Moss Hysteria (2 page)

A
s Marco called 911, Seedy lifted her nose and began to howl, so I took her back to our house and tied her up to the post Marco had installed near the sliding door. But as I returned to the pond, she started howling again.

“He's Brandon Thorne's construction superintendent,” Theda was telling Marco. “We were supposed to have a meeting Friday evening about the moss situation, but he never showed up. Now I know why.”

“What's his name?” I asked.

“Dirk Singletary.” Theda kept shaking her head as she stared at the bloated face just visible about six feet from shore. “He must have slipped under the water and drowned.”

“It doesn't look deep enough,” Marco said.

“You can drown in a teaspoon of water,” Theda said. “And really, how else would you explain it?”

The most obvious explanation made me glance at Marco and shake my head in disbelief. “We've been here one day, Marco. One day.”

He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “There are other possibilities, Sunshine.”

Over Seedy's howling I heard sirens approaching. “The police will be here soon. I'd better put Seedy inside.”

Our little rescue dog had a fear of most men stemming from the abuse she'd suffered at a previous owner's hands. Seeing a swarm of them in uniform would be too much for her, so I let her in the house, petted her until she'd calmed down, and came back to find a police officer talking to Marco and Theda, two more officers getting ready to tape off the land abutting the pond, and a crime scene photographer preparing to take photos.

The lead officer was Sergeant Sean Reilly, our buddy on the New Chapel, Indiana, force. Reilly was a good-hearted, nice-looking guy in his forties. He had helped us on many of the cases we'd solved.

“How's it going, Sarge?” I asked as I joined Marco.

“Fine until Marco's call came in.” He pushed back his cap with his thumb and shook his head at me. “How do you do it? How do you manage to find dead bodies everywhere?”

“I don't
do
anything, Reilly. It's not a talent.”

“Like a cosmic trouble magnet,” he said to Marco.

“If anyone's to blame, it's me,” Theda said. “I noticed the body first.”

“I'll need to get statements from all of you,” Reilly said. “How about if I take them in your respective houses so we can get out of the way here? Ma'am, I'd like to start with you.”

“Of course, Officer,” Theda said. “Come this way.”

As they headed toward her back door, a pair of EMTs wheeled a mobile stretcher between our houses. I glanced around to see a handful of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk in front, a few of them I recognized from the book clubs.

Noticeably absent was Mitzi Kole. But then I looked past Theda's backyard and saw her standing outside her back door waiting while a small fluffy white dog did her business on her lawn. Mitzi saw me, lifted her hand in a quick greeting, grabbed the dog, and darted back inside.

Marco stayed to watch the police work, but I went back to my unpacking, making good headway in the kitchen until Marco brought Reilly in. Then, over coffee and one of the tins of cookies, we sat at the card table, which served as our makeshift dining table, and told our side of the story. That took all of two minutes.

“I talked to the coroner after I left Mrs. Coros's house,” Reilly said. “He found evidence of a severe blow to the back of the victim's head leaving a deep impression. He was guessing it was from a heavy tool of some kind. It's still preliminary, but he's calling it a homicide. He won't have more information until he performs the autopsy tomorrow.”

I sighed and plunked my chin on my hand. “One day. We've been here
one day
.”

“Did Theda have any leads for you?” Marco asked.

Reilly reached for another cookie. “She gave me a few names.”

“Any of our neighbors?” I asked.

Reilly rubbed his nose. “You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with you.”

That was his way of saying yes.

“Great,” I said. “A body on our first day
and
a murderer in the neighborhood.”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Reilly said. “Only one of the names is a neigh . . .” He caught himself. “Anyway, according to Mrs. Coros, this guy Dirk wasn't well regarded here. Some of your neighbors have reported jewelry missing, and Mrs. Coros believes Dirk was responsible. Apparently he had access to many of the homes through a set of master keys kept in the developer's office at the clubhouse. She informed the developer, but he hasn't done anything yet about securing the keys.”

I glanced at Marco. “Did Dirk have access to our house?”

“I had our locks changed right after closing.” It was one of the many details he'd handled because I'd been so swamped with work.

“Is there any proof that Dirk was the thief?” I asked.

“You'd have to ask Lisa Wells,” Reilly said. “She's the detective working that case. She'll probably be given this investigation, too.”

Detective Wells had been the detective assigned to my case when I'd had my identity, and nearly my life, stolen by a young woman who wanted to be me. Fortunately, Marco helped me prove my innocence, and the detective had worked with us to clear my name.

Reilly drained his cup and rose to leave. “Gotta go. Good luck with the unpacking.” He paused at the door to look around our house. “Nice place.”

“Thanks, Reilly.” I shut the door and turned back to Marco. “I
thought
we had a nice neighborhood, too. Now I'm not so sure.”

Monday

Marco brought the newspaper into the bathroom, where I was putting on my mascara. Other than a moisturizer, light blush, mascara, and lip gloss, I didn't do much to my face. It would've taken too many layers to hide my freckles, and besides, Marco thought they were cute.

He held up the paper so I could see it in the mirror.

MAN DROWNS IN POND: MURDER SUSPECTED

I put away my makeup kit and tried to tug a comb through the tangled mess of red hair. What did I do in my sleep to cause such snarls? Headstands? “Is there any new information?”

“Not much. Dirk was thirty-six, married, with a wife and two boys aged eight and ten. He moved here from Colorado six months ago. As Brandon Thorne's superintendent, he was in charge of new construction, coordinating subcontractors, and arranging warranty work on existing homes. Originally from Wilmington, Delaware.”

