Throw in the Trowel (11 page)

So Rusty did remember.

“Who finished the job?” Marco asked.

Rusty scratched the back of his head. “I guess that would've been me, come to think of it. When Kermit stopped showing up, I had to put in the new floor to finish off the main room.”

“Thinking back,” Marco said, leaning against the back of the booth, “when you put your cement down, do you remember the condition of the dirt floor?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did it look freshly turned? Rough? Packed down?”

“Son,” Rusty said with a chuckle, “I can't even remember what I ate for breakfast this morning.”

“Would Doug Cannon be able to answer that question?” Marco asked.

Rusty's smile stiffened ever so slightly. “Why would Doug know?”

“Henry told us Doug helped you with it,” Marco said.

“Huh.” Rusty sat back, looking confused. “Well, considering Henry's a lot younger than me, I guess he'd be remembering right. As I said, it's kind of foggy.” Rusty wrinkled his forehead and looked away, as though trying to remember. He took a drink of the sparkling wine, swirled it on his tongue, and swallowed. “Hold on now. The ol' brain is starting to chug.”

Then he snapped his fingers. “Of course. How did I forget that? Doug came by one day and saw me putting in the floor and wanted to know why Kermit wasn't doing it. So I explained that I hadn't seen Kermit in a few days, and the kid stepped right up to help. Good boy, that Doug. I never could figure out why that ol' fool Kermit treated Henry better than his own kid.”

“That must have been painful for Doug,” I said.

“Could you blame him?” Rusty asked, almost angrily.

“Did Doug offer any explanation as to why his dad had stopped showing up for work?” Marco asked.

“No, sir,” Rusty said. “It wouldn't have needed explaining. Folks around here knew Kermit was a notorious drunk. Nothing escapes attention in a small town.”

“Did Doug seem angry about it?” Marco asked.

“I wouldn't say he was angry. More worried than anything else,” Rusty said. “Kermit would disappear for hours, but he'd never been gone for days.”

“Did Doug ever ask you what his dad did during his lunch hours?” Marco asked.

Rusty gave Marco a quizzical glance. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

Instead of answering, Marco pressed on. “Did you ever notice Doug spying on his dad, or following his dad after he left here?”

“Son, I was way too busy running the bar to notice anything of that nature,” Rusty said with a smile.

“Did you know Kermit outside of business?” Marco asked.

“Heck, yeah,” Rusty said. “We went to high school together, played on the same basketball team . . .” He shook his head. “Now you're really taking me back.”

“Were you friends?” Marco asked.

“Like brothers,” Rusty said, entwining his first two fingers.

“Did it seem out of character for Kermit to run off with another woman?” Marco asked.

“Wish I could say it was, but the varmint had been cheating on Lila for years. Didn't surprise me in the least that he ran off. I always kinda figured it was a matter of time.”

“You married Kermit's wife, didn't you?” I asked.

“Don't sound right when you put it like that,” Kermit said. “I married his
former
wife sounds better.”

“Did you go to high school with Lila, too?” I asked.

Rusty assessed me, a shrewd look in his eyes. “Been doin' some homework, have you?”

“Lucky guess,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow hot.

“Well, you're right. I did.” He drained his glass and set it down. “Haven't had bubbly in years, not since I lost my lovely Lila. Forgot how good it tasted. And now I've got to leave you fine people and head on back to the shop.”

“Thanks for your time, Rusty,” Marco said.

“My pleasure.” He scooted off the bench and settled his hat on his head. “Don't be strangers.”

As soon as he was out the door, I was on my feet. “I have to get back, Marco. I've got a ton of orders to do.”

“I'll walk you down. I want to get your impression of Rusty while it's still fresh.”

“I wish I could've taken notes,” I said, stepping outside as Marco held the door for me. “He gave us a lot of information. So here goes from memory. First thing I noticed was that he didn't seem shocked when he found out what was in the photo, but I noticed his hand trembling afterward.”

“I caught that, but was it nervousness or an old age tremor?”

I hooked my arm through Marco's as we walked down Franklin. “I couldn't tell and forgot to look for it later. Rusty also tried to deflect the subject of Kermit working for him by telling us the drunken Henry story. And did you catch the fake smile when I asked Rusty if he and Kermit had been close?”

