Shoots to Kill (16 page)

“Could the snake be connected to the murder case?” I asked. “Maybe a warning of some sort?”

“It could be, which is why I’m going to inform the cops and let them look into it. Or it could be nothing more than a prank.”

“If the snake was a warning, wouldn’t you think the perp would have left a note?”

“Not necessarily. The snake could have been put there to shake Libby up, remind her that the killer is still out there.”

By his answer I knew Marco didn’t think the letter from R. Shah had anything to do with the snake. So why had the envelope made him pause? The only explanation I could come up with was that it tied in with the stalker case.

Marco turned on the radio, and the song “Sexy Back” was playing. He glanced at me. “Remember that song? Wasn’t that Ross Urban’s ring tone?”

He was referring to a suspect in the last murder case we’d worked on together. “Ross and Jess, the Urban legends, ” I said, and couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. “That was a morticians’ convention I’ll never forget.”

“It isn’t every day that you get locked in a coffin,” Marco said.

“Not just any coffin,” I said. Then he chimed in with me, “A
phone booth
coffin.”

We laughed together, and our gazes met, making my heart constrict in agony. We’d worked hard to break that case, and I’d nearly gotten myself killed doing so. But as always, my hero had been there for me. How painful that memory was now. Marco turned his attention back to the road and I turned to stare out my window. We rode back the rest of the way in silence.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said when he dropped me off at the parking lot near Bloomers.

He waited until I was safely inside my car, then took off. I watched his taillights disappear in my rearview mirror, missing his good-night kisses more than ever.

Be a pro,
that annoying little voice in my head whispered. Well, fine. I’d just turn off my heart, then. Grumbling to myself, I pulled out my notes and a pen and wrote at the bottom of the paper,
R. Shah, Pittsburgh, PA.

“Okay, R. Shah,” I said aloud. “You and I need to talk.”

I got into work half an hour early on Wednesday so I could do an Internet search on the mysterious R. Shah, only to find two dozen orders for funeral arrangements waiting, and the deceased was none other than Delphi Blume, which meant her body had been released by the coroner’s office. The autopsy report, then, must be done. Maybe Dave would have a copy by the time we met that afternoon.

I did a quick white pages search for all the R. Shahs in the Pittsburgh area and found three listed. I called the first number and struck out. The man who answered had no idea who Libby Blume was. He was also hard of hearing, and kept saying, “Who?” I had a strong hunch he wasn’t the person I was looking for.

At the second number I got a machine recording that said, “Roshni and Sam here. Leave your name and number.”

Was Roshni R. Shah? I left a message asking her to call me if she knew Elizabeth/Libby Blume. I tried the third R. Shah and reached a woman who had no idea who Libby was and hadn’t attended college with anyone by the name of Blume. But if I wanted a free mobile phone, she had a deal for me.

Next I did a Google search on Roshni Shah and discovered she had a MySpace page that said she went to college at the University of Pittsburgh, which was also where Libby had gone to school. Coincidence? I thought not.

With the arrival of Lottie and Grace, I put the case on hold to work on the funeral orders, since Delphi’s viewing was scheduled for six o’clock that evening at the Happy Dreams Funeral Home. The funeral service was set for the next day.

When I took a break midmorning, I checked my messages and saw one from Sally Mitchum. I called the number and reached her on her cell phone.

“Abby, I talked to my neighbor the congressman about the problem at the jail,” Sally told me. “He promised to look into it, so I’ll check back with him in a few days to see if he’s as good as his word. He did say that with the financial problems the state was having, the federal government was our only hope to rectify the situation, but that it would take time to work through all the various levels to get to the proper funding.”

“That’s a start, Sally. I really appreciate your help.”

“I don’t know if it will come to anything, but I always keep my promises. And by the way, I’ve made it my personal crusade to see that young Maria is treated justly.”

Feeling hopeful that something would be done at last, I hung up with a smile. Then Grace came in to tell me that she’d had no luck tracing the wig with either the post office or FedEx. “They’re mum on the subject. Privacy laws and all that.”

