Shoots to Kill (21 page)

I sat down and Marco turned a chair to face me, straddling the seat. He always looked so masculine when he did that, like a cowboy on a horse. “Did Kayla talk about Delphi?” he asked.

“Yes, and after hearing her story, I’m convinced that Kayla isn’t the murderer.”

“Will you tell me what she said?”

With his husky voice and earnest expression, how could I refuse? So I related the conversation I had with Kayla about Delphi’s murder.

When I finished, Marco said, “You’re right. She should be off the suspect list. And by the way, that was great work, Su—” He stopped himself before he said
Sunshine
, changing it to, “So, how did you get her to cooperate?”

I didn’t know which hurt worse, not hearing him call me by my pet name, or him not wanting to say it. “I channeled into her pain,” I answered wryly. I rose and put my purse strap over my shoulder. “Speaking of pain, where’s Libby tonight?”

“I wouldn’t know. Where are you parked?”

“In the hospital parking garage.”

“I’d better see you to your car. It’s late.”

We both knew the parking garage was perfectly safe; still, I didn’t turn him down. It was nice to know he still cared.

“I hear you’re working a case for Oliver,” Marco said as we strolled along the sidewalk. “What is it with those two and stalkers?”

“Oliver hasn’t actually seen his stalker or had any communication from him, but he swears the guy follows him around and drives by every night at midnight taking photographs. And did I mention that Oliver has never seen the camera, either? I’m hoping to find out tonight whether he’s telling the truth.”

“You’re not taking the Corvette, are you?” Marco asked as we reached my car.

“I’ll use Nikki’s car. She gets off at eleven tonight, so it won’t be a problem.”

“Remember, stay out of sight, wear black clothes and a knit cap over your hair—”

“I know the drill, but thanks.” I opened the door and was about to get inside when Marco said, “Abby,” and put his hand on my shoulder.

Surprised, I turned and found him inches away, gazing into my eyes as though he wanted to say something else. My blood began to heat and my pulse to race. “Yes?”

I saw a quick flicker of something—regret? sadness? —in his brown eyes; then he withdrew his hand and stepped back. “Don’t forget to lock your car doors.”

At 11:25 that evening I pulled up to the curb two houses away from Delphi’s corner lot and positioned myself so I had a view of Oliver’s apartment as well as the cross street. My cell phone and black plastic flashlight were on the seat beside me and my dad’s old police-issue blackjack was within reach, just in case I needed to protect myself. Legally, I probably shouldn’t have had the heavy lead baton, as they had long since been outlawed in New Chapel, but my dad had insisted. It was either that or take him along with me.

To stay hidden as well as warm, I had donned a black turtleneck and thick sweater under my navy peacoat, with black sweatpants, thick black socks, and black boots. I had a black knit scarf around my neck, warm black gloves, and a black knit cap. All my hair was tucked carefully underneath. Marco would have been proud.

As I killed the engine, my cell phone began to vibrate. I checked the screen and saw an unfamiliar number. I pressed Talk and heard loud music. “Yes?” I answered over the noise.

“What time will you deploy?” came a raspy whisper.

“Oliver, would you turn down the music, please?”

“It’s a cover in case someone is listening. I can hear you okay—just don’t use any names.”

“I’m outside right now in an older-model white Corolla.” I glanced up at the window over the garage and saw a yellow glow along the sides of a window shade. Then the window went dark.

“Recognition confirmed.”

“How did you get my cell phone number, Oliver?”

“That’s privileged information, ma’am. Over and out.” He hung up.

I opened my water bottle and took a sip just as a pair of headlights shone in my rearview mirror. Quickly, I ducked down and waited until the vehicle passed, then peered over the dashboard and saw a silver SUV park in front of a house up the street. A young woman got out and went up to the house, using a key to let herself inside.

Two more vehicles passed during the next half hour, neither of them a black sedan. I checked my watch, pressing a button to light up the face, and saw that it was two minutes after midnight. I yawned; then suddenly more headlights flashed in my mirror, coming up slowly behind me. I scrunched down as far as I could and waited. As the vehicle passed, I carefully lifted my head. It was a black Buick sedan!