“If it hadn't been for that, I might have bought the
like brothers
response.”

“The only time Rusty seemed the least bit out of joint was when he learned that Henry had told us he'd fired Kermit. He didn't like that at all. And wasn't it amazing how suddenly his memory became clear?”

“I caught that. He also seemed defensive of Doug,” Marco said.

“I thought so, too. Henry and Rusty both remembered Doug as being worried about his dad's absence and agreed that it was in character for Kermit to run off with another woman. And also that Kermit's drinking problem was well-known.”

“Anything else about Rusty?”

“Not really, except that I was having a hard time believing he'd forgotten about the basement work. Sure memory can fade with age, but Kermit's disappearance was a major event. And then Rusty married Kermit's wife. So why was he pretending not to remember?”

“For the same three reasons that you gave for Henry,” Marco said.

“I just can't imagine Rusty killing anyone, Marco.”

“That's because you're looking at him as an old cowboy. This murder happened close to forty years ago, Sunshine. Rusty would have been in his prime. Have you ever seen the photos of him at the bar? He was a big guy. As much as I don't want to admit it, I think we're going to have to consider Rusty a suspect. We'll need to verify everything he told us with Doug Cannon and Henry Greer.”

I glanced at Marco in surprise. “Does that mean we're going to keep investigating?”

“If I say yes, will you wait until we're home before you throw your arms around me and whoop?”

“To get you to say yes, you bet I will.”

“Man, you cave easily.” And with that, he swept me up in his arms and carried me the last ten feet to Bloomers's door, where he gave me a kiss and set me down. “See you at five.”

I stood out front and watched Marco stride confidently up the sidewalk. How had I gotten so lucky?

Inside, Lottie was ringing up a customer at the front counter and Grace was serving tea and scones to three women in the parlor, so I headed straight for the workroom. As soon as I stepped through the curtain, Seedy gave a yip and came out from under the table to greet me, wagging her bushy tail as hard as she could. I crouched down to cuddle her and got a few licks on the chin as my reward.

Lottie came into the room and headed toward the walk-in coolers. “We sold out of the carnations and daisies. Don't that beat all? It isn't even a holiday.”

“Look at this, Lottie. Seedy saw you and isn't ducking for cover. She must be getting to know you.”

“She's my little buddy, aren't you, Seedy?” Lottie gave her a scratch under the chin then disappeared inside the cooler, reappearing in a minute with containers of flowers. “How did the interview go?”

“Better than I thought. We met with Henry Greer and then we ran into Rusty Miller. He insisted on buying us a bottle of champagne to celebrate the wedding, so we got to ask him a few questions, too.”

“Two birds with one stone.” Grace sailed through the curtain with fresh slips of paper to put on the spindle and a doggy biscuit for Seedy, who wagged her tail in delight. We were making progress.

“You've been a good girl today, haven't you, love?” Grace asked her.

Seedy took the biscuit to her bed, where I could hear her crunching it.

“We're all ears, love,” Grace said to me. “Tell us about your interviews.”

As I prepped flowers for the next order, I filled the women in on our conversation with Henry, but had to put Rusty's story on hold when more customers came in. It wasn't until after three o'clock that they were both able to rejoin me in the workroom.

“Here's a nice cuppa,” Grace said, setting down a cup of tea on the table nearby. “Now do tell us about your talk with Rusty.”

“We didn't get to talk to him at length,” I said as I snipped rose stems for a bouquet. “At first he claimed his memory wasn't good, and then he tried to change the subject, but he finally did offer a little information.”

I gave them the finer points of our conversation, then ended it with, “After we interview Doug Cannon, I'm sure we'll need a trip to the saddle shop for a longer talk with Rusty.”

“I take it that means you plan to investigate?” Grace asked. “Didn't I say our Abby would prevail, Lottie, dear?”

“Didn't I agree?” Lottie replied.

“Is Rusty a suspect then?” Grace asked me.

“We have to consider him one,” I said. “Rusty not only owned Down the Hatch when Kermit went missing,
he
put in the floor that covered the body, which we wouldn't have known if Henry hadn't mentioned it.”

“But isn't Henry a suspect, too?” Grace said doubtfully. “And isn't it possible that Henry is trying to turn the spotlight on someone else?”