But she had persuaded our friendly UPS deliveryman to disclose that he’d delivered over thirty packages to Blume’s Art Shop in the past three weeks, but none to Libby’s home address, and only one to Delphi’s address, which could have been for either Delphi or Oliver. Unfortunately, the guy couldn’t help us any more than that.

“There has to be some way to find out if Tilly or Oliver bought a wig,” I said.

“I’ll put on my thinking cap,” Grace said, and went to attend to some customers.

As Lottie and I worked on the stack of orders that afternoon, I found myself constantly checking the time, wishing it were five o’clock. The reason for my eagerness was Marco, of course, which was infuriating because I couldn’t get him off my mind.

Still, at ten minutes before closing time, I put away my tools and supplies and slipped into the tiny bathroom in back to check my hair and douse my lips with peach-flavored lip gloss. And just before I walked into Dave’s office, I paused to put on my best imitation of a model’s bored yet sophisticated expression. Then, after a deep breath, I glided in, right shoulder first, then left, butt tucked under, chin angled daringly, one hand on my hip.

“Hi, Dave,” I said in a sultry voice, giving him a cool smile. I turned to give Marco an elegant nod—only to find his chair empty.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dave was watching me with some amusement. “If you’re looking for Marco, he had to run home to make a wardrobe change. He’ll be here soon. If you want to wait in the conference room, you can make that entrance again when he gets here.”

With a furious blush, I flopped into the chair. “I’ll pass.”

“When are you two going to kiss and make up?”

“What makes you think I want to make up with him?”

From outside the office I heard Marco’s sexy, deep voice: “Afternoon, Martha.”

I quickly crossed one leg over the other and tossed my hair back.

“Well,” Dave said, “
that
, for one thing.”

As always happened when I saw Marco, I felt a surge in body heat that I knew was turning my cheeks pink. He sauntered in like James Bond, wearing a tailored black suit, ivory shirt, and silk tie, looking hotter than ever. I wanted to devour him like a chocolate bar.

Before I made a fool of myself, I rummaged through my purse to find a pen and my notes, mumbling a quick, “Hi,” to his, “Afternoon.”

“Are you going to the funeral home for the viewing?” Dave asked Marco.

“Yep. How about you?”

“I’m going to stop by after supper,” Dave said.

They both paused, obviously waiting for me to announce my plans, which until that moment had been up in the air. I hadn’t decided if I wanted to show my face at Delphi’s funeral or not, considering that most of the town would probably mistake me for Libby. “Um, I have to go home to change clothes first.”

“Why?” Marco asked. “You look great.”

I glanced down at my outfit with a blush. “In this old thing?” Well, okay, it was new, a skirt and sweater I’d gotten on the last-ditch sales rack at H&M. “Thanks.”

“It looks good on you,” Marco said. “Really good.” He wasn’t looking at my outfit, though. He was gazing into my eyes, a hopeful glimmer in his brown ones, as though he were extending an olive branch, seeing if I would accept it. But I couldn’t. Maybe it was just my foolish pride, but it still rubbed me the wrong way that he wouldn’t trust my gut feelings, not even a little. So I looked down at my hands in my lap and said nothing.

“Let’s move on,” Dave said. “We have a lot to cover. Marco, your report?”

“I wasn’t able to track down Kayla or Oliver,” Marco said. “Kayla seems to be holed up in her mother’s house. I haven’t been able to catch her coming or going. Oliver wouldn’t answer his apartment door, and Blume’s Art Shop is closed until next Monday. I haven’t seen the van around, either. I asked Libby if she knew where he was, but she hadn’t seen him since yesterday evening. He seems to be keeping himself scarce, too.”

“Try Harrigan Park,” I said. “Guys play war games there all the time.”

“Did that,” Marco said. “He wasn’t there. I even talked to the guys he hangs out with, but they hadn’t seen him in a few days.”

“Oliver is very fearful of being followed,” I said. “Maybe he thinks you’re tailing him. Maybe he’ll come out of hiding only for a face he trusts.”

“If you can find him and get him to talk to you,” Marco said, “be my guest.”

“I’d rather you went with Abby,” Dave said to Marco, “just to be on the safe side.”

There was a long moment of silence, during which I stared at my notes. “That’s okay,” I said finally. “I don’t need help.”

