Moss Hysteria (18 page)

“But one day Kitty tugged the rope free. He was gone for hours and when he finally showed up at the door, his collar was missing. That's why I use a harness on him now. I just can't figure out how that collar ended up in Dirk's hand.”

“What did Dave Hammond say?”

“He told me to answer their questions truthfully but not to offer any additional information. Keep it short and sweet, he said. They've asked me to take a polygraph test, but I told Dave I wouldn't do it.”

“But, Theda, think about it. A polygraph could clear your name.”

Theda held out her hands, concern etched in her strong features. “Do you see how I'm shaking? I'm afraid I wouldn't pass because of my nerves.”

A quick thought flashed in my mind: Was that her real reason for not wanting to take the test? Then I felt guilty and erased it. “Don't worry, Theda. We're getting closer to finding the killer. Just do what Dave tells you and trust that the real murderer will give herself—or himself—away soon.”

•   •   •

La De Da Salon and Spa was in a strip mall on the east side of New Chapel, sandwiched between a Chipotle and a frozen yogurt shop. It hadn't been open long, and as empty as it was that evening, I wondered if it would last another month. There was only one other client, an older woman getting a cut and style.

A young woman was at the hot pink reception counter playing a game on her cell phone when I walked in. She wore a shiny black smock and had short purple hair. Her dark eyes were rimmed with heavy black liner. Her fingernails sported black polish.

With an expressionless face and a decidedly Russian accent she said, “Here for pedicure?”

“Yes, I'm Abby.”

“I am Sonja. Come
wis
me.”

I followed her through the ultramodern shop decorated in hot pink, glossy black, and lots of shiny chrome, to one of three pedicure chairs along the back wall. She instructed me to place my bare feet in a tub of frothing water then said, “Use remote on chair arm to control massage.” Then she returned to the reception counter.

I played with the controls until I found a relaxing setting then leaned back to enjoy a massage while my feet soaked. When Sonja reappeared, I had to shake myself from the massage-induced coma so I could remember what questions to ask her.

Sonja sat on a low stool in front of my lounge chair and lifted my left foot out of the water to set it on the footrest and pat it dry with a towel. She didn't seem inclined to talk, so I jumped right in. “I may have told you on the phone, but my neighbor Mitzi Kole recommended you. She had high praise for your work.”

Sanding the dry skin off my heel, Sonja said in a flat voice, “How nice.”

“How long has Mitzi been your client?”

“We have been open four months. She comes here also four months.”

“Only four months. Did she tell you about the tragic accident that happened in our neighborhood almost two weeks ago?”

“You mean man who drowned? Terrible.”

“Yes, it was. It really shook Mitzi up. She couldn't even remember what time her appointment was that day,”

Sonja said nothing. The woman getting her hair done, as well as her stylist, had gone quiet, obviously listening in.

“Anyway, I thought I'd check for her.”

Sonja had me switch feet then began to scrub my other heel. “What for Mitzi needs to know? She was here last week already.”

“I guess the detectives investigating the case need to know. Do you have it written down in your appointment book?”

With a frown, she began to scrub my heel so hard I was afraid it would start to bleed. “I don't keep book. Owner keeps book.”

I finally said, “Ouch,” and pulled my foot away. “Is your owner nearby?”

Sonja shook her head. “She is already gone.”

If the appointment book went home with the owner, how would Sonja know when her next appointment was? “When you think back to the Friday evening that Mitzi came in for a full spa treatment, was it after supper?”

The sullen stylist put my foot into the water, took out the other foot, dried it, and began to paint a coat of clear polish on my toenails, not looking at me at all. “Could be.”

“Was it dark outside?”

“I don't remember.”

“You're talking about Mitzi Kole, right?” said the other stylist, a young woman with a friendly smile.

“Yes.”

“You have to remember that night, Sonja. Mitzi got here late and you were majorly annoyed because you wanted to leave early that evening for a date.”

Sonja frowned harder and merely gave a shrug.

“What time did Mitzi finally get here?” I asked.

The young woman stopped using a curling iron on her client's hair. “Oh, gee, let me think. Maybe eight o'clock? It wasn't before eight. I'm sure of that. I was getting ready to leave when Mitzi showed up all apologetic and flustered.”

“When you say
flustered
, what do you mean?”

The young woman thought for a moment. “Her clothes were kind of—I don't know—like she'd just thrown something on. That wasn't Mitzi.”

“Were her clothes wet, or did they appear damp?”

The stylist looked puzzled. “I don't remember that—do you, Sonja?”

Sonja turned to glare at her coworker. “Her clothes were not wet, and we do not talk about clients behind their backs.”

I ignored her to ask the other stylist, “Did Mitzi say why she was late?”

The other stylist looked uncomfortable and said in a subdued tone, “Not to me.”

I didn't even bother with Sonja. She was clearly prepared to defend Mitzi no matter what. “Thanks,” I said to the other stylist. “You've been very helpful.”