I tore off a big piece of floral wrap and laid it under the pot. “That's what suspects usually do, Grace. But actually Henry was pointing more in Parthenia Pappas's direction.”

“I know you and Marco have to do what you have to do,” Lottie said, “but be gentle with Rusty. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for him, and since he lost his wife, the poor old guy just hasn't been the same.”

“Rusty took his wife's death hard,” Grace said, sweeping pieces of fern fronds off the table and into the trash can. “Most people thought he was a confirmed bachelor until he surprised everyone by marrying Lila. It was shortly after Lila's death that he began looking to sell Down the Hatch
.
”

The bell over the door jingled, and then I heard a familiar, “Yoo-hoo!”

“It appears your mum has arrived,” Grace said, and sailed out to greet her.

“I hope she's not mad at me,” I told Lottie as I snipped lily stems. “I haven't had an opportunity to talk to her since we uncovered the bones.”

“Well, she's bound to have read about it in the paper,” Lottie said, “so she might be a little put out. Hey, now there's someone who might be able to help you find out more about Kermit Cannon. Your mom's got an inside track with Parthenia Pappas.”

“At least I know she's not bringing in a new piece of art, and
that's
a relief.”

Lottie gave me a puzzled glance as she handed me a greeting card to put on the arrangement. “What makes you think she doesn't have art for you?”

“It's not Monday.”

“You weren't here this past Monday, remember? You came back on Tuesday.”

Relief gone.

C
HAPTER ELEVEN

O
n weekdays my mom was just an average, mild-mannered kindergarten teacher. She dressed in conservative clothing, wore her honey brown hair in a simple layered bob, cooked healthy meals for my dad, did volunteer work at the animal shelter, and cared for her llama, Taz.

The weekend mom was a different story. That was when Maureen “Mad Mo” Knight appeared dressed in her paint-splattered artist smock, frayed jeans, and fuzzy blue socks, clumps of clay caught in her hair and a plucky gleam in her light brown eyes. Weekends were Mom's creative time, when she would produce works of—something—that she then brought down to Bloomers on Monday for us to sell, believing she was helping to improve our bottom line.

The bottom line was, however, that each one of Mom's works of—something—was like having two nightmares in the same night: There was the actual piece, and then there was having to sell it.

Once, Mom made the Mad Mo version of a strawberry pot, which one would think would be harmless enough until one saw hers. Painted in four different neon colors, its spouts placed at all the wrong angles, its sides uneven, the pot was so ugly that I told Mom it sold, then hid it in the basement and later actually used it as a weapon to take down a killer.

I was never sure if it had been the sight of that horrendous pot sailing toward him or the hard thunk on the head that had done the job, but what had it mattered? Now I could say with all honesty that my mother's artwork knocked people out.

Parting the curtain, Mom paused to gaze at me as though I were a cute little bunny. “There's my beautiful daughter.”

She didn't seem angry, but something was definitely up. Mom never called me beautiful. One, I wasn't. Two, she didn't believe in labeling children. She claimed it ruined them.

She put a large Macy's shopping bag on the floor and gave me a hug. “My precious little girl—married. I still can't believe it.”

Hearing a soft yip from under the table, Mom bent down to look. “Hello, Seedy! Are you happy your mommy's back home? Come here, girl.” She clucked her tongue, which worked on her llama but not on Seedy, so she straightened and hugged me again. “How does it feel to be Mrs. Salvare?”

“Mom, you've asked me that five times, and my answer hasn't changed. Please don't call me Mrs. Salvare. It makes me feel like Marco's mom.”

“Speaking of whom,” Mom said, sliding onto a stool as I attached the card to the arrangement, “I hear Francesca is helping out here.”

“Just three mornings a week.”

“Still, I remember how you've complained before about her crowding your space, and I know how much you like your privacy. Don't you think you could get along without her?”

Was my mom jealous of Marco's mom?

“If we didn't need Francesca, she wouldn't be working here, trust me, Mom. But I left it up to Lottie and Grace, and they said they needed the extra hands.”

Mom's smile faded. “Oh. I see. Then I suppose if we look on the bright side, that means business is good.” She slid off the stool and walked over to the Macy's bag. “But I'll bet you wouldn't mind it being even better.”

Cue the drummer. It was time for the big reveal.

