Snipped in the Bud (8 page)

Jillian sat back with a knowing look. “It’s Nikki, isn’t it? I’ve been sensing bad vibes from her ever since I told her she was hogging the medicine cabinet.”

It was a wonder Nikki hadn’t thrown us both out. “Okay, look,” I said, sitting down beside her. “It’s not just Nikki. It’s me, too. I’d really like to have my bedroom back. This sofa isn’t the easiest thing to sleep on. Face it, Jill, there’s not enough room in the apartment for the three of us—or the nine of us, if you count the racks. Not only that, but you love to shop in Chicago. Why would you even want to work from here?”

“When it snows, the expressways are treacherous.”

“That’s never stopped you before. Besides, it’s only September. Snow never falls before the end of November.”

“I like to plan ahead.”

“Since when? You put your wedding together in a month and a half.”

She folded her arms and sniffed. “I know. And look how that turned out.”

“I’m not buying your story, Jill. Something else is going on. You’re hiding out here. Want to tell me why?”

“No.” Jillian pouted for a moment, then sighed in resignation. “Fine. I’ll get my own apartment. Happy now?”

I was ecstatic, but all I said was, “It’s best for all of us.” Then we hugged. Problem solved. Now I could turn my attention to more important matters.

“So tell me about the murder,” Jillian said.

“You know about it?”

“Duh. You can’t turn on the television without hearing the reports.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

She looked stumped for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I was preoccupied. So who do you think did it? I mean, you obviously didn’t…did you?”

Ignoring her question, I gave her a brief account of my afternoon along with strict instructions to avoid talking to reporters. Then I fought my way through the jackets, got the answering machine, and took it to my bedroom to listen to the messages.

The first call was from Nikki. “Tell Jillian the new tire is going to cost one hundred forty-three dollars.” She hung up without saying good-bye. Obviously she had left it before she got my news about the murder. And since Jillian had already heard the message, I didn’t have to deliver it. Worked for me.

The second message was from Grace. “Abby, dear, a reporter came here looking for you. He said he spoke with you earlier today and was just following up on it. His name is Connor Mackay and his phone number is—”

I hit Delete, crawled past a rack of dresses, and sat on the side of my bed. I had to leave for Marco’s bar in fifteen minutes, but until then I could lie down and let the stress of the day wash out of me and memories of Marco’s delicious kiss wash back in, like the tide. I stretched out on my back and closed my eyes and, within minutes, was so into the whole beach imagery that I could even hear the sound of waves washing up onto the shore, smell the pungent fish odor, and feel the gritty, warm sand beneath me.

I was just about to drift out to sea when a heavy missile landed on my stomach. My eyes flew open as I gasped for air. There sat Simon, licking a paw.

“Simon,” I wheezed, struggling to sit up, “I’m not a landing pad. Look at all the room beside me.” He paused to glance at me, as if to say,
So?

The phone rang and I yelled, “Jillian, would you get that for me, please?” I scratched Simon behind the ears, listening as my cousin said, “Yes, this is where Abigail Knight lives.”

“No, she doesn’t!” I cried, sending the cat scurrying under the bed. I dashed down the hallway just in time to hear Jillian say, “I’m sorry. She’s not taking any calls right now. Would you like to leave a name and number where she can reach you?” She glanced up at me and gave me the okay sign. “Thank you,” she said brightly, and hung up. “How did I do?”

“Next time don’t admit that I live here. In fact, just say you don’t even know who I am.”

“Got it.”

“So who was on the phone?”

“A reporter.”

“What was his name?”

“Were you planning to call him back?”

“No.”

She shrugged. “Then it doesn’t matter.”

Valid point. The phone rang again and Jillian said, “Let me get it.” She cleared her throat as she picked up the handset. “Bonjour,” she said in a cheery French accent. She listened a few moments, then replied, “I am sorr-eee. I do not know zees Abby Knight.” She hung up with a giggle. “That ought to confuse him.”

“Who was it?”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“Jillian!”

“Okay, it was some guy named Connor Mackay.”

