Shoots to Kill (14 page)

“Hi, I’m Abby Knight, and I’m investigating the Delphi Blume murder. I was wondering if you could tell me whether you’d copied a Corvette key in the past week.”

“Well, isn’t that a coinkydink?” Fred said. “I was just handed your phone message.”

“What phone message?”

“The one in my hand that says an investigator called about a key. Isn’t that you?”

Oh, no! Marco must have phoned Fred, too. “Well, I
did
call earlier.” No need to mention that my call was in person. “So . . . about that Corvette key?”

“The thing is, I’d have to know who ordered the copy. That’s the way our system works.”

“Oh. Well, then, how about Tilly Gladwell? She’s a large, stout woman with short gray hair and a heavy cockney accent.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember a woman like that. I could barely make out what she was saying. Let me see. . . . Did she have a key copied, or was she here for something else?” There was dead air for a few minutes. Then Fred said, “I don’t see her name in the system, so it wasn’t a key.”

“How about a thirty-year-old man about five feet ten inches tall, long, narrow face, short brown hair, thin build, possibly wearing military-style clothing? Goes by the name of—”

“Oliver Blume? He’s in here all the time, buying things.”

“Did he have a key made?”

“Not while I was here. Last time he was in, he bought a gray utility blanket.”

The kind that Delphi’s body had been wrapped in? I wrote myself a quick note to ask Dave about the blanket. “Do you have a copy of the receipt?”

“You’d have to check with Sheila in the office about that, but I can tell you right now, unless he paid by check or credit card, his name wouldn’t be on any receipt.”

I thanked him for his help and hung up the phone just as Grace came through the curtain with a cup of tea for me.

“I have some news for you, dear. I asked a friend of mine who works at the British embassy in Chicago if she would inquire into Tilly Gladwell’s background. I thought it might help to rule her in or out as a suspect. But as it turns out, Tilly is in London.”

“She flew back to England?”

“No, dear. She never left. The clerk who worked for Libby is not Tilly Gladwell.”

CHAPTER TEN

Tilly was an impostor?

“The real Matilda Gladwell,” Grace explained, “is a lady of high standing in London society. Two months ago, one of her housemaids, a woman who went by the name of Cora Fraime, stole Matilda’s passport and a large sum of cash and fled the country. Sadly, that was when Matilda discovered that Cora had quite a criminal background.
Fraime
was just one of the aliases she’s used over the years. She was also Cora Fink, Cora Bell, and Corabelle Finklestein.”

“Did you find out if Cora’s criminal background included murder?”

“Not yet, dear. I’m still waiting for that information.”

“Okay, Grace, let’s suppose Cora is the killer. She’s a large woman, so she would have had to push Libby’s car seat back, right? That’s how Libby claims she found the seat that morning. So that’s a plus in the suspect column. But Cora doesn’t have red hair.”

“A wig would easily solve that problem,” Grace said. “If Cora has used aliases before, then she might have used disguises, as well.”

“True. So let’s say Cora gets a copy of Libby’s car key, borrows her Corvette, puts on a red wig, and drives to Delphi’s house. How does she get inside? Ring the doorbell?”

“Why not? Or perhaps her criminal talents include breaking and entering.”

“Or, if Delphi left her purse in Blume’s back room, Cora could have snatched her house key and had a copy made when she had one made of Libby’s car key.”

Grace frowned in thought. “Then everything would hinge on Cora having the opportunity to take the necessary keys without their owners realizing they were missing, then get to a store to have copies made, and return the originals to their owners’ key rings. It seems too cumbersome and much too risky. If Cora is indeed a criminal, then it’s quite possible she knows how to hot-wire an auto and pick a door lock.”

“That’s very good, Grace.”

“Of course it is, dear. Now let me see what I can find out about wigs that have been purchased here in town in the past two weeks.”

Grace left just as Lottie breezed through to gather arrangements we’d made for a funeral. “I convinced your mom to come to my knitting club tomorrow night,” she announced proudly. “Isn’t that great? She can’t do any harm with yarn. Now we can all breathe easier.”

