Slay it with Flowers (30 page)

I couldn’t even begin to imagine that kind of humiliation, and I failed to see why so many women, and at least one man, were attracted to Punch. Had he been the “bad boy” everyone wanted to tame? “Did Punch tell you about the Web photos when you saw him at the dunes?”

Flip gave a quick nod.

“And that’s why you threw your camera at him?”

He nodded again.

“Did you kill Punch?”

Flip gazed at me through a blur of tears. “I loved him. How could I kill him?”

That was a no-brainer. It was called a crime of passion.

 

The beautiful June weather had brought out the shoppers, filling the stores and sidewalks around the square, making it necessary to dodge them as I hurried back to the shop. I didn’t mind at all. It was great to see the downtown so alive, especially since there were malls springing up all around.

I came up to the corner of Franklin and Lincoln, ready to turn left and head up the street to Bloomers, when I noticed Sgt. Reilly coming out of the courthouse across the street.

“Hey, Reilly!” I called, waving my arms. As soon as the light changed, I started toward him.

“What happened now?” he asked, swaggering toward me as only a policeman could do. “Someone try to kidnap you?”

“Don’t you wish. Actually, I wanted to give you an update on the murder case.”

“You’re going to give
me
an update?”

“My being one step ahead of you looks bad for the force, Reilly. First of all, did you know that the maid of honor, Onora, was seen returning to the hotel the evening of the murder when she supposedly hadn’t left her room?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then I’ll bet you
didn’t
know that Onora asked us who had killed Punch
before
we’d told her he’d been murdered.”

He took out his notepad and pencil and began to jot. “What else?”

“When I mentioned that little slip to Onora, she threw a fit and said if I reported it, I might end up like Punch.”

“Huh.”

So far Reilly hadn’t seemed either impressed or surprised. “Here’s something you should like. The former housekeeper at the New Chapel Inn saw a young Chinese woman in Punch’s room around six thirty the night of the murder.”

“I need the name of the housekeeper.”

Ha! He hadn’t known about Punch’s mystery girlfriend. Now I had him right where I wanted him. “Her name? Sure, if you’ll answer a few questions for me.”

“I should have known there’d be strings.”

“Is that a yes?”

He scowled at me. “Yes. Go ahead.”

“Her name is Maria Mendoza. The hotel can give you her address. Now, did you or someone above you tell the newspaper not to look into the Emperor’s Spa?”

“What is it with you and that spa, anyway?”

“I take it that’s a no?” At his scowl I asked, “Has Punch’s cell phone been recovered?”

“No.”

“Did you try calling the number?”

“Now, why didn’t we think of that?” he asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

The police were more on their toes than I’d thought. “Did you get the records from the wireless company?”

“Is there a reason you need to know this?”

“I’m trying to help you solve this case.”

I heard him mutter something that sounded like “interfering busybody,” but a noisy truck rattled past so I couldn’t be sure. I decided not to pursue the matter and instead gave him a big smile. After a heavy sigh he said, “Yes, we got the records.”

“Did the victim make any calls to the Emperor’s Spa on the night of the murder?”

He gazed at me pensively, as if he couldn’t decide how much to reveal.

“Yes or no, Reilly.”

“I can’t say.”

Translation: Yes. “Haven’t I been telling you something fishy is going on there, like prostitution in the disguise of massage therapy? If this were my case—”

“It’s
not
your case. We’re handling it. Go arrange some petunias, will you?”

Steamed, I turned around and marched away. The idiot. I never used petunias in an arrangement. They wilted too quickly.

Just because Reilly had irked me, I parked myself on a bench facing Lincoln, took out my cell phone, and dialed Punch’s number. It rang three times, as before, but this time it didn’t disconnect. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

After a moment a voice whispered, “Wong numbuh.”

“Pardon me?”

“Wong numbuh!” the voice whispered louder, then we were disconnected.

That voice sounded Oriental. Was it Punch’s mystery girl? I dialed again, and this time the call went directly to his voice mail. I hung up. It would be too eerie to hear a dead man talking.