“No, Dave is right,” Marco said. “If you can track Oliver down, let me know when you plan to talk to him and I’ll be there.”

I’ll be there.
His words were like tiny darts straight into my heart. Was it just a month ago that he’d said to me,
I’ll always be there for you, Sunshine
? Now there were ifs attached.

“I meant to ask this earlier,” Dave said to Marco. “Did Libby receive any written threats or phone calls after the snake incident?”

“Nothing,” Marco said.

Dave made a note, then said, “Abby, your report?”

“Lots of packages were delivered to Blume’s Art Shop and to Delphi’s home, but none of the carriers would reveal information about them, so I’m at a dead end on the wig hunt. Maybe I should just drop that thread. The red wig idea was pure speculation anyway. And, as you both realize, we can’t turn a blind eye to the possibility of Libby being guilty.” I resisted the urge to glance at Marco for his reaction, but I guessed he wasn’t smiling.

“Just a reminder,” Dave said. “I’m not trying to prove Libby’s guilt or innocence. I only want to direct the guilt
away
from her. And don’t sell yourself short on your wig theory, because when I called Detective Wells this morning, she said they’d just finished processing several strands of red hair that they’d found on the blanket wrapped around Delphi’s body. And guess what? The strands were synthetic.”

“Wow,” I said. “Grace guessed right. Then whoever carried Delphi’s body to the car must have been wearing the wig.”

“Did Detective Wells finally admit to the likelihood of the killer being someone other than Libby?” Marco asked.

“Not in so many words,” Dave said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll act on it unless she sees other evidence pointing toward another suspect and away from Libby, so we’d better come up with that evidence soon.”

“I’m puzzled by the wig strands found on the blanket around Delphi’s body,” Marco said. “Aren’t the strands sewn in? Wouldn’t it take some force to pull them loose?”

Both men looked to me for answers. “Sorry,” I said, “I’ve never owned a wig—well, unless you want to count that Bride of Frankenstein fright wig I wore for a costume party once. . . . That’s it! I should have thought of that before. The wig must have come from a costume shop, not a wig shop, because a cheap wig would shed all over the place. I’ll call around to the costume shops in the area and see if I can find out who bought a red wig recently.”

“Do the cops know yet where the initial crime scene was?” Marco asked.

“Delphi’s kitchen,” Dave replied, “where it appears that Delphi was struck with a wine bottle. They found an unopened bottle on the floor amidst dirt and debris from a broken potted plant, but they’re still processing the evidence, so there’s no fingerprint analysis yet.”

“How about the autopsy report?” I asked him.

“It came in just a while ago,” he said, shuffling through the expanding stack of paperwork. “In a nutshell it says death came as a result of blunt-force trauma to the right temporal area, consistent with blows from a smooth, spherical object, causing internal hemorrhaging of the brain. No other bruising on the body was found, but the fingernails were broken and the fingertips were covered in blood. That was consistent with the detective’s report that said Delphi was found facedown with hands outstretched as though she’d been trying to pull herself forward. However, the blow that eventually killed her was most likely delivered while she was standing.”

“It sounds like Delphi was trying to get away from her attacker,” I said.

“If someone grabbed the wine bottle and whacked her in the head,” Marco said, “it sounds like a crime of passion, done in the heat of anger.”

“No way,” I said. “Buying a wig, having a key made— that murder was planned.”

“Not necessarily,” Marco said. “The wig might have been used to trick Delphi into opening the door, making her think it was Libby without her house key. The killer might have gone there with other intentions, but when Delphi didn’t cooperate, the killer turned violent.”

“Detective Wells needs to talk to Cora,” I said. “She’s big and rough and has a criminal record.”

“They haven’t located her yet,” Dave said. “Detective Wells was pretty darned embarrassed when I told her about Cora being an impostor.”

“The detective should have done her homework,” I said.

“Next suspect, Kayla Olin,” Dave said, placing a paper on the desk so we could see it. “This is a copy of the docket sheet that shows the chronology of Kayla’s case against Delphi and her agency. The lawsuit was filed over three years ago, and the plaintiffs were Kayla Olin, and Karen and Robert Olin—probably the girl’s parents.”