“Gee, what a coincidence. He chased me out of the parking lot not fifteen minutes ago.”

“I have to say, Abby, he had a pretty wixy voice.”

“What’s wixy?”

“Wickedly sexy.
You
need to get out of the flower shop more often. Anyway, he said you’re going to want to talk to him soon.”

“How arrogant of him.” I headed for the kitchen to get my purse from the counter.

“He didn’t say it in an arrogant way,” Jillian called.

“Oh, right.
Wixy
.”

“No, more like…”

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Like what?”

“Threatening.”

I
gave my cousin a scowl. “Connor is a reporter, Jill. He’s not going to threaten me.”

“Okay, fine. Don’t call him. Just don’t blame me if something bad happens. Where are you going?”

“To Down the Hatch.”

“No, really.”

“To find inner peace.”

“Awesome. Bring some back for me.”

The Down the Hatch Bar and Grill occupied the first floor of a narrow brick building that had been built around 1900 and, like Bloomers, came with high, tin ceilings, wood floors, and loads of charm. Marco’s bar was where the judges and attorneys from the courthouse across the street gathered for lunch, and was an evening hangout for the college crowd, who thought the kitschy fisherman’s theme—a fake carp mounted above the long walnut bar, a bright blue plastic anchor on the wall above the row of booths, a brass bell near the old-fashioned cash register, and a fishing net hanging from the beamed ceiling—was retro-cool.

When I walked in, Marco was talking to his chief bartender, Chris. He saw me come in and signaled that he’d be right there, so I slid into the last booth and scanned the plastic-coated menu, although I could have recited it by heart.

Within a few minutes Marco appeared, bringing two Miller Lites with him, his five-o’clock shadow giving him a dangerously appealing look. He sat across from me and handed me one of the tall, cold glasses just as Gert, one of the waitresses, stopped at the table, her order pad in one hand and a pencil in the other. Like the fake carp, Gert had been a fixture there for decades. In fact, there was even a strong resemblance between them, especially around the gills.

“Sorry to hear about the murder, kid,” she said to me in her gravelly smoker’s voice. “You doin’ okay?”

“Thanks for asking, Gert. I’m okay.”

“All righty, then. You kids gonna eat?”

“Italian beef sandwich au jus,” I told her. “With lots of jus.”

“Open-faced turkey sandwich for me,” Marco said. “Hold—”

“—the slaw,” she finished for him as she tore off the order and headed for the kitchen.

“Any news from Reilly?” I asked Marco.

“Two important items. Carson Reed had been stunned by a blow to the head before he was stabbed—they haven’t determined the source of the blow yet—and they got two clear fingerprints and a blurry partial off the end of the pencil. Reilly said Puffer’s prints could account for one of the sets, since he owned the pencils. It’ll be interesting to see who the other set belongs to.”

I nearly sloshed beer over the rim of my glass. I hadn’t told Marco about picking up the pencil, and since that bit of information would probably sound better coming from me than from, oh, say, the police, I decided I’d better fess up now. So I waited until he was in the middle of taking a long pull of beer, then I said quickly, “I hope the prints aren’t mine.”

He stopped swallowing. “What?”

“I said I hope they’re not mine.”

He blinked twice, giving his gray matter a moment to absorb it. “Is there a chance they
are
yours?”

“Okay, first, promise you won’t tell Reilly.”

Marco gazed at me in disbelief. I sensed no promise would be forthcoming. “You handled the murder weapon?”

“Let’s be clear on this. I
might
have handled the murder weapon. Before Puffer came in, I took a pencil out of the cup and pretended to snap it in two, just to see what it felt like.”

“But then you put it back.”

“Yes.” I nodded eagerly, then, noting a look of relief on his face I clarified, “On the desk. Not in the cup.”

Seeing his relief vanish, I hastened to explain. “I didn’t put it back because Puffer walked in and caught me with it, and I was so rattled that I set it down on the closest surface, which turned out to be the near corner of his desk because the cup was all the way on the far corner, past his computer monitor. Anyway, it’s possible that the murderer used a different pencil.”

