The Goodbye Body (24 page)

A rattling noise awakened me the following morning. I stumbled to the window, prepared to see tanks rolling out from the pine trees, but instead saw a lone man shaking the gate. The officers must have left, I thought as I tried to decide what to do. It did not seem likely that mobsters from New York would attempt to break into the yard in a blatantly indelicate manner, but I was inexperienced in such matters. I hurriedly dressed and went downstairs. I was headed for the sliding glass doors for a better look when the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, I turned around and went to the door.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Yard service. I usually come in through the back, but the gate’s locked.”

I turned off the alarm and opened the door. The man on the porch was short, balding, and apologetic.

“Sorry if I disturbed you,” he said as he handed me the newspaper. “You want me to mow and tend to the plants?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “I’m afraid there’s some damage out by the sidewalk.”

“No kidding. I’ll do what I can, and in a couple of weeks, it won’t look so bad. Is Mrs. Goforth here?”

I’d finally encountered someone who neither read the newspaper nor watched KFAR. “She’s out of town. You’ll have to settle up with her when she gets back.”

“No problem. She paid for the summer in advance.”

I almost expected him to invite himself inside for coffee and an interrogation of Dolly’s whereabouts, the last time she’d called, the details of Petti’s death, and the identity of the girl found in the red Mercedes.

“It’ll take me a couple of hours,” he said, then went to a pickup truck with a trailer and began to remove the accou-terments of his trade.

I closed and locked the door, then went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Leaving it to gurgle and gasp, I went upstairs to better prepare myself for the day. The bruise on my cheek was still visible, but not threatening to evolve into a black eye. The scrapes on my knees and elbows showed no signs of infection. The lump on the back of my head was receding, or so I told myself. At the moment, I didn’t have a headache, although I was sure I would before the day was done.

I took a precautionary aspirin, showered, did the necessities, and dressed more carefully. When I arrived in the kitchen, the coffee was delightfully fragrant. I sat down at the island and unfolded the newspaper. No nightmarish photos greeted me. I flipped through the first few pages. The international community was in chaos, and several Third World modes of transport had flipped, crashed, or sunk the previous day. An African dictator had fled his palace when insurgents overran the capital. The murder at the country club, however, had happened too late to make the newspaper. This did not mean that the reporters, reinvigorated by the scent of fresh blood, were not on their way to Dogwood Lane. I considered calling the police department to request Corporal McTeer’s vigilance for the day, but decided to wait and see what happened when the vans and reporters dared to infringe on the lawn while the yardman was present. They had cameras and microphones; he had leaf blowers, hedge trimmers, weed whackers, and other lethal weapons. It would not be a fair fight.

As I ate a bagel and glanced through the paper, I almost expected Cal to show up with yet another flower arrangement. Peter had said he was not my anonymous suitor, and I could think of no one else who might be shelling out big bucks to get my attention. Gary might be culpable, but he struck me as the sort who would claim responsibility at his first opportunity (in the manner of a gorilla thumping his chest, or at least his credit card). Why he’d latched onto me was puzzling. I was more than modestly attractive, I must admit, and certainly more stimulating and engaging than the standard fare of women he encountered at cocktail parties. On the other hand, I’d been cool, if not chilly, in response to his advances. And, well, I was older. Maturity has its charm, but I could hardly imagine him going to such expensive means to win me over when he was merely renting the condo for a week or two.

I decided to do a little investigating. After a moment, I remembered the name of the florist shop and found a telephone directory on the table in the hall. Aunt Bessie’s Bloomers was located at the mall, which explained why I was unfamiliar with it. Although it was early for many businesses to be open, I dialed the number.

“Aunt Bessie’s,” chirped a female voice, “home of bountiful blossoms and bouquets for every occasion. Today’s special is a nosegay of spring flowers delivered with a small box of gourmet chocolate and a helium balloon with a message for someone you love.”

“Is the boss’s wife in?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but neither of them works on Saturdays. Can I help you?”

I told her my name and temporary address, then asked if she could track down the orders for the flowers I’d received the previous day.

