Shoots to Kill (13 page)

“That’s very admirable.” Sally patted my hand. “See? You did have a story. Now drink your cocoa and I’ll tell you
my
story.”

So I did, and learned that Sally was a psychologist whose daughter got hooked on heroin at the age of sixteen. The girl was arrested and put into lockup, where she died from a drug overdose. Because of that, Sally had become a victims’ rights advocate.

Nikki firmly believes there are no such things as coincidences, and I was beginning to think she was right. So I told Sally my other story, the one about the women who’d been held much too long in lockup—including the sixteen-year-old girl who should never have been put there in the first place—and how I’d managed to get Connor MacKay to do a piece for the newspaper on their situation.

“I saw the article,” Sally said, her keen gaze on me, “and I admire your courage, Abby. I was particularly moved by the plight of that young girl—Maria, I think her name was. We women need to help one another, you know? So I’m going to help you. You see that house across the road? The one with the big iron gates at the front? A member of the House of Representatives lives there. I’ve campaigned heavily for him in the past and he owes me a few favors, so I’ll walk over there this evening and see what he can do about this injustice.”

“That would be terrific, Mrs. Mitchum. Thank you! Will you let me know what he says?”

“You bet I will. Now, I believe you had some questions about Libby?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, digging in my purse for my notepad, “like what time she showed up yesterday morning and how she appeared—calm, nervous, whatever.”

“Libby arrived around ten minutes after eight o’clock, stylishly dressed, her hair clean and shiny—just like yours, actually. She seemed flustered, but said she’d been held up by a slow freight train on the way and hated being late for an appointment, which could have accounted for her upset. She brought over several art prints so I could try them out here at home. She left around eight forty-five so she’d be back in time to open her shop.”

I made a note of it, wondering why Libby felt she had to open the shop when she believed her mother and/or Oliver would be there.

Sally checked her watch. “We’re going to have to wrap this up so I can get to my office. I have clients to see.”

“Sure. I just need to verify that Libby was driving a yellow Corvette.”

“No, Libby came in a van with
Blume’s Art Shop
written on the side.”

CHAPTER NINE

Libby wasn’t driving the Corvette? But that meant that she hadn’t been coming from Sally’s house, as she’d claimed, when the police picked her up in her Vette. Why had she lied?

I knew Sally needed to go, so I thanked her for being so helpful, and she reiterated her promise to call me after she’d talked to the congressman.

As I drove up the country road pondering the new information, the railroad-crossing signals ahead started flashing and then the gates went down. I was betting it was the same crossing where Libby had gotten stuck. I counted the engines as they chugged past—three of them, which meant I was in for a long wait. No sense letting the time go to waste. I pulled out my phone and checked in with Grace to see what she’d learned at the Recorder’s Office.

“The title to the condominium is in Delphi’s name,” Grace said. “She paid for it outright. There’s no mortgage.”

“Did Delphi quitclaim the deed to Libby?”

“No, it’s all hers, and Blume’s Art Shop is leased in Delphi’s name, as well.”

“So Libby lives in a condo owned by her mother and works in a shop leased by her mother, and Oliver lives over his mother’s garage. Delphi was either very generous or wanted to control her children’s lives. Either way, I don’t think Libby or Oliver would have wanted to pull that financial plug.”

“Unless perhaps they wished to inherit her money and run their own lives. It’s something to think about, isn’t it?” Grace asked.

“I’m sure the cops have already thought about it.” I glanced out the window to check on the train and saw a long line of boxcars still to come, so I turned my thoughts to another puzzle: Who drove Libby’s Corvette to get rid of the body?

“I’m going to swing by Ace Hardware and Gandy’s Lock and Key on my way back,” I told Grace. “I want to see if anyone came in to have a duplicate Corvette key made.”

“Take your time, dear,” Grace said. “This is important.”

When the gates went up, I started across the tracks only to see a green Prius crossing from the opposite direction. My heart quickened when I spotted Marco at the wheel, but he gave me only a nod as we passed. I nodded back. That was it, a passing nod, as though we were mere acquaintances. It felt like someone had a hand around my heart and was squeezing tight.

