Snipped in the Bud (23 page)

“M
arco, this could be the breakthrough we needed. Should I come down?”

“I think it would be better if I spoke with her alone. She’s sloshed and weepy. I’ll call you when she leaves.”

I returned to the living room to see my mom waving an envelope at me. “I brought you something else. You know how I always cut out newspaper clippings about you and your brothers? Well, these are yours. I saved them for you.”

The first two articles were on Reed’s murder, and the third was on the protest march, with the grainy black-and-white photo of me in handcuffs shouting at Professor Reed, with Marvin Y. Brown at his side. Just what I wanted for my scrapbook. If I ever had kids, they would
not
be seeing these. “Thanks, Mom.”

I started to put them back in the envelope, then I took a closer look at the two blurry faces behind Reed and Brown. One was a lanky blond who reminded me a whole lot of Dustin. The other—hmm. It kind of looked like Kenny. But surely it wasn’t either one of them. Kenny had said he’d only just met Marvin Brown at the memorial service, and why would he lie about that?…Unless there was something about their relationship he didn’t want me to know.

Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions, here. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation.
What I needed was a clear photo to see whether it really
was
Kenny in the picture. Then I’d worry about why he lied. Maybe I could tap Connor Mackay for a copy of the original.

As soon as my mother was out the door, I rummaged through my purse looking for Connor’s card. Nikki was right. There were way too many receipts in there. I found it at last, and three rings later I heard, “Connor Mackay here.”

“Hey, Connor, this is Abby Knight.”

“Well, what do you know? How are you, Abby?”

I hated that perky tone in his voice, as if he knew I’d call eventually. “I need a favor, Connor. I need a glossy of that photo of me at the protest march a couple weeks ago.”

“The one of you in handcuffs?”

I could almost hear the snicker in his voice. “You took great delight in saying that, didn’t you? Yes, that one. Can you get one for me?”

“I think I can manage that. What’s the date on that photo?”

I gave it to him. “How soon can I have it?”

“Do you want me to e-mail it to you?”

“Me, download a JPEG file? Thanks, but I’d rather have a hard copy.”

“Computer illiterate, huh? I can give you lessons.”

“Just the photo, Connor.”

“Then you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Good enough. Where can I pick it up?”

“Hold on there, Olga. I want something in exchange.” He was all business now. “How about an interview?”

“You know what? I’ll get the photo from someone else.”

“I think you should talk to me, Abby.”

“I don’t like that threatening tone in your voice, Mackay.”

“Then you’re really going to hate the piece that’s set to run tomorrow. If you thought you looked guilty before, oh, baby. So why don’t you meet me in thirty minutes at the Daily Grind coffee shop and tell your side of the story?”

Was it blackmail or was he doing me a favor? If I didn’t talk to him, I wasn’t sure what would happen if a more damaging article came out. If I did talk to him, I could mitigate the damage and also get my hands on that photo. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock. I wanted to get down to Bloomers to check things out there, but this was a bit more important. “Are you sure you can get a story in tomorrow’s paper?”

“Hey, we’re living in the computer age, remember?”

“Will you have the photo with you?”

“Tonight?”

“Hey, we’re living in the computer age, remember?”

There was a pause, then he grumbled, “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

At eight thirty, I pulled into one of the public parking lots on the outer fringe of the town square and checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. To remain incognito, I had donned the blond wig and put on a T-shirt with a pair of beat-up blue jeans so I’d blend in with the clientele, which, in the evenings, was mostly college students. I was having second thoughts about meeting Connor, knowing how Marco and Dave would react, but I reassured myself that it was for a good cause. Me.

With one last adjustment of the wig, I got out of the car and by habit looked around to see whether anyone had noticed me, then I hurried across the street and up Lincoln Avenue two blocks east to the Daily Grind, a small, eclectically decorated coffee shop with soft lighting and jazz playing in the background. I walked in and glanced around. Most of the small wooden tables were occupied, and at my entrance, everyone looked up, decided they didn’t know me, and resumed what they’d been doing.

Connor was way in the back at a table for two. He gazed at me quizzically as I pulled out a chair and sat down. “How’s it going, Mackay?”

“So, it’s you, Olga. Or can I call you Abby tonight? You’re still in disguise, I see.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.”

He tried to look sheepish but I knew he didn’t feel it. “I’m glad you decided to talk to me.”

“Can I get you anything?” a young waitress asked, giving Connor the eye. He did look sort of appealing in his crumpled white shirt rolled up to his elbows and a pair of slim-fitting jeans. His hair was a little too shaggy, but it was clean and shiny.

“Espresso with milk on the side, please,” I told her.

“Plain coffee.” As the waitress bustled off, Connor flipped open his reporter’s notepad and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “Okay, what would you like to talk about first?”

“The weather. What do you think, Connor?”

He gave me that great big smile that was so darned charming. “Okay, then. Let’s get right down to it. Tell me your side of the story.”

“Photograph first, Mackay.”

He rubbed his eyebrow. “There was a slight hitch.”

I slipped my purse strap over my shoulder and rose. “See you around.”

“Wait, Abby.” He pulled a tiny disk from his pants pocket and slipped it onto the table. “The photo is on this. I won’t be able to get you a glossy until tomorrow.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word on that?”

He held up his hand. “My word as a journalist, and I take that very seriously. Look, if you don’t believe me, I’ll give you my editor’s home phone number. You can tell him what our deal is, so I’ll have to abide by it. Or you can take the disk to the office supply store tomorrow and have them print the photo. Or you can trust me to get it to you.”