I put my phone in my purse and glanced up to see a slight figure in sweats and a hoodie draw back between two minivans parked on the opposite side of the street. Was it the little old man? Was he spying on me? I jumped up and ran to the curb, determined to find out what was going on, but traffic was heavy, so I had to wait for the light to change before attempting to cross through the lines of cars.

As I stood there craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the man, he shot out from between the vans, sprinted down the sidewalk across the street, and dashed around the far corner. At that same moment, a black Crown Victoria drove past, several antennae waving from its trunk. The driver’s side window was down, and through it I caught a glimpse of a man sporting a ponytail and short beard.

Hadn’t the man I’d photographed at the spa had a ponytail and short beard? The cars were different, but couldn’t it be the same man?

I turned and spotted Reilly about to climb into his squad car, so I waved my arms and shouted his name, trying to get his attention before he drove away. I got the attention of a dozen passersby instead. “Go back!” I called, as they came hurrying toward me. “It’s nothing.”

I glanced around and saw the black Ford slow down for a red light. “Reilly!” I shouted again. “Come quick!”

This time he heard me. He slammed the door and came running across the lawn, his hand resting on his holster, causing more people to gather around me.

“What is it?” he asked, breathing hard.

I pointed down the block to where the black car was at that moment turning the corner. “That black Crown Victoria has been tailing me.”

He strained to see over the SUVs jamming the street. “I don’t see it.”

I gnashed my teeth in frustration. “It just turned the corner. Can’t you go after it?”

“For what?”

“For tailing me.”

“It’s not tailing you now.”

“It was!” I glanced around at the throng of curious faces, then moved closer to Reilly and said quietly, “Just tell me honestly, is the FBI on the murder case?”

“What does that have to do with a car tailing you?”

“Everything.”

“What’s happening?” Marco said, striding up. “You’re drawing a crowd.”

Reilly turned with a frown. “Okay, folks, move along.”

As the people scattered, I said to Marco, “I was followed by the Crown Vic again. You were right about the antennae.”

“What’s going on, Sean?” Marco asked. “Why is there a tail on Abby?”

“Marco, I’m telling you straight out, if the feds are working on the murder case, they haven’t shared it with me.” Reilly turned to me and said, “If you see the car again, call us immediately and we’ll see if we can catch him.”

“This is starting to freak me out,” I told Marco, leaning my forehead against his chest as Reilly headed back to his car. “I could swear the driver of that Crown Vic was the same man I saw going into the Emperor’s Spa, only then he was driving an ancient Chevy. It has to be a cover. He has to be with the feds.”

Marco put an arm around my shoulders and said quietly, “Listen to me, sunshine. If this guy is a federal agent he’s not going to hurt you. He’s watching you. So you must be doing something that’s sending up red flags.”

“Like what? Going to the jail to talk to Flip?”

“Could be. Didn’t you see that car the last time you went to see Flip?”

“Then maybe they
are
investigating the murder. Maybe I’m on to something and I don’t even know it.”

“Another reason to leave police work to the police.” He saw I was about to argue and held up a hand. “I know. You promised your cousin you’d help. But after this is over, no more!”

“Something else happened, too, Marco. I thought I saw the old man spying on me again.”

“Why didn’t you tell Reilly?”

“I’m not sure it
was
the old man. I only caught a glimpse, and then he ran away.”

“Running doesn’t sound like an old man’s behavior.”

“I think I’m becoming paranoid,” I said, rubbing my temples. “One of these days you’ll see me walking around with an aluminum bucket on my head.”

Marco checked his watch. “Isn’t it about time for you to close up shop? We have a dive to visit tonight, remember?”

As I walked back to Bloomers I was stopped a number of times by people wanting to know if I was okay and if my attacker had been caught. It was amazing how fast gossip traveled around the square. Even Lottie and Grace had heard the reports. They were standing in front of the shop, wearing anxious expressions, and quickly ushered me inside to ply me with a cup of Grace’s comfort tea. I assured them I was fine, then filled them in on the Crown Victoria sightings. I didn’t mention the old man.