Where my mom’s art was concerned, was that even possible?

I hummed contentedly as I gathered supplies for anotherarrangement. No matter what my problems were, when I immersed myself in flowers, everything else receded. Twenty minutes later, I stepped back to look at the finished product and declared it a success.

As the client had requested, I’d fashioned a real romantic beauty using lots of pink and red roses in graduated tones that blended spectacularly (‘Chapeau de Napoleon’, ‘Duc de Guiche’, and ‘Celsiana’). Then I backed them with sprigs of lady’s mantle (
Alchemilla mollis
), lamb’s ears (
Stachys
), and the delicate greenery of euphorbia, all set in an old-fashioned cream-colored ceramic pitcher with red roses painted on the sides. I wrapped my creation in clear cellophane, tied with a pink ribbon at the top, tagged it, and placed it in one of the coolers.

“Abby,” Grace said, coming into the workroom, “I checked with salons all over the county and none report the sale of a long-haired red wig anytime within the last three weeks.”

“Great,” I said with a sigh. “If that wig was ordered through a catalog or over the Internet, we’ll never track it down.”

“Never say never,” Grace admonished. “If the wig was ordered, then someone had to deliver it.”

“Someone like UPS or FedEx! You’re a marvel, Grace.”

“Merely the Watson to your Holmes, love.” She paused as the bell over the door jingled. “I’ll see to that and track down the delivery later.”

“Thanks, Grace.” Before I started another order, I turned off my creative juices long enough to phone Dave to see what he could tell me about the blanket found with Delphi’s body.

“Abby, I was just about to call you,” he said.

“Really? What’s up?”

“Marco’s frustration level.”

I wondered if he could hear the smile in my voice. “PI Salvare is frustrated?”

“He seems to think you’re trying to thwart his investigation. ”

“What? No way! Tell him he’s being—irrational.” That was one of the labels he’d given me, and it still smarted.

“Hold it. When did I become your go-between?” Dave asked.

“I didn’t ask you to be the go-between. It must have been PI Salvare.”

“
PI Salvare?
That’s what you’re calling him now?”

“You don’t want to hear my other choices.”
Weasel
came to mind.

“Abby,” Dave said, switching to his gruff voice, “I’m talking to you as your lawyer and your friend. If this problem between you and Marco is going to hamper my ability to protect Libby in any way, shape, or form, then this is going to be our last conversation on this case.”

Yeesh.
I couldn’t let that happen.

Lottie came back from making her delivery just then, and I didn’t want to talk in front of her about Marco and me, so I said, “Not a problem, Dave. I’ll stop by your office at five to discuss it. And maybe you can find out what kind of blanket Delphi’s body was wrapped in.”

“I’ll do my best. See you at five.”

By the time I’d locked Bloomers’ front door, cut across the courthouse lawn, and made it up the creaky stairs to Dave’s office, it was a few minutes after five o’clock.

“I’m here,” I said breathlessly, brushing my wind-tossedhair away from my face as I dashed in the room. Then I stopped dead in my tracks.

Marco was sprawled in one of the two chairs facing Dave’s desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands behind his head. I glanced at Dave with a furious scowl. He’d set this up. He should have warned me so I could’ve prepared myself.

At once Marco rose, giving me a solemn nod even as those dark eyes raked over me, making my heart beat as wildly as it had the first time we met. He was wearing his familiar black leather jacket over a sienna T-shirt with blue jeans and black boots. Although his gaze was as impudent as ever, his eyes appeared tired. A late night with Libby, perhaps?

“I didn’t know we were having a conference,” I said, giving Dave a pointed look.

“I thought we needed a meeting of the minds,” Dave replied. “Have a seat.”

Feeling not only miffed but also as nervous as if I were on a blind date, I forced myself to act cool as I casually removed the green knit scarf at my throat, slipped off my navy peacoat, and sat down. Marco waited until I was in the chair; then he sat, too. But if he thought his gentlemanly ways still impressed me . . . he was right, damn it.