I studied him a moment and decided I believed him. I sat down again as the waitress set beverage napkins and green cups and saucers in front of us. “I’ve never done this before. Why don’t you ask me some questions?”

“It’s better to simply start from the beginning and let it all out. Remember, this is your chance to correct any misinformation.”

“There’s plenty of that out there, believe me.” I drew in a breath, let it out again, forming in my mind what I wanted him to kno . Then I began my tale from when Puffer crossed in front of my car while he was on his cell phone to when I walked back into Puffer’s office to get my flower and found Reed’s body. Connor had been writing rapidly as I spoke, and unlike Marco, he waited until I’d stopped to ask his questions.

He recapped what I’d given him, reading from his notepad, then asked, “So when the body was discovered, you were the only person there?”

“That’s what the phrase ‘I discovered his body’ usually means, Connor.”

He rubbed his forehead, ignoring my little jab. “I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re number one on the police list of suspects, other than that you do have a history with Carson Reed.”

“Exactly what I keep saying. I have a history with Professor Puffer, too, but I didn’t kill him. Then again, if I hadn’t slammed on my brakes in time, I probably
would
have killed him, but that’s another story.” The waitress came by to fill our cups, so I stopped to add milk to my coffee and take a sip.

Connor tapped his pen on the notepad. “It doesn’t add up. Just because you found the body and had some previous run-ins with the professor—”

“One previous run-in, at the protest march.”

“And then again when you ran into him after you left Professor Puffer’s office.”

“Right. Like I said, I hadn’t expected to see him. He stepped out of his office as I came out of Puffer’s office and we literally ran into each other. We exchanged a few barbs and I left. And here’s a fact you can check. I made a call to Marco while I was sitting in my car, before I went back inside. He’ll tell you my only concern was to retrieve my flower.”

Connor shook his head, puzzled. “I still don’t get it. To make you their prime suspect…the police must have more on you than that.” He leaned across the table, searching my face. “What aren’t you telling me, Abby? You’re holding something back.”

Like I would admit to him that my fingerprints were on the murder weapon? Fat chance. “Why would you say that, Connor?”

“For one thing, you’re tense as hell. You’ve torn your napkin into tiny pieces.”

Yikes. He was right. I must have shredded it while I was talking. Great. Now my face was getting warm, too, which meant it was turning red. In a few moments I’d look like a giant pickled beet. It was time to backpedal. “Well, it’s no secret I was dismayed that Reed was defending Dermacol. But my issue wasn’t with him as much as it was with Dermacol’s policy of testing products on animals. That’s why I was at the protest march.”

Connor’s left eyebrow lifted skeptically, so I went at him with both barrels. “Do you know about Dermacol’s policy? Do you know that animals are poisoned and killed simply to test the toxicity of beauty-product ingredients? The animals are force-fed makeup, Connor. Their lungs are pumped with hair spray until it eats away at the lining. Hair dyes are rubbed into their eyes and skin until they bleed. Are you sick yet? Because this is what Dermacol does, and will continue to do, unless we consumers speak up.”

“Do you really want me to put this in the article?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s the truth.”

“First of all, what does this have to do with your innocence or guilt? Second, are you aware that the FBI has put animal rights extremists under their microscope? Do you really want that to happen to you?”

That took me aback. “I’m not an extremist. I realize that it’s sometimes necessary to perform tests on animals for health reasons, but there are humane ways of doing that, and in fact, many labs
are
doing it. I’m simply trying to do my part to save helpless animals from being tortured by an unscrupulous company right here in our town. That doesn’t mean I would blow up people or buildings to do so. I mean, that’s a little extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s why they’re called extremists.”

I downed my coffee and signaled for more. No milk this time. I wanted it as strong as I could get it. Somehow I had to change the direction the interview had taken, because it was not going the way I had planned. Then again, what did?

“Okay, let’s forget about Dermacol for now,” I said. “I can’t tell you why the police are so focused on me, but I can say that there are people connected with Carson Reed who not only had the opportunity but also a reason for wanting him dead. And reason, Connor, translates into motive.”

He was interested now. “Who are these people? Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t want to name names, and this is totally between you and me, but I’m this close to figuring out which one of them is the murderer.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Not yet. Trust me, though, when I have it nailed down, it’ll be a huge headline.”

“Have you shared this with the police?”

“When they start sharing with me, I’ll be more than happy to share with them.”

He scribbled furiously, then flipped the notepad closed and put away his pen. “Great stuff, Abby. Now, I’ve got to run. The paper gets put to bed in an hour. I’ll submit my story tonight and it should be in tomorrow’s edition.”

The Sunday paper. My stomach grew jittery thinking about it. I put a five-dollar bill on the table and stood up, scattering tiny napkin scraps in all directions. “When will you have that photo?”

“Not until Sunday. How about around three o’clock Sunday afternoon? I’ll drop it off at your apartment.”

“Fine. Let me give you the address.”

“I already have it.”

“How do you know my address?”

“I’m a reporter, remember?”

Sometimes it was better not to know. I pointed down the street to the public lot. “I’m parked down there. How about you?”

“Me, too. I’ll walk with you. So, tell me, off the record, is Marco still involved?”

“With the murder investigation?” I paused, wondering whether Marco would mind him knowing, then decided to hedge my bets. “He’s helping me with it.”

Connor was silent as we headed across the parking lot to my car. I put the key in the lock, then turned to say good-bye, only to find him very close. “Actually,” he said, “I meant involved with you.”