At the hardware store I went to the key department in the back and rang the buzzer. A moment later a pleasant-looking older man appeared. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you’ve copied any Corvette keys lately. It would have been for an older model, say, 1980?”

“You’re the second one to ask me that question today. I’ll tell you what I told him. No one asked me to make a copy of a Corvette key. But I don’t work every day, so you’ll have to check back with Fred after three o’clock today. He works this counter when I’m not here.”

I gave him my business card. “Would you tell Fred to be expecting my call?”

I stopped at Gandy’s next, a tiny, triangle-shaped shop tucked into a corner lot on Concord Avenue, where I found the locksmith, Mr. Gandy, about to head out on a call. “I already talked to a detective
and
a private investigator, ” he said, climbing into his van. “If you want the information, check with one of them.”

“Would you tell me if the PI’s last name was Salvare?”

“That’s him.”

Damn. Marco had beaten me to the punch. Now I’d have to see if Dave Hammond would tell me what information Gandy had given Marco, since I wasn’t about to call Marco myself. I had another question for Dave anyway, so as soon as I got back to Bloomers, I called him, catching him between appointments.

“Hey, Dave, I have some news for you. I went out to see the customer Libby saw yesterday morning—Sally Mitchum—and she mentioned that Libby was driving the Blume’s Art Shop van, not the Corvette, which means Libby
wasn’t
on her way back from Sally’s house when she was picked up by the cops. What do you make of that?”

“Nothing, until I talk to Libby.”

That was a typical lawyer answer.

“Why were you visiting Sally Mitchum, Abby? You’re not conducting the investigation. You wouldn’t be investigating on your own, would you?”

Oops. Time for some artful dodging. “Sally’s helping me with the jail situation, Dave. She has a neighbor who’s a congressman, and she’s going to ask him to get some federal money for the county courts to help move people through the system quicker. Isn’t that great?”

“Sure is. I hope it works.”

Damn. I could forget about asking Dave for more information on the case.

I stepped into Bloomers to find the Ladies’ Poetry Society meeting under way. The elderly poetesses gathered weekly in the parlor to share their original poems while munching on Grace’s buttery scones and downing pots of tea. I scurried past just as one of the members began to read.

“ ‘Ode to a Varicose Vein.’ ‘Oh, purple vein, how I hate thee. / Inching up my calf, to my knee. / I will sigh when you reach my thigh. / But I’ll take a pass when you reach my—’ ”

I stuck my fingers in my ears and dashed past the doorway. There were some subjects that just didn’t lend themselves to poetry. In the workroom, I plunged into the orders on the spindle, trying to erase the image in my mind of Marco’s quick nod at the railroad crossing. I still couldn’t believe we’d broken up. I wanted to cry when I thought about that painful scene in his office. I hadn’t asked for much, just for him to give Libby back her file. Stubborn male!

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time Dave Hammond called at three o’clock, I was really fuming.

“Abby, Marco phoned me earlier. He went out to interview Sally Mitchum, but she told him she’d done enough talking and referred him to you for any further information.”

It was a good thing Dave couldn’t see me, because I was grinning from ear to ear. Score one for the florist.

“I thought you said you went to see Sally about the jail problem, Abby.”

“Can I help it if other subjects come up in the course of normal conversation?”

“Such as what vehicle Libby drove to her appointment? Is there anything more?”

I could tell Dave wasn’t happy with me. “There might be.”

He sighed, clearly frustrated. “You don’t need to get involved. Marco is on the job.”

“But therein lies the problem, Dave. Since Libby had hired Marco to work on another case for her, someone has to make sure he gives Libby fair and unbiased treatment on the murder investigation. Besides, you were the one who said Libby made sure I was involved.”

“Look, Abby, if anyone understands your feelings about Libby and Marco, it’s me, but you’re wrong about Marco. He’s a pro. He can deal with it.”

It was useless to try to change Dave’s mind, so I decided to use a different tactic. “Okay, fine. The truth is, I’m just being nosy. You know how I love to poke around in things, and you also know there’s no use in telling me not to poke, right?”

He sighed again, this time in resignation. “Right.”