“No problem,” she said, and turned her attention back to her own customer.

Sonja finished my toenails in record time, mainly due to her not wasting a moment on conversation or doing a particularly neat job. Perhaps it was intentional so I wouldn't come back. I paid at the counter and left with the worst pedicure ever.

•   •   •

“Your toes don't look
that
bad,” Marco said when I showed him the purple mess later that night. I was in bed reading, and he'd come over to check out my feet then went back to removing his work clothes.

“Yes, they look that bad, but it's not really about my toenails. It's about Sonja refusing to answer questions and Mitzi showing up late that Friday evening, flustered, and nervous. Eight o'clock, Marco, plenty of time for Mitzi to do her dirty work after the sun set and still keep her appointment at the salon. This is why she's my prime suspect. The puzzle pieces just keep fitting around her.”

“I'm not saying you're wrong, Sunshine. I just don't think Mitzi has the courage to pull off a murder. I see her as all show, no go.”

I didn't want to argue, but I did have to trust my instincts.

Marco sat on his side of the bed to remove his socks. “I'm more interested in this cat collar the police found. The way I look at it, and undoubtedly the detectives do, too, Dirk was trying to show who his killer was.”

“And that would be Kitty?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. If Dirk was knocked in the head hard enough for someone to get him into the water, how would he have the presence of mind to search for a way to identify his killer?”

“Maybe he came to.”

“That's weak, Salvare, and you know it.”

“Then how would you explain it?”

“The wind could've blown the collar into the water. Theda said Kitty liked to sit near the pond. Maybe Dirk was trying to grab onto something and snagged it from the bottom.”

Marco got up to put his socks in the hamper. “It's a reasonable explanation, but you know as well as I do that the detectives and the prosecutor aren't going to look at it that way. They need to pin this murder on someone soon to keep the voting public happy. And I'm telling you, babe, that the cat collar combined with means, motive, and opportunity, and no way to verify her alibi makes Theda the perfect suspect.

“On top of that, her reaction to the polygraph test is unreasonable. An innocent person will always opt to take it. They cops will see that as another sign of her guilt.”

He came back to sit on the bed. “I know you don't want to hear this, but maybe the detectives
are
looking at the right suspect.”

“No, Marco. It's Mitzi. Every time I'm around her I can feel in my gut that she's guilty. And somehow I'm going to prove it.”

Thursday

B
efore Marco and I went our separate ways that morning, we made plans to do surveillance work on Maynard Dell after lunch. To make that happen, Marco was going to have to get Maynard's schedule from Hevyn so we'd know where to find him. To make
that
happen, he was going to wait outside the building inspector's office until Hevyn's coworker took her break, then swoop in and work the Salvare magic on our little helper angel.

Since a lot had to fall into place to make everything work, we came up with plan B: Stake out the Washtub Tap while Maynard was having lunch and follow him from there. The hitch in that plan was that it would eat up a lot of time, and I couldn't spare more than an hour away from Bloomers. So if we had to default to plan B, it would be Marco's alone. I wasn't overly concerned about it because I didn't believe Maynard was the killer. But we had to rule him out before we could move on.

When Seedy and I entered Bloomers just before eight o'clock, Grace, Lottie, and Rosa were buzzing excitedly about the upcoming flower show. Rosa had just learned her entry form had been accepted, just one day before the deadline on Friday. The show was one week away.

I celebrated with them over a blend of coffee Grace used only for special occasions. And all the while my brain was sending me messages:
Do it. Enter the contest. One day left. What are you waiting for? You have a great design.

I did have a great design. What
was
I waiting for?

How about permission from my conscience?

They continued chatting, so I slipped off to the workroom to study my sketch. The more I envisioned it coming to life, the more my excitement grew, and the more my excitement grew, the more I wanted to make it. All it needed was the perfect container.

I swiveled my chair for a look at the shelves on the opposite wall and spied a tall glass cylinder etched with crosshatch marks just begging to be used for something unique. With river rocks at the bottom, curly willow branches spiraling out the top, and all-white blossoms of staggered heights, it would be an eye-catcher.

With excitement rippling through my body, I pulled up the form online and filled it out. And yet when it came time to hit
Enter
, I couldn't get myself to do it. How could I undermine Rosa's chance to win?

What would Lottie want for you?
the little voice in my head whispered.
Wouldn't she tell you to go for it? Aren't two entries better than one?

I heard the confab in the parlor break up and knew Rosa would appear shortly.

Now or never, Abby. Do it!

I held my breath and hit
Enter
. Now I'd have to let the others know and hope Rosa wouldn't be upset. I cleared the screen just as Rosa and Lottie came through the curtain still talking about the flower show.

“We can go together,” Lottie said. “I'll pick you up on my way.”

“How long will we be gone?” Rosa asked. “I need to let my mother know because she will be watching Petey.”