Mom lifted her piece out of the bag just as Lottie came through the curtain. Lottie uttered a stunned, “Oh!” then clapped her hand over her mouth. Mom didn't notice, thankfully. She was too busy arranging her latest clay sculpture on the table in front of me.

Oh!
didn't begin to cover it.
Oh, dear God
, maybe.

A giant peanut loomed before me. Standing a good two feet tall, it had a woman's face carved into a peanut shell–shaped body, long wire arms that cradled a smaller peanut, long wire legs, and wire feet with tiny red beads on the ends that clearly represented toes. Peanut Woman stood on a base that looked like the top half of a peanut shell. The smaller peanut was gazing up rapturously at the larger one, its thin wire arms reaching up as though to touch the larger one's face.

“Ta-da!” Mom said, holding out her arms. “My latest creation. I call it
Nutter and Child
.”

Lottie backed out through the curtain, her hand still over her mouth. I thought I heard muffled snickers as she hustled away.

“Nice work,” I said. Telling the truth was out of the question.

Mom gently tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Mother and child. I was thinking of us when I made it, Abigail. You were always my special girl, you know.”

Being the only girl could have explained that. Was this sudden emphasis on mothers and daughters due to Francesca's presence at Bloomers? “Thanks, Mom. How did you come up with a peanut theme?”

“The Duchess said I should take my inspiration from what's around me, so as I sat on the sofa one evening trying to come up with a new idea, your dad was eating peanuts and making a mess of the shells.”

There was no accounting for inspiration. “And what did the Duchess have to say about your—creation?”

“She thought it was brilliant, and, coming from her, that means a lot.”

Brilliant? Was I missing something or did the Duchess simply want to keep a paying student?

Mom smoothed her thumb over an imperfection in the clay. “How do you think we should price it?”

The other half of the nightmare! “Did the Duchess have any suggestions?”

“Not really. She said it would depend on the market.”

Supermarket, perhaps. What were peanuts going for per pound these days? “I'll have to research it.”

“I don't want to leave it here in your way,” Mom said. “Where should I set it?”

On fire? “Just put it on the counter over there by my desk.”

She placed it on the counter and adjusted it twice before she found the right angle. “I can't wait for you to see my next project.”

“You've already started another one? What was Dad eating this time?”

“It wasn't your father who inspired me. It was a walk I took at the new skateboard park, and that's all I'm going to tell you.”

That was more than I wanted to know. What I really wanted was info about Parthenia. To get it, though, I had to risk Mom's ire. “Did you see the article in the paper about the bones Marco and I found?”

“Your father read it to me,” she said. “That's his new hobby—reading the news out loud. I think he wants to drive me crazy. But what a horrible discovery that must have been for both of you, Abigail, and how comforting to have a husband there for support.” She paused to flick a piece of green foam off the table. “Was Marco's mother lucky enough to hear the news from her child or did she have to rely on the newspaper, too?”

Yep, Mom was irked. “I'm sorry I haven't called. Things have been crazy lately.”

At that, she softened and came over to hug me again. “You don't need to apologize, honey. I do remember what's like to be a new bride.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She took a seat on a stool while I went to the cooler to pull stems for the next order. “Have you and Marco decided whether you're going to investigate?”

I stepped out of the cooler with an armful of white spider mums, orange carnations, and yellow roses. “We're going to investigate, but you have to keep it a secret. We don't want it to get around town.”

Mom pursed her lips the way she always did when she wasn't pleased with what she was hearing. “You never need to worry about me letting anything out, Abigail. Have you mentioned the need for secrecy to Francesca, too?”

“Not yet. We made our decision just a few hours ago.”

“Perhaps you should tell Francesca when she comes in to help you tomorrow.”

Oh, boy. Mom was not going to let that go. I decided to ignore it. As I prepped the blossoms I asked, “How are you enjoying your lessons with the Duchess?”

“I love them, Abigail. Parthenia is so worldly and knows so much about the creative process that it's an honor to work with her.”

“She seems so exotic. Do you know anything about her background?”

Mom perked up. This was her chance to show just how helpful she could be. “I know that she was born in Alexandria, Egypt, of Greek parents; speaks fluent Greek, Arabic, and French; and has won many awards for her sculpture. I know she is living above her studio on Tenth Street and uses olive oil to keep her skin soft and her hair shiny. Let me think what else.”