I snapped two photographs of the car’s bumper with my cell phone, then watched as the Buick paused in front of Delphi’s garage. I could see movement inside the car, then a tiny flash of light. Had the guy taken a picture? Of what? There was nothing to see.

As the sedan drove away, I started the engine and followed at a safe distance, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice me. The sedan made a turn at the next corner, continued to the end of the block, turned the corner, went to the end of the block, and turned again. One more turn brought us back to Oliver’s apartment, only this time the sedan didn’t slow down.

I kept as far behind the car as I dared as the driver turned the corner and started up the next block again, repeating that sequence until we were once again at Oliver’s apartment. Damn, he was leading me in circles. He must have spotted me.

With nothing to lose, I gave the Toyota some gas and caught up with the sedan, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person inside, or at least get a closer look at his license plate. But the Buick sped off with a squeal of tires, taking corners on two wheels, prompting me to go way too fast to keep up. He finally turned onto a country road and pushed the pedal to the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust. I tried to follow, but when he nearly spun off the road at a curve, I backed off. There was no sense putting my life in jeopardy. I’d blown it.

My cell phone vibrated. “Yes?” I snapped, feeling out of sorts.

“Status report,” Oliver said.

“I followed the black sedan, but he outmaneuvered me. I took a couple photos of the car, but I couldn’t see who was inside.”

He hung up. I hated when he did that.

I turned back toward town and pressed a button to call Oliver. “Stop hanging up on me. Have you noticed the black Buick following you around town at any other time of the day?”

“During the day he follows on foot, ma’am.”

“Have you actually seen him?”

“Just glimpses, like the day I came down to your flower shop.”

“Then let’s set up a time when I can observe you while you take a stroll around the square. What are you doing at noon tomorrow? Will you be at the art shop?”

“Yes, ma’am. The shop won’t be open until Monday, but Libby wants me to be there in the morning to help her with some crates.”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. At noon, walk out the front door and take the long way around the square to my flower shop. Come inside and one of my assistants will give you some flowers to take back with you, as though you’d ordered them. Then walk back around the square to the art shop. Take your time. Do some window-shopping. Talk to people, anything to stall so I can scan everyone on the square. Got it?”

“Understood, ma’am. We’re a nation at war.” The phone went dead—again. A moment later my cell phone vibrated.

“Would you stop hanging up on me?” I snapped.

“I didn’t know I had,” Marco replied, his voice instantly soothing my jangled nerves.

“Sorry. I thought you were Oliver.”

“How did the stakeout go?”

“Well, it was a good news-bad news situation. The good news is that Oliver wasn’t kidding about being followed. A black Buick sedan did drive by his place around midnight just like he said. I took photos of the car but haven’t had an opportunity to see if I caught the license plate number. The bad news is that I tried to follow the car, but the driver managed to elude me. At least I know that Oliver really does have a stalker.”

“Do you? Think about it. If he could make the cops believe he was being stalked by his mother’s killer, it would make him look like a victim, too, instead of a suspect, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Maybe Oliver hired someone to follow him, then hired you because you’re inexperienced and, in his mind anyway, easier to fool. With your eyewitness account to back up his stalker story, his job of convincing the cops would be that much easier, wouldn’t it?”

I hated to admit that I might have been duped, but Marco had a valid argument. Oliver had actually told me very little about his stalker. And why would the guy take pictures of Oliver’s apartment or show up the same time every night? It didn’t add up.

“Remember what I taught you,” Marco said. “Never assume anything.”

“I’ll remember.”

“What’s your next move?”

“I’ve arranged for Oliver to take a stroll around the square tomorrow so I can watch for his so-called stalker. If the guy shows up, I should be able to get a clear view of him or of the license plate. Hopefully that will put an end to the mystery.”

“Sounds like a plan. If you get the plate number, I’ll have my friend at the DMV run it.”