“All day,” Lottie said. “We can buy lunch at one of the food booths. That's what Abby and I did last year. You'll be home in time for dinner.” She put her arm around Rosa. “We'll have so much fun. And I have a very strong feeling that you're gonna win.”

“Do you really think so?” Rosa asked.

“I do, sweetie. I really do.”

Rosa pressed her hands together. “How exciting! I've never won anything in my life.
Mi familia
will be so proud. But tell me what the contest is like. I'm nervous already.”

I couldn't hear the rest of their conversation because of Rosa's words echoing in my mind:
I've never won anything in my life.
I plucked a ticket from the spindle and said nothing about what I'd done. As soon as I had some privacy, I'd contact the contest committee and quietly withdraw my entry.

I lived with my unhappy secret until Marco picked me up at two o'clock for our surveillance work. Thanks to Hevyn, we now had the address of a new subdivision not far down the road from Brandywine where Maynard Dell was supposed to be inspecting homes under construction. On our way there, I dug into the sandwich Marco brought me and was about to tell him about my contest gaffe when he surprised me with news about his mother's new boyfriend.

“Get this, Abby. Alfred's fourth wife filed a restraining order against him prior to their divorce.”

It was the first bit of information that actually made me doubt my instincts about Francesca's beau. “What was the reason listed on the order?”

“A credible threat to her safety.”

I swallowed a bite and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Okay, before we jump to any conclusions, let's keep in mind that a restraining order is not uncommon in divorce actions. I remember from my days clerking for Dave Hammond that some lawyers file them automatically with their petitions for divorce.”

“Automatic or not, Abby, this judge granted the woman's petition, so something Alfred did convinced him that a restraining order was necessary.”

“What did the order state?”

“He was not to harass, annoy, telephone, contact, or communicate with his wife in any way and was to stay away from her residence and place of employment.”

“That's standard language. I still wouldn't jump to any conclusions until I investigated it further.”

“The order was filed out of state, which will make it more difficult to investigate. And on top of that, my mother was talking about taking a trip with Alfred to his cottage soon. Timing is everything, Abby.”

“Then I guess you'll have to tell her what you found and let her decide what to do.”

“Right. Like that plan worked the last time I tried to talk to her.”

“I hope you're not going to ask me to tell her.”

He patted my knee. “Don't worry. I have something else in mind.”

“Are you going to share it with me?”

Marco made a left turn into a subdivision named Winding Creek Woods and pulled up in front of a house under construction. “I'm going to have a man-to-man talk with Alfred.”

“Is that Army Ranger code for something I don't want to know?”

“It's exactly what I said, a man-to-man talk.”

“Alfie will probably tell you to mind your own business. And I don't think your mom is going to be pleased when she finds out about this little chat, either.”

“I'm not doing it to please my mom, Sunshine. I'm doing it to save her.”

•   •   •

As its name suggested, the forested lots of Winding Creek Woods bordered a wide, curving creek with streets on each side connected by bridges at opposite ends, creating a long oval community. Only seven of the prospective forty houses had been completed, so we parked in front of the first in a line of houses still under construction and talked to a painter priming the front door. He informed us that the building inspector had been there early that morning to do a final walk-through.

“Did you see him perform the inspection?” Marco asked.

“No, sorry. I was outside the whole time.”

“Do you know Maynard Dell personally?”

“I know who he is. I've been painting homes in New Chapel for twenty-five years. I knew the last two inspectors, too.”

“Does Maynard do a good job of inspecting?” I asked.

The painter gave a shrug. “You'd have to ask the electrician or one of the plumbers or heating guys.”

“Are any of them around?” Marco asked.

“Nope. Long gone.”

“How long was Maynard here?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes. Usual amount of time.”

“Fifteen minutes doesn't seem adequate to even check out the electrical wiring, let alone everything else,” Marco said.

The man shrugged. “What can I say? Complain to the town council.”

At the next house, we were told the same thing by a pair of trim carpenters. Maynard had been in early to inspect and had left his official tag verifying that the heating/cooling system, electrical, and plumbing were up to code. We went to five more houses in various stages of construction with similar results. Maynard had been there, performed his job in less than fifteen minutes, and left.

“If Maynard was telling the truth,” I said, as we crossed the bridge to start up the other side of the subdivision, “then who's the liar, Dirk or Rye?”

“Either is possible, but keep in mind that we've only seen the houses inspected before noon. Do you see that white van up ahead with the New Chapel logo on it? I'm betting that it belongs to Maynard.”

The van was parked in front of an excavated lot that had recently had its foundation poured, but when we pulled up behind it, we saw no sign of the building inspector. “Could he have climbed down inside?” I asked.

“Abby, look, the motor's running.”

“Maybe he's in a hurry to finish and get out of here.”

“I don't have a good feeling about this.” Marco shut off the engine and opened the car door. “Stay here.”