “Usually they are very big, like dinner plates, and made from paper. I made these small to fit the room better.”

Giving her a pat on the back, Lottie said, “Great centerpieces, sweetie.”

“Charming,” said Grace. “A lovely addition to our parlor, Rosa.”

“I thought it was time to shake things up a bit,” Rosa said. “People like what's new. New flavor of scone, new brew of coffee . . .”

New boss?

Our morning meeting over, the day proceeded normally, with Grace handling the parlor, Lottie ringing up customers, and Rosa and me taking care of orders. At one point I found myself alone with Lottie in the shop, so I said, “Do you really like Rosa's centerpieces?”

“You don't?”

“I asked you first.”

Lottie put her arm around me and said quietly, “I know what your objection is, and I agree with you: Live flowers are better. But she was so pleased to be helping that I couldn't find it in my heart to say no to them. Why don't we leave them a week or two and maybe they'll fade or get dusty?”

And that was the last word on the subject.

As I made deliveries later that morning, instead of focusing on questions to ask Maynard Dell, I found myself thinking of a new floral design, or, to be specific, an
award-winning
floral design. I tried to block those thoughts, yet I couldn't deny the tingles of excitement they gave me.

My phone beeped, so as soon as I parked our delivery van, I read the text message from Marco:
Jane refused meeting request. Suggest you attend Mitzi's book club tomorrow night.

Oh, boy. There was something to look forward to.

As I walked back to Bloomers, I kept seeing a white floral arrangement in my mind's eye and once again felt those tiny pulses of excitement at the thought of creating something new and unique, an Abby Knight original.

Brain to Abby:
You don't need the extra pressure. You've got enough to do as it is.

Abby to brain:
Killjoy.

When I got back to the workroom, Rosa was at my desk filling out a form online with Lottie at her shoulder, guiding her through the process.

“Are you teaching her how to place an order?” I asked, pulling the next slip of paper from the spindle.

“Nope,” Lottie said. “We're entering her into the floral competition.”

“There!” Rosa exclaimed. “I did it.” They gave each other high fives and turned to me with hopeful smiles.

“Congrats,” I said, returning the smile, then went into the cooler to pull flowers. But instead of looking for the blossoms I needed for a sixteenth birthday party arrangement, I found myself scanning my supplies for what I had in mind for the contest.

Curly willow—check. White Casablanca lilies—check. Dendrobium—

“Sorry to interrupt your concentration,” Lottie said from behind.