“Trouble just seems to find you, doesn’t it, sweetie?” Lottie said sadly.

Grace cleared her throat and lifted her chin, going into lecture position. “There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, ‘Trouble doesn’t seek people; people seek trouble.’ I think in your case that applies, dear.”

Just what I needed—something else Chinese. I dropped my head with a groan.

 

An hour later I was sitting in the passenger seat of Marco’s green Impala, sharing a bag of roasted peanuts with him as we headed for the Luck o’ the Irish bar. I gave him a description of Bertie so he could ask the appropriate questions, then I said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Can I stop you?”

“Tell me honestly, do I seek trouble?”

“That’s a trick question, right?” He eyed my skirt. “Why don’t we swing by your apartment so you can change?”

“What do you have against this skirt?”

“The answer to your question is yes, you seek trouble.”

The bar was a squat, rectangular, brown cedar structure that had weathered to a muddy gray. A yellow wooden sign with a faded green shamrock hung over the door. The sign looked as though it dated back to the early 1900s, possibly when the bar was actually Irish. There were no windows in the building, so the only natural light came from a small pane of glass in the door.

We walked in to the sound of an old-fashioned jukebox blaring out the Beach Boys’ “Help Me Rhonda,” and the smells of sour beer, tobacco smoke, and odors I didn’t care to identify. The bar itself took up most of the room, running from left to right with wooden stools all around. On the stools sat men and women who looked as if they’d been there for some time—decades, perhaps—possibly without ever bathing.

Nearly all the men had on some type of black leather—boots, vests, jackets, even some spiked collars. Several men were bare-chested but for their open vests and heavy gold chains that lay in thick mats of chest hair. There were heavily tatooed arms, piercings in areas of flesh that looked painful, and bellies that hung over belts. All of them needed a shampoo and a shave. Desperately. Even some of the women.

There were a few younger women working as barmaids, wearing khaki-colored shorts and tight white T-shirts. Then there were the middle-aged women with pasty skin, no makeup, extra-roomy cotton shirts, and drab stretch pants, and a few older women in too-bright lipstick, floral-print dresses, and bony arms and legs that were shriveled like prune skins.

We immediately found ourselves the center of attention—the women sizing up Marco and the men turning hungry gazes on me. Marco laid a comforting hand on my arm and led me to a pair of vacant stools. “Now do you understand about the skirt?”

I took the stool next to a woman with pockmarked skin and brittle white hair, leaving Marco the stool next to a slumbering pile of human fur on the other side. The fur stirred briefly and lifted his head, revealing a puffy, haggard, male face, then went back into hibernation.

The woman raised a leathery hand to take a drag on the cigarette clutched between two stained fingertips, then gave me a knock in the arm as she leaned toward me. “You got a real looker there.”

The fumes from her breath rolled over me like a tsunami, shriveling the hair in my nose. “Thanks,” I said, trying not in inhale.

The bartender, a thick-necked, former football player- type with a droopy mustache and gray ponytail, ambled over, taking swipes at sticky puddles on the counter. “What can I getcha?”

“A can of Lysol,” I said, trying not to touch anything.

“What did you say?”

“She said a can of light beer.” Marco nudged my knee in warning. He asked for a draft for himself, and when the man returned with our drinks, Marco slid money across, double what the drinks cost. “Listen, man, I need some information.”

The bartender took the money with a snort. “Listen,
man,
get in line.”

Unfazed, Marco said, “A guy came in last Wednesday—Irish accent, clean-cut, short brown hair, friendly. Remember him?”

“What are you playing, twenty questions? You know how many people come in here? I’m no memory bank, ya know.”

“The thing is—” Marco put his hand on the counter. Between his index and middle knuckle was another twenty dollar bill, neatly folded. “Me and my buddy here,” he nodded toward the money, “would appreciate your cooperation.”

The bartender eyed the money. “How much cooperation?”

Marco wiggled the money. “This is it, pal. You’re not a memory bank and I’m not Bill Gates.”