“His poor wife.” I gazed at my hunky hubby in the mirror and sighed morosely. “I can only imagine what she's going through right now—or those poor little boys.”

Marco was still reading the article. “This isn't good. Theda's mentioned.”

“Because she found the body?”

“No, because, as your reporter friend Connor MacKay put it, she was the last one to see Dirk alive.”

Connor MacKay was not my friend and never had been, but I let that pass. “Why would he write that? Theda said Dirk never made it to her appointment.” I took the newspaper from Marco and skimmed the article. “It doesn't say Dirk never made the appointment. Why doesn't it say that?”

“Let's hope it's a misprint.”

•   •   •

Marco let Seedy and me off in front of Bloomers then drove away to find a parking spot for my old Corvette. We were still carpooling as a result of two factors: Marco's Prius being totaled by a murderer, and a decision not to replace it in order to save money for the house. I was determined to change that.

The truth was, I missed driving my refurbished 1960 bright yellow 'Vette. I missed the independence it gave me. With the flower shop now operating in the black and Marco's bar doing well, the money we made from our private investigations could go toward a car for my beloved's use. Simply put, I wanted my baby back.

My stomach rumbled, causing Seedy to glance up at me as though I had growled at her. “Don't judge me,” I told her. “You got to eat. I didn't.”

I paused outside the three-story redbrick building that housed my floral business to gaze up at the sign above me:
BLOOMERS FL
OWER SHOP, ABBY KNIGH
T, PROPRIETOR.

One day I'd have to remember to get that sign redone. It should read: Abby Knight
Salvare
, Proprietor
.

Bloomers Flower Shop sat on Franklin Street, one of four streets that made up New Chapel, Indiana's, town square, facing the east side of the big four-story limestone courthouse that sat squarely in the middle of a wide expanse of lawn. All around the square were restaurants, banks, law offices, and other shops that were thriving now after a few rough years of barely scraping by.

Not many people were out at this time of the morning, but once Bloomers opened, we'd get a lot of traffic in our coffee-and-tea parlor from people who worked in the courthouse and other businesses on the square.

I checked to make sure the big red-and-white striped awning over our two bay windows was in good shape then unlocked the yellow-frame door with the beveled glass center and went inside. I shut the door behind Seedy and we both sniffed the air. “
Ahh.
Do you smell that, Seedy? That's breakfast cooking.”

Former owner Lottie Dombowski's delicious scrambled egg skillet was a Monday-morning tradition at Bloomers. With our new house in its current state of chaos, I was looking forward to relaxing over her breakfast even more than usual. I paused to glance around my cozy shop, with its old-fashioned cash register at the counter near the door, the big open armoire filled with crystal and ceramic gifts, silk arrangements, and candlesticks, the round oak table in the center that held lovely floral arrangements, the wicker settee in a back corner with a huge Dieffenbachia plant behind it, and the glass-fronted case that held a plethora of ready-to-buy fresh flowers.

My stomach growled again—it got angry when it wasn't fed on time—so I set off for the purple curtain that separated the shop from my nirvana—the workroom—and beyond that, the kitchen, where my meal awaited.

“Abby, love,” Grace whispered, motioning to me from the doorway that led to our coffee-and-tea parlor, “a moment, please.”

Grace Bingham was the sixty-something British expat who ran the parlor I'd added after taking over the shop from Lottie. It had been intended as a way to draw in more business for the floral side, but Grace's homemade scones—a different flavor every day—her gourmet blends of coffee, and her expertly brewed teas were almost more popular than my arrangements.

Grace kept glancing toward the curtain as she waited for me, as though afraid someone would overhear. She was a slender woman with short, stylish silver hair who always dressed in a sweater set and matching skirt with flats. Her hands were clasped at her waist as though about to deliver a speech, a sure sign a quote was forthcoming. She had one for every occasion; still, I couldn't imagine needing one for breakfast.

“What is it, Grace?”

“A word of caution before you proceed.”

That was never a good way to start the day.

“I'd like you to keep in mind these words from William Shakespeare. ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.'”

“I have no idea what that means, Grace.”

“
Hola
, Abby!”

But I had a sudden feeling I knew who it was about. I turned toward the curtain as my new employee, Rosa Marin, emerged.

“Just keep what I said in mind,” Grace whispered quickly, then ducked back inside the parlor.

A midthirties woman of Colombian decent, Rosa Marisol Katarina Marin was a bombshell, with luxurious dark hair, prominent cheekbones, smooth skin, dark eyes, a wide smile, and abundant curves. Today she had on a patterned V-neck blouse in sky blue and pink with a tight white skirt and mile-high blue heels. Around her neck was her trademark lightning bolt pendant, a gift from her recently departed husband.

I'd met Rosa when she enlisted Marco and me to find out who had attempted to kill her husband. She had loved the flower shop atmosphere so much that she'd offered to help when we were shorthanded. And after discovering Rosa had a natural talent for arranging flowers and working with customers, Lottie and Grace had pressed me to hire her.

I hated to admit it, but I was a tad envious of Rosa. Everything I'd struggled to achieve came easily to her, and it was tough to watch my staff and family fawn over her every accomplishment. But I couldn't justify not hiring her because of a little pettiness on my part, and our need for an extra hand kept growing, so a month ago we'd made her a full-time employee.

“Come see what I made you for breakfast!” Rosa said, looping her arm through mine. She tended to talk excitedly and loudly, something everyone but me found endearing.

“What
you
made?”