“It’s supposed to be confidential,” she said. “Sometimes, like, maybe a man calls and orders flowers, but he doesn’t have them sent to his wife. She sees the charge on the credit card, and then all hell breaks loose. Last year the boss had to testify in a divorce case. He wasn’t very happy about it, so we’re not supposed to give out any information.”

“There’s no such thing as florist-customer confidentiality,” I countered. “However, if that’s the policy, you’ll have to explain it to Lieutenant Rosen of the Farberville Criminal Investigation Division when he arrives in an hour. You’ll also have to close the shop when he takes you in for interrogation. I doubt that will make the boss very happy, either.”

“What do you want to know?” she said.

“Just find the order receipts for the two arrangements Cal delivered to me yesterday.”

“Cal who?”

“The deliveryman. He came in a white van with a rose painted on the side.”

“Leila makes all of our deliveries, and she drives a blue station wagon. You’ve got the wrong place.”

“Okay,” I said before she could hang up, telling myself it was not inconceivable that Leila and Cal had some sort of agreement that Aunt Bessie might have disapproved of. I described the two arrangements. “Did anyone order these?”

“Not yesterday,” the girl said firmly. “We did a big wedding last night, so we spent all day doing the pieces for that and getting them to the church and reception hall. Leila dropped off a few bouquets, but she was mostly busy with this wedding. You wouldn’t believe how much money people spend on flowers these days. I’ve always said I’d rather have a handful of daffodils and a honeymoon in the Bahamas.”

I assured her that I agreed and wished her well. I flipped through the ads for other florist shops in Farberville, but none of them had names that I might have confused with Aunt Bessie and her bloomers. I didn’t know if Cal talked to his dog, but he was not a deliveryman. So who was he? I wandered into the dining room and gazed at the flower arrangements. Could he be some sort of psychotic who saw my photo in the newspaper and wanted to entangle himself in the case? Had he been planning to confess as soon as he had the details? Big-city police departments were plagued with those starved for attention, no matter how inappropriate it was. Cal had sounded sane and sensible, perhaps a bit too concerned for a stranger—but I wouldn’t have allowed a stranger into the house. Posing as a deliveryman was an innocuous cover that had won him a cup of coffee and, later, an imported beer at the infamous scene of the crime. He’d given me his home phone number and urged me to call. I tried to think if I’d kept the slip of paper in my pocket or left it in the kitchen, where Squeaky Clean would have promptly disposed of it. And if I could find it, I had no idea what to say to him (or his dog, if that’s who answered).

I needed to consult Peter, but I knew he was too busy with the investigation of Sara Louise’s murder, as well as Petti’s current whereabouts. I returned to the kitchen and started calling the other florist shops. The first two had not yet opened, and the third disavowed any knowledge of the arrangements. The fourth was also closed, but I had success with the fifth, which was perilously close to the end of the listings.

“Yeah, we did those,” said a harried man. “Pricy.”

“Who ordered them?”

“I don’t have a name. We got a call Thursday afternoon. Some guy came by later and paid cash.” Anticipating my question, he added, “Old black guy. I was surprised he could afford it, but his money was as green as anybody else’s.”

I thanked him and switched off the receiver. I’d found Petri’s body on Thursday evening, well after Cal had picked up the flowers. He hadn’t been reacting to the story in Friday’s paper. I could have called all the places in Farberville that did custom auto painting to inquire about the rose on Cal’s van, but there were apt to be more of those than Sunday morning hangovers on fraternity row.

It took me more than half an hour to find the scrap of paper, which was under Dolly’s address book on the table in the hall. I glanced at the latest accumulation of mail, none of it interesting, and returned to the kitchen to have a second cup of coffee. I had no idea what to say to him. Beginning the conversation with “Just who the hell are you and why do you keep bringing me flowers?” might be taken as overly aggressive. Then again, I wasn’t about to invite him by for brunch.

I stared at the number, and even went so far as to pick up the receiver several times before I found enough courage to push the appropriate numbers.

“Fritz Motel,” said a familiar voice, already weary although it was not yet ten o’clock.

I gabbled something about a wrong number and cut off the call. The Fritz Motel? Hardly a hotbed of floral arrangements. For a brief moment, I could almost hear the snapdragons snapping as they inched across the hall toward the kitchen, and the birds-of-paradise flapping their wings as they fell into formation. Had Miss Marple ever confronted demonic daisies in her garden?