“So how about we make a deal? I’ll share all my information with you if you’ll do the same for me.”

“Do I have a choice?”

That didn’t even merit an answer. “Do you have your pen handy?”

After I gave Dave the information Grace had gleaned at the Recorder’s Office, I said, “So what information has PI Salvare turned up?”

“Nothing yet.”

That meant he’d struck out at Gandy’s. Ha. I was one step ahead of Marco. Now if I could get to Fred at Ace first . . . I glanced at the clock. Yikes. It was past three. I needed to call right away. “I’ll let you know the moment I learn anything new,” I said, and hung up.

Just as I opened the phone book to look up the number, I heard screams coming from the shop, followed by some heavy thuds and a flurry of excited chatter. Dropping the phone book, I dashed through the curtain to see what was happening.

In a word, chaos. On the floor lay half a dozen senior citizens, their wrinkled arms and stockinged legs flailing. The other poetesses watched their fallen compatriots from the sidelines, hiding giggles, while Lottie and Grace did their best to give aid. In the midst of it all stood Mom, looking horrified.

Then I saw the reason for the chaos: giant wooden beads all over the floor.

I knelt to help one of the ladies who was lying on her back, laughing hysterically.

“Abby, you should have seen us,” she wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. “We came out of the parlor chatteringaway, not looking where we were going, just as those danged beads went shooting all over the floor.” She started laughing again, which made her cough. “I haven’t laughed this hard in years.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” I asked, thinking of the potential lawsuits I faced.

“Oh, heavens, no. I got a bump on my rump is all, and believe me, it’s well padded. Give me a hand and help me up.”

Grace and I each took an arm and helped the woman to her feet. As she and the others left Bloomers, chuck-ling, and rubbing sore backsides and elbows, I said a quick prayer that none of them had been seriously injured. My mom, I noticed, was quietly packing her beads into a box.

“I’m so sorry,” Mom said to me after the poetesses left. “I wanted to bring you my newest piece of art, a lovely beaded lampshade, because”—she burst into tears—“I wanted to apologize for not believing you about Libby, and for being such a traitor! What was I thinking, taking her my jacket?” Gulping back tears, she said, “Then the plastic threads came apart and my lampshade broke, sending beads everywhere. Oh, those poor, unsuspecting ladies!” She handed me the box and wept into her hands.

“Mom, you’re not a traitor,” I said, putting an arm around her. “It was a chance for you to showcase your art in the best environment for it. I understood that.”

“We mustn’t cry over spilt milk, Maureen,” Grace said, “or spilt beads in this case.”

“Sweetie,” Lottie said to her, “don’t fret. The ladies weren’t injured.”

“Abigail,” Mom said, sniffling, “do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mom. It’s okay.”

“We didn’t believe Abby, either,” Lottie said.

“To think Libby killed her
mother
,” Mom said, her big brown eyes red-rimmed.

“Mom, let’s not condemn Libby until we have all the facts, okay?”

“Would you like some tea, Maureen?” Grace asked. “It’ll soothe you.”

“Thank you, Grace, but I’m going home to gather every bead in my house and take them to the Goodwill store. And I promise you my next hobby won’t have anything to do with beads!”

“Do you know how to knit?” Lottie asked. “Because I belong to this great knitting club. We meet every Wednesday evening at KnitWits, just around the corner, and we have a ball.”

“I’d like to try it,” Mom said, dabbing her tears with a tissue.

I patted Lottie on the back. Good idea. Knitting was a harmless hobby—as long as Mom didn’t jab anyone with her knitting needle.

I glanced at my watch. Yikes. It was three thirty and I needed to call Fred. “I have to get back to work,” I said, giving my mother a hug.

She put her hands on either side of my face and stared me straight in the eye. “I really am sorry for not believing you, Abigail. I love you. I hope you know that.”

“I love you, too. Mom.” Wow. Mom didn’t say that very often. Maybe something positive had come from Libby’s return to New Chapel after all.

I left Lottie giving my mom the particulars on her knitting club and hurried to use the phone at my desk in the workroom. I called Ace and asked for Fred, and after what felt like hours, he finally picked up.