“Thanks. So . . . why did you call?” I was hoping Marco would say that he just
had t
o know I was okay. That he couldn’t have slept until he knew I was safely back home.

“To tell you that Cora is in custody. She was caught trying to sneak across the Canadian border.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The news about Cora wasn’t what I’d been hoping to hear Marco say, but it
was
worthy of a call. As I turned into the parking lot of my apartment building, I said, “How did you hear?”

“Reilly called, so I thought I’d pass it along. I figured you’d want to know.”

Marco hadn’t been checking on my well-being after all. I tried to muster some enthusiasm to hide my disappointment, but it was tough. “I hope the prosecutor will take a serious look at Cora now.”

“I’m sure he will. The sheriff is bringing her back from Michigan tonight. I’m guessing Reilly will be able to get more information about her interview in the morning.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know. Are you still at the bar?”

“Yep.”

There was an awkward silence while I tried—and failed—to think of a witty ending to our conversation. “Well, I’m home now, so—good night.”

“Night, Abby,” came his husky reply, bringing back memories of our good-night kisses.

As I pulled the Toyota into Nikki’s parking space, I heard a vehicle speed past the apartment building. I turned to look and caught just a glimpse of a dark green compact car. Was that Marco’s Prius? Was he checking up on me after all?

Probably not. He said he was still at the bar. Still, why would he call me so late on a weeknight? He could have let me know about Cora first thing in the morning. Could it be that Marco
had
called to see if I was okay and just used Cora as an excuse? Did I dare hope?

Dream on, Abby,
my little inner voice said.
Remember Marco’s advice: Never assume anything.

I parked Nikki’s Corolla, then turned on the interior light to view my cell phone photos. The first one was a blur, but the second one had caught the sedan’s rear end. I zoomed in on the license plate, only to see a glare where the numbers should have been. A plastic cover over the plate had acted like a mirror, bouncing back the light, making the numbers unreadable.

The evening was a bust.

Friday started out as any other day, except that I was still so keyed up from my late night adventure and my plan to catch Oliver’s stalker that I downed three cups of coffee before the flower shop even opened. Grace and Lottie wanted to know what was up, so I told them about chasing the mysterious black Buick and the results of my visit with Kayla.

“How wonderful that you were able to arrange for a surgeon for the poor child,” Grace said. “I’m sure she was ecstatic. But as for Oliver’s mysterious stalker, I’m concerned that you’re in over your head on this case, dear. You could have been injured in that car chase.”

“I know, and that’s why I backed off.”

“Do you think Oliver’s stalker is the same person who killed his mom?” Lottie asked.

“It’s possible,” I said. “Or he might have set this whole thing up to make everyone believe he’s going to be the next victim. That was Marco’s suggestion, anyway.”

“Is there any possibility that Marco is right?” Grace asked. “Because if there is—”

“You shouldn’t put yourself in jeopardy,” Lottie finished for her. “Let Oliver pay someone else that thousand dollars he offered you. We’ll find the money to pay for the cooler repair somewhere.”

“I’ll be careful,” I assured them. “All I intend to do is to get that license plate number.”

“Perhaps you should ask Marco to help you,” Grace suggested, as I filled my coffee cup again. “You know he’d do anything for you.”

“Not necessary,” I said between sips.

“But he has more experience in these things,” Lottie countered.

“I don’t need Marco’s help.”

“Abby,” Grace began, her tone lecturing, “we’re quite aware—”

I looked up to see Lottie elbow her. “What was that for?” I asked.

They glanced at each other. Then Lottie said, “What was what for?”

Like I was going to fall for that. I walked around the coffee counter to confront Lottie, which was easier than confronting Grace because she could outsmart me by quoting Shakespeare. “What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing,” Lottie said, avoiding my gaze.

“Why did you poke Grace, then? You know I’m going to keep asking until you tell me.”

Grace struck a statesmanlike pose. “Perhaps you should consider the words of William Shakespeare.”