I went over to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. It was not yet ten o’clock, I reminded myself sternly. Peter had warned me that I might have to make a preliminary identification of Sara Louise’s body in the morgue (presuming they could contain it there). As soon as Peter called her father, or Madison’s father to try to get the telephone number in Hong Kong, I could expect calls from the Velocchio family. Or a visit, I thought with a shudder. Some families struggle for years to resolve problems; others deal with them expeditiously. I did not want to be dealt with expeditiously.

The doorbell rang. I grabbed a dish towel and dried my face, then forced myself to go out into the hall. I did not, however, race to the door to fling it open. No matter how powerful the Velocchios were, they could not have mastered instantaneous time travel. Lucy, on the other hand, could have stayed up late to bake more brownies. Cal could have plucked a few wildflowers behind the motel. The yardman could have mowed down poor Petti.

I tentatively opened the door, then relaxed and let Peter inside. He gave me a quick kiss and headed for the kitchen. “Any hope of something to eat?” he asked over his shoulder.

“You look terrible,” I said as I followed him. “Bacon, eggs, and coffee?”

“No more coffee,” he groaned. “Not even Colombia’s finest, carried out in a burlap bag on the back of a shaggy burro, freshly ground and brewed to perfection in a three-hundred-dollar machine.” He sat down on a stool and glanced at the front page of the newspaper. “The vultures were circling all night, but the paper had already gone to press. Dolly’s car was the tip-off. They have no idea who the girl was or how she’s involved in this mess.”

“Do you?” I asked, my head in the refrigerator.

“Nothing more than I knew yesterday. No one at the country club saw or heard anything. The dining room and bar are on the far side of the building, and the trees and shrubs around the parking lot block the view of the pro shop and sheds. The maintenance staff leaves shortly after the course closes for the day. The witness who found the body was a very drunk young woman who’d had a fight with her boyfriend in the parking lot and stumbled away to find a place to throw up. Which she did, once she stuck her head inside the Mercedes. She swears there was no one else around. The medical examiner said Sara Louise had been killed at least two hours earlier.”

“Was she shot in the forehead, too?”

“No, the side of her head, and with what’s likely to be a .22 caliber. We can’t compare the bullet with the one that killed Petti Mordella until he’s been autopsied.” Despite his avowed aversion to coffee, he got up and poured himself a cup. “Jorgeson and I went ahead and made the identification, so you don’t have to worry about that. I tracked down her home telephone number in Bedford, Connecticut—yes, you were right—but a housekeeper answered and confirmed that Mr. and Mrs. Santini left for Hong Kong a week ago. She doesn’t have a cell phone number or the name of their hotel, although she did grudgingly produce his office number. It’s some kind of international investment firm, and most decidedly closed for the weekend so that the brokers and clients can bond together at the country club or spend a few days deep-sea fishing in Bimini or Cabo. It’s amazing how flexible your weekends can be with a private jet and your own villa.”

“Is the firm connected to the Velocchio family?”

“That’s not the sort of thing you can look up in the Yellow Pages, and it’ll take weeks to peel back all the layers of obscure corporate ownership to find out. I called Richard Hayes’s house on Long Island and again talked to a housekeeper. She said he’s still in Atlantic City and not expected back until tomorrow evening, and she doesn’t know his cell phone number or the name of his hotel.”

I carried various ingredients to the counter and started looking in cabinets for bowls and pans. “There’s no Mrs. Hayes?”

Peter rumbled in frustration. “There is no
current
Mrs. Hayes. The housekeeper thinks Mr. Hayes might be accompanied by a potential Mrs. Hayes. The police in Atlantic City agreed to contact all the hotels, but the most valued clients bypass the desk and stay in private suites and penthouses. Their identities are not known to the staff.”

I cracked some eggs into a bowl, having decided to produce something worthy of Dolly Goforth’s kitchen. Which wasn’t her kitchen at all. “Pretend the prosciutto is bacon,” I said as I tossed some in a small skillet. “Any luck finding Dolly?”