“The murderer is going to grab one from the pencil cup way over on the far side of the desk rather than use the one lying right there in plain sight?”

I sagged against the seatback with a desultory sigh. “Probably not.”

“Did you tell Dave Hammond what you did?”

Hmm. Had I told Dave? Could I give Marco an unqualified, one hundred percent yes? Not really. Those couple hours after the murder were kind of hazy. So maybe ninety percent…Okay, eighty-three…Make that a definite fifty. Not very good odds, especially because Marco, being a male, would naturally be able to recall every detail, including what brand of shoes Professor Reed had worn—if he’d worn shoes. I hadn’t noticed. How mortifying.

The paper napkin beside my plate suddenly needed my undivided attention. I shook it out and laid it across my lap, making sure to smooth out every last wrinkle.

Marco sighed. “You didn’t tell Dave, did you?”

“I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

“Wise move.”

Gert brought our sandwiches, so we paused the conversation and dug into the food. But then I started thinking about the fingerprints, and my appetite did a nosedive. I swallowed the bite and pushed the plate to the side.

Marco looked at me curiously. “Is something wrong with the beef?”

“The beef is great. My nerves aren’t. I have a terrible feeling my prints are going to be on that pencil.”

“Okay, let’s look at it rationally. Even if your prints
are
on the pencil, you have a good explanation for it, and you have a witness. Puffer can verify that he saw you holding it.”

“You think Snapdragon will back
me
up?” I pushed the plate farther away so I could lean my head in my hands. “This is getting worse by the second.”

“Take it easy, Sunshine.”

“You don’t understand. It’s the Rule of Three, Marco. Two bad things have happened, which means I have one to go.”

“Come on, Abby. You’re not the superstitious type.”

“This isn’t a superstition. It’s real. I became a believer a year ago. Trust me, the Rule of Three never fails.”

“Then why haven’t I experienced it?”

“You have. You just weren’t counting.”

“Right.” He chewed a bite of food, thinking. “Okay, what about this? Yesterday I stepped into the shower and discovered I didn’t have hot water. Turns out the ancient water heater finally gave up the ghost. Then right before the dinner rush, my dishwasher quit on me. That was yesterday. Today, nothing.”

I gaped at him in horror. “It doesn’t have to be all in one day. It just has to be three bad events in a short period of time. You’re really in for it now.”

“We’ll see,” he said and engulfed a huge bite of his sandwich.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Watching him wolf down the food, I decided I was hungry after all, so I pulled the plate toward me and started eating again.

“Here’s a thought,” Marco said. “To take your mind off things, let’s go over to the Green Parrot later for a little dancing.”

Dancing with Marco, gazing up at that darkly handsome face.
Ahh.
Remembering how good it had felt to float across the floor with him at Jillian’s wedding reception, I couldn’t help but sigh dreamily. I was definitely up for some of that. “Sounds great, but first I have to go back to the shop and finish a small stack of orders. It should take about two hours.”

Gert stopped at our table and pointed to the television mounted in a corner over the bar. “Hey, doll, you’re on TV again.”

I turned for a look and there, doing a live report from the lawn in front of the law school, was one of the reporters who’d fired questions at me. In a small square in the upper right corner of the screen was an image of me, freckles and all, taken from my high school yearbook. I scooted out of the booth and moved closer to hear what was being said.

“…should be noted that local florist and animal rights activist Abby Knight was apparently the last one to have seen Carson Reed alive and the first to find him dead. This follows on the heels of Knight’s arrest at a protest march against Dermacol Labs, for which Reed is legal counsel. This is Don Dell reporting live from New Chapel, Indiana.”

The scene switched back to the newsroom, where the male news anchor, with perfectly styled gray hair, said, “In an ironic twist, Knight, the owner of Bloomers Flower Shop and a former student of Carson Reed’s, had gone to the law school to deliver a funeral arrangement.”