“Now, then,” Dave said, “as long as you’re both going to be investigating this case—”

“Hold it,” Marco said. “Abby doesn’t need to investigate. I thought you called her in here to explain that.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I wasn’t
called in.
This isn’t the principal’s office. I happen to be conducting my own private investigation.”

“For what purpose?” Marco asked.

“Because I don’t think you can be unbiased.”

“You’re questioning my professionalism?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Hey!” Dave said as Marco and I began to argue. “Both of you sit quietly and listen to me. First of all, Marco, you know that when Abby sets a course of action, there’s no deterring her. Right?”

Marco grunted what sounded like, “Yeah,” then glanced at me, frowning.

I almost stuck my tongue out at him.

“And, Abby,” Dave said, “you can’t thwart this investigation. If people refuse to answer questions because you’ve already talked to them, that’s interfering with my ability to protect my client, and I won’t have it.”

Oops. I was glad I’d kept my tongue in check. If only I could’ve said the same about that fiery blush on my face.

“So here’s the way it has to be,” Dave said. “You’re either going to work together or—”

“No!” we both said, and began to talk over each other until Dave put his fingers between his teeth and whistled so loud that Martha came running.

Dave waved her away, then pointed at us. “I don’t care what’s going on in your personal lives—you work that out for yourselves—but either you both cooperate on this investigation or I’ll hire another PI, and, Abby, you can forget about asking me for any further information.” He paused to let his words sink in, then said, “Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

Marco had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, and I thought for sure he was about to tell Dave to hire someone else for the case. But then his fingers relaxed, he leaned back, and he gave a nod of agreement. Why had he conceded so readily? He didn’t really need the work. Was he staying in it for Libby?

Dave glanced at me, waiting for my answer. What could I say? That working with Marco was impossible, given our lack of trust in each other? That I couldn’t look into his eyes and not think of the relationship we’d been building that now seemed lost? That I couldn’t hear his voice and not remember all the romantic things he’d ever said to me? Was there any way to keep my feelings out of it?

Would a professional investigator let a private matter stand in her way?
that little voice of reason asked. But I already knew the answer. Even though I wasn’t a PI, I could at least conduct myself in a professional manner. I glanced at the chiseled hunk on my right who was staring straight ahead, his smooth skin blurred by a five-o’clock shadow, his fingers tapping the arms of his chair. Fine. If Marco could do it, so could I.

“I’ll cooperate,” I said to Dave. I’d just have to tuck my feelings about Marco in a big box, lock them up tight, and throw away the key . . . maybe into Lake Michigan.

“Okay, then,” Dave said. “Let’s see what we’ve got so far.” He opened the file on his desk and reviewed the papers inside. “Abby, you asked about the blanket found on the body. According to the police report, it was a gray utility blanket. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Sure does. Oliver bought one matching that description at Ace Hardware last week. And if he paid by credit card or check, there should be a receipt that proves it.”

“That certainly throws more suspicion on him,” Dave said.

Marco opened his own file, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the desk to Dave. “Here’s a copy of Delphi’s irrevocable trust. Upon her death, each child is to inherit half of her estate. So it’s possible that Oliver wanted to get his hands on his inheritance early.”

“But why kill the golden goose?” I argued. “Oliver’s mother bought him everything he wanted. You’d think he’d want to let her continue to make money so he could preserve his inheritance while continuing to mooch off her. And why would he have thrown the blame on his sister when she was his ally?”

“His intent might have been to make
you
look guilty, Abby,” Dave pointed out.

“But he’d have to realize that it would also incriminate his sister,” I said.

“I think I’ll pay Oliver a visit,” Marco said. “Maybe I can get some answers.”

“Good luck with that,” I murmured, reaching into my purse for my notes.

Marco fixed me with the penetrating gaze that always made my knees go soft. “Why?”

“I doubt that Oliver will talk to you. You’re
the man.
”

“He’ll talk to me. We’re not strangers. I’ve already met him at the bar. I’ll just use my ranger background to get him to talk, since he likes the military so much.”

Marco must have forgotten that Libby had been with Oliver at the time. Oliver alone was a whole different ball game. But I merely gave a
whatever
shrug.