“Was she ever married? Did she have children?”

“I believe that's a no on both counts.” Mom reached over to retuck the lock of hair that did not want to stay behind my ear. She wasn't above spitting on her fingers to accomplish that, so I had to keep one eye on her. “Parthenia never mentions having any children, and a mother will always talk about her children. I know I talk about my beautiful daughter the florist all the time.”

That was a switch. She used to talk about me as the daughter who couldn't make it through law school.

Mom hopped off the stool and wandered over to my desk, where she flipped through the slips of paper on the spindle. “You don't seem that busy today. I see only a dozen or so orders waiting.”

“I've made several dozen arrangements already, and we were very busy this morning.”

She peered over my shoulder as I snipped spider mum stems and inserted them in the wet foam. “But are you so busy that you need Francesca?”

“If business dies down, I promise Francesca won't be here.”

“Oh, good—for you, I mean. I know you like to work undisturbed.” She patted my arm, causing my snippers to bob. I wondered if she was aware of the irony.

“Has the Duchess ever mentioned the scandal she and Kermit Cannon caused?” I asked.

“That happened a very long time ago, Abigail. Where did you hear about it?”

“Someone at the bar mentioned it.” Did she need to know that someone was me?

“Parthenia has never brought that subject up, and I certainly wouldn't ask her about it. How embarrassing it has to be for her. I'm sure she'd rather forget the whole thing ever happened.”

“She can't be too embarrassed about it, Mom. She did come back to town.”

“That's true.” Mom resumed meandering around the workroom.

“Do you remember hearing about it? You were probably what—a teenager?”

“I was fourteen, about Tara's age, and I do remember my parents talking about it—when they thought I wasn't listening.” She had a slight grin on her face as she picked through my containers of silk flowers, as though she had been quite the little eavesdropper.

She pulled out a silk bird of paradise blossom. “Would you mind if I borrowed this?”

“You can have it. Did you ever hear what happened to Kermit Cannon?”

“No, although there was some buzz at one point that he deserted Parthenia and went to Mexico because he found out she was pregnant. But looking back on it now, I'm fairly certain that was just idle gossip.”

Gossip or not, it was new information. “What makes you think it was just gossip?”

“What I said before about a mother always talking about her children. There have been many occasions when Parthenia could have mentioned a son or daughter, or at her age, grandchildren, but she never has. I realize that doesn't mean she didn't have any children. Being a mother, it's just a strong feeling I have. You'll understand, too, when you're a mom. That wouldn't be anytime soon, would it?”

“No,” I said, giving her a scowl. “Do you remember when that gossip about Parthenia began? Was it right after she left town?”

“Not right after. Maybe three months later. Someone talked to someone who claimed to have seen Parthenia at an art show down in Columbus, Indiana, and thought she looked pregnant. I overheard my mother and some of her friends talking about it at one of their coffee klatches.”

My mother, a sneaky teen! I was seeing her in a whole new light. “Did you overhear anything else about Parthenia?”

She fixed me with a shrewd gaze. “You're awfully interested in the Duchess all of a sudden.”

“I just find her an interesting person.” Or a person of interest, depending on one's viewpoint.

Mom's cell phone rang, so she dug through her purse to get it. “It's your dad,” she said, checking the screen. “He's probably wondering where I am. Hello, Jeff. I'm heading home right now. I stopped at Bloomers to drop off my sculpture. Abigail loves it, by the way.”

Right. The way I loved diving into an icy-cold lake. Once the shock wore off, I swam like hell for the shore.

Mom kissed me on the cheek. “I know I usually wait until Monday, but I'm so excited about my new project that I'll be back Saturday morning with another surprise for you.”

I'd have a surprise for her, too. I wasn't scheduled to work on Saturday.

•   •   •

At five fifteen, I set the alarm and locked the front door. Then Seedy and I crossed the street to the courthouse lawn so she could take care of her business before we headed toward Down the Hatch. I was standing at the corner waiting for the light to change when a bright red Mustang screeched to a halt. The Mustang's bass was turned up full blast, causing the car to rock, the air to vibrate, and Seedy to scrunch her body low to the ground and put her head down, as though she were trying to muffle the sound.