“It was one flower,” I protested as the anchor moved on to another topic. I turned around and every eye in the bar was on me. I slunk back to my seat, trying to ignore the gapes and whispers, as Marco started on the remaining half of his sandwich as though nothing had happened.

I put a hand on the side of my face to block the curious stares. “Marco, everyone is staring.”

“Nah,” he mumbled through a mouthful of turkey and bread.

I turned my head and saw three guys at the bar leering at me. One even wiggled his eyebrows. I grabbed the menu and used it as a barrier. “No, Marco, they really are staring.”

He glanced at the bar and the men instantly looked away. “Ignore them,” he advised.

“I can’t eat with people watching me. Juice will drip down my chin. Lettuce will wedge itself between my front teeth. Crumbs will stick to—”

“Grab the beers and come with me.” Marco scooped up his plate and mine and started up the hallway that led to his office, a modern room done in silver, gray, black, and white. We settled on two black leather sling-back chairs facing Marco’s sleek black desk and made short work of our food.

“Feel better now?” Marco asked as we finished our brews.

“Yes, thanks, but I’ll feel best when the murderer is found.”

“You know what I think about that?” Marco said, taking the glass from my hand. He tugged me over to sit on his lap, then put his arms around me. “I think you should stop thinking about the murder. You’ve got more important things to do right now.”

I leaned my forehead against his. “Yeah, like finishing all those orders waiting for me.”

“Actually, I was referring to that kiss we’d started earlier.”

“I was hoping you’d bring that up.” I tilted my head up and our lips connected, an Irish-Italian fusion. Marco’s mouth was hot and hard against mine, and I could smell a hint of the soap he used on his skin, a little bit spicy, a little bit sweet, and a whole lot intoxicating.

Why not stay here all evening and practice these kisses?
the little imp inside me whispered. I was all set to agree with her when my practical side stepped in.
Right. Then you’ll be up half the night knocking out those flower arrangements, and you know how testy you get when you haven’t had your sleep.
I was nothing if not practical.

“I suppose,” I said after a few long, slow, sexy kisses, “I should get my orders done so we’ll have time to go dancing.” I was kind of hoping he’d try to talk me out of it, but Marco was even more practical than I was.

He pulled back to look at me with those bedroom eyes, tracing the outline of my lips with his index finger. “I suppose you’re right. How about if I walk you down to Bloomers?”

As options went, it wasn’t as good as staying there and kissing him, but I took it anyway.

Except for the bars and restaurants, all the businesses around the square closed at five o’clock, so the sidewalks were fairly deserted as we strolled hand in hand up the block. Marco waited while I unlocked the door and disabled the alarm, then he stepped inside to scope out the premises—a habit he’d picked up from his Army Ranger training.

“It’s clear.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be back in two hours. Lock the door behind me.”

Suddenly, there was a squeal of tires in the street outside, followed by a loud crash. We rushed out the door to find out what had happened, as did patrons of the several eating establishments on the square. Around the corner, on the south side of the courthouse lawn, a badly rusted Pontiac Grand Am had smashed into a car parked in one of the angled spaces, and now sat with its front end crumpled and steam coming out from under the mangled hood. As I watched, the door creaked open and a teenaged boy emerged, appearing dazed but not injured. The other doors opened and three more boys got out, all looking bewildered.

Marco muttered something that sounded like, “That’s Mike Arr!” as he started across the street at a fast jog. I followed, thinking he’d recognized one of the teens. It wasn’t until I got closer that I realized he was actually saying “my car.” The teens had crashed into Marco’s dark green Chevy. Hadn’t I warned him? There was no avoiding the Rule of Three.

The police station was across the street, so within moments cops came pouring out the door. An ambulance arrived next and two EMTs examined the boys to make sure they hadn’t been injured. Meanwhile, Marco was on his cell phone, trying to reach a towing service. He put his hand over the phone and said, “Looks like we’re going to have to reschedule our date.”

“That’s all right. I have lots to do. I just hope your car isn’t too badly damaged.” I couldn’t resist adding, “And in case you weren’t counting, that was bad luck number thr—”