Sleeping with Anemone (31 page)

“I wanted to keep him in jail,” Morgan said, “but there’s no murder charge against him, so he was able to post bond.”

I stirred the soup, decided it was warm enough, and ladled it into a bowl. I found a soup spoon in a utensil drawer, a napkin in a holder, and placed everything in front of him. Morgan immediately picked up the spoon and dipped it in the soup. I glanced at my watch. I’d been there thirteen minutes. No way would I make my fifteen-minute goal.

“This tastes good,” he said, liquid dribbling down his chin.

“I’m glad you like it. So, Greg, has there been any word on who murdered Hudge?”

He shook his head.

“What about the weapon? Do you know what it was?”

“Wasn’t a metal blade,” he said between mouthfuls. “Something smooth, though.”

“Like wood?”

“No wood fibers in the wound. Wound was clean.”

“Any of the inmates talking about who might have done it?”

He stopped eating to gaze at me through bleary eyes. “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Abby.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “But look at it from my standpoint, Greg. Three attempts were made to kidnap me, and both kidnappers are now dead, one murdered right under your nose, probably to keep him from talking. Can you blame me for wanting some information?”

He blinked a few times. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then help me put some of the pieces together, okay?”

Morgan shook his dripping spoon at me. “You can’t take no for an answer.”

“But I already know what two of the key items of evidence are. I just need a little more information about them. It’s like someone sketching a tree with bare branches and someone else painting on the leaves. See what I’m getting at? I’ve sketched the tree; now it’s your turn.”

He kept eating the soup, so I decided to keep sketching. “Okay, Raand sent a note to one of the kidnappers. Was it to Hudge?”

“Abby, please stop.”

“Won’t you answer just that one question, Greg? Please?”

He stopped to wipe his chin. “If I do, will you stop badgering me?”

I was about to say,
Define ‘badgering,’
when all of a sudden, the napkin dropped from Morgan’s hand and a sickly expression came over his face. Then his cheeks puffed out and he began making gagging noises. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shoved back his chair, and stumbled out of the kitchen. Moments later, I heard a door slam and then the sound of retching.

So much for the chicken soup cure. I picked up his bowl and spoon, left the icky napkin, and headed toward the kitchen sink to rinse them. “Are you okay, Greg?” I called.

No answer.

I scrubbed my hands with soap and hot water, stashed the rest of the soup in the refrigerator, then went to investigate. Just beyond the kitchen was a family room, and up the hallway from the family room I found a closed door.

“Greg? Are you in there?”

Silence.

I called his name again, rapped twice, then opened the door and peered cautiously inside. I saw a handsome bathroom with tan and green striped wallpaper, an ivory marble pedestal sink, a glass-fronted tile shower, brown towels, and a shaggy brown throw rug—onto which Morgan had curled into fetal position.

“Greg?” I whispered.

His mouth sagged open and he began to snore.

I watched him for a moment and thought about nudging him awake with my shoe. But I couldn’t do that to a sick man. Then I thought about his briefcase resting against the hall tree, right there where anyone could open it up and have a look inside.

I could do that to a sick man.

I called Morgan’s name again, and when he didn’t respond, I quietly eased the door closed, then tiptoed through the family room and into the small front hall. I knelt beside his briefcase—an expensive leather number stamped with the Bally brand name—set it flat on the floor, pushed the brass locks, and winced when they popped open with loud clicks.

I listened for a moment, but heard no noise from the bathroom, so I lifted the lid and peered inside. He had three accordion file folders in it. I didn’t recognize the name on the first one. The second one, however, was labeled
Knight, Tara
.

Bingo!

The first page was the charging information on Dwayne Hudge. Beneath it were pages of statements made by the investigating officers on their initial findings, then lists of witnesses, and witness statements. I flipped through the file quickly, hunting for anything about the note or the flowers. I found the coroner’s report on Charlotte, but gave it only a cursory glance. Beneath the report were more witness statements.

I heard a moan from the other room. Oh no. Was Greg coming around?

I shuffled through pages so fast I almost missed it—a photocopy of a thank-you note written in handwriting so severely straight, it looked as though a ruler had been used to keep the loops from going beyond the line. It read:

Well, that certainly didn’t sound like a man who’d hired her for a kidnapping. No mention of sending her flowers, either. I read Raand’s note over twice, then moved on. I’d have to analyze its significance later.

The next page was a photocopy of the check, made out to Charlotte H. Bebe, and stamped for deposit by the New Chapel Savings Bank.

I was nearly at the back of the file. There had to be something about flowers in it. Had I missed it? A receipt? A lab analysis?

A toilet flushed. Oh no! Morgan was up.

I was about to give up when I noticed a letter from the county extension agent. Quickly, I scanned the letter—a preliminary finding. It read in part: “In regard to the matter found in the tread of the subject’s running shoe, the petals are consistent with those of the anemone.”

Anemone?

I ran my finger across the lines of print. Whom had the shoe belonged to?

I heard running water.
Crap.
Morgan was bound to emerge any moment.

I flipped to the next page and found a letter from the prosecutor’s office requesting that “the matter found in the tread of the subject’s running shoe” be analyzed. And there on the next line was the subject’s name: Charlotte Bebe.

Got it!

I slid the file into the briefcase just as the bathroom door opened. I closed the case and eased the locks shut, coughing to cover the clicks. Then I propped it beside the hall tree, grabbed my coat, and turned just as Morgan shuffled around the corner.

“Greg! I was just about to leave. Are you okay?”

“I guess I wasn’t ready for soup.”

“I put the rest in the fridge for another day, and don’t worry about the plastic container. Just get into bed and take it easy. I’ll let myself out.”

I grabbed my purse and left, taking the stairs because I was too energized to wait. I pushed the door open at the bottom and dashed out, glancing around for Marco.

He saw me and tapped his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“And worth every one of them. Come on, I’ll tell you what I learned on the way back to Bloomers.”

 

As we headed west toward the town square, I filled Marco in. “One of the pieces of evidence that the DA said linked Raand to the kidnappers was a thank-you note Raand sent to Charlotte for filling in while his secretary was out.”

“A thank-you note?”

“Yep. That’s it. Not a word about hiring her for any kidnappings. Apparently he had enclosed a check with the thank-you for the days she worked—I saw the photocopy—and it wasn’t a big sum, either.”

“So it didn’t link Raand to the kidnappings, just to a kidnapper.”

“Right.”

“It’s weak.”

“Weak is too weak a word for it. Flimsy as onionskin would be better. And the second piece of evidence, the flower, is—you won’t believe this—flower petals that got caught in the treads of Charlotte’s shoes.”

“Petals?”

“Not just any petals. Anemone petals.”

Marco glanced at me. “The flowers you never received?” “Exactly.”

“How would a person get anemone petals mashed in her shoe treads in the winter?”

“The obvious answer is by stepping in them. I find flower petals stuck to the soles of my shoes all the time. But the only anemones you’d find in February in this part of the country would be the kind sold by a florist or grown in a hot-house. There are two florists in town, the florist in the grocery store’s gift department—and me. I know the grocer carries only the standards—roses, daisies, mums, orchids, violets—nothing as unusual as anemones. So that leaves one big craft and hobby store on the highway that also wouldn’t stock anemones, and two garden centers with greenhouses, one of which is at Tom’s Green Thumb.” I raised my eyebrows. “Pretty strong coincidence, don’t you think?”

Marco smiled. “You are an amazing woman.”

“Thank you.”

“It’d be great if we could place both Charlotte and Harding at Tom’s Green Thumb. But is Harding even involved in the greenhouse operation anymore? I thought he had to sell when he went to prison.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called the shop. “Let’s see if Grace can find out.”

Grace was a master at sleuthing out that kind of detail. I explained the situation to her and asked her to check around for anemones and inquire discreetly about Harding’s involvement in Tom’s Green Thumb. “You don’t need to call me back,” I said. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“By the way, dear,” Grace said, “that salesman called again, the one who left the flashlight? He said he’s leaving town tomorrow and is planning a small reception this evening at the New Chapel Inn and Suites. He would like you to RSVP. I put the note on your desk.”

“Okay, thanks, Grace. I’ll take care of it later.” I slipped my phone into my purse and sat back with a satisfied sigh. We were finally moving forward.

“Tell me how you got Morgan to cooperate,” Marco said.

“I fed him chicken soup.”

He gave me a skeptical glance. “That’s it? He ate the soup and then talked?”

“No, he ate it and then barfed.”

“What?”

“Morgan was being stubborn. The only information he’d divulge was that there was still no suspect in the Hudge murder and that the weapon was made from something smooth, yet not metal or wood. So after he upchucked the soup and fell asleep in the bathroom, I rifled through his briefcase.”

Marco let out a low whistle. “I can’t believe you went into a deputy prosecutor’s briefcase and read his files.”

“You can’t?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. The corner of his mouth curved up.

Could, too.

 

“No anemones at the craft store or grocery store,” Grace reported as Marco and I shed our coats and settled at a back table in the parlor. “And Samuel’s Garden Center is closed for three months, reopening in March.” She paused to glance at us over her reading glasses. “However, I just got off the telephone with Robin Lennox, the acting floor manager at Tom’s Green Thumb, and she said—”

“They have anemones in stock,” I finished, giving Marco a high five.

“In fact,” Grace continued, “Robin received the shipment a few weeks back—around the end of January—even though she hadn’t ordered any. She believed it to be a delivery error, although neither her supplier nor the delivery company would admit to it.”

“Did Robin say anything about Harding’s involvement?” Marco asked Grace.

“According to Robin, Mr. Harding is no longer officially involved in the company, yet she admitted that he keeps his fingers in the business through his lady friend, Honey, who owns controlling shares.”

“How convenient,” I said.

“Robin indicated she hadn’t seen Mr. Harding personally since his release from jail,” Grace said, “but as she was leaving one evening, she saw his black sedan parked behind the greenhouse.”

“Did Robin mention when that was?” Marco asked.

“She did not. Shall I call her back, do you think?” Grace asked.

At that moment, four women came into the parlor and took seats at a table in front of the bay window, so Grace added, “After I see to my customers?”

“Thanks,” Marco said, “but this warrants a trip to Tom’s Green Thumb to talk to Robin in person. I’ll head over there this afternoon.”

“I almost forgot,” Grace said. “Your sister-in-law Portia dropped these by.” She put a stack of magazines in front of me. I read the spines:
Elegant Bride; Modern Bride; World Bride; You and Your Wedding; Occasion Weddings; Wedding Cakes; Wedding Bells . . .

I pushed them aside and laid my head on my arms. “Make them stop!”

Marco’s cell phone chirped, so he got up to take the call. A moment later I heard Lottie say, “This will make it all better, sweetie.”

I raised my head as she placed a pizza box on the table, along with a stack of napkins and paper plates. She lifted the lid, revealing a big, cheesy pie loaded with sausage, mushrooms, black olives, and green peppers. I leaned over to inhale. Yum!

“Lunch is on me today. Dig in.” She took a slice for herself and bustled away.

I was about to place a wedge of pizza on a paper plate when a small hand reached around me and grabbed it.

I turned to see Tara stuff the pointed end in her mouth. “Surprise,” she mumbled through the gooey bite.

“What are you doing here? You should be in school.”

“In-service teachers’ meetings this afternoon,” she announced, taking a seat. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the magazines. “Are you shopping for your wedding gown?”