Throw in the Trowel (14 page)

“I'm not going to think about tonight,” I said, as Lottie joined us. “I'm going to focus on having a great day. We've already had a very informative interview with Kermit's son, which I will fill you in on next, and we're going to see the Duchess over my lunch hour.”

“That should prove interesting,” Grace said. “The woman is quite the eccentric.”

“And look, sweetie,” Lottie said, pointing to my desk. “We have fifty orders waiting on the spindle.”

“We're out of our slump!” I put down my cup to give Lottie and Grace hugs. “After that kind of news, what's an hour or two of watching Jillian's spoiled pooch? If that's the worst that can happen today, nothing can faze me.”

“Well, actually,” Grace said, “with this being Friday morning and all . . .”

“It's TGIF,” I said. “Even better.”

“I don't think that's what Grace meant,” Lottie said.

“Bella!”
I heard from behind me. “You're here at last!”

Ah! It was a Francesca morning. I downed the tea and held it out for a refill just as Grace lifted the pot to pour more. With that many orders waiting, it was still a good day no matter who invaded my space.

“I'm making my famous Italian beef roast this Sunday,” Francesca said, chucking me under the chin. “You will adore it. We'll dine at four o'clock. Lottie, Grace, you're welcome, too. The more the merrier.”

“I would love to,” Grace said, “but my Richard and I have a long-standing invitation with another couple for dinner and bowling. Thank you so much for asking, though.”

“Four teenage boys?” Lottie asked. “I'm just gonna say no and spare everyone the hassle. But thanks anyway.”

Francesca looked at me and smiled. “I know you can come. I've already spoken to my son this morning. He said you have no plans for Sunday dinner.”

Bless his little Italian heart.

The bell over the door jingled, and I peeked through the curtain to see Connor MacKay step inside. First Francesca and now Connor? Was I being tested?

“Whatever do you suppose he wants?” Grace asked, peering through with me.

I was fairly certain Connor had gotten word about the bone theft and had come to mine me for information, but I didn't want Francesca to know about the theft, so I said, “You know reporters, Grace. They're always looking for local interest stories to fill out the news.”

“Anyone here?” Connor called.

“Lottie, would you handle him?” I asked.

The words were barely out of my mouth when Francesca said, “I will take care of him.”

As Francesca marched into the shop, I glanced at Lottie and Grace in alarm. I couldn't allow her to talk to the media. There was no telling what she'd say. I darted through the curtain with Lottie and Grace right behind me.

“Connor!” I called. “What a coincidence. I've been hoping to get a little publicity for Bloomers.”

I whispered to Francesca as I passed her, “I'll handle this.” Then I hooked my arm through Connor's and led him outside.

“Talk about my lucky day,” he said.

Dragging him away from the windows, I said, “I don't have any information, so save your questions for the police.”

“Don't get your freckles in a lather,” he said with his easy grin. “I just wanted to find out if your bone thief left any clues behind.”

“Like I'd tell you. How did you hear?”

“Like I'd tell you,” he teased. “Come on, Abby. It was raining Wednesday night. The thief came through the alley. There must have been muddy prints. Were they work boots? Running shoes? Flip-flops?”

“You can stop guessing, MacKay. The prints were too sloppy to be of any use.”

“And no one saw a thing? I'm amazed the perp slipped past Marco . . . unless he was too focused on his lovely bride to notice.”

“They only say
perp
on TV, MacKay, and besides, we weren't even there, so obviously, your source isn't as good as you thought.” I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced to my right to see Seedy pawing at the glass in the big bay window, trying to catch my attention. She yipped when she saw me looking at her.

Connor noticed Seedy and said with a smirk, “What is that? Your mascot?”

“Yes, she's a rescue dog and she's very smart. Do you have a problem with that?”

He held up his hands. “Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. So how's your investigation coming? Talk to Rusty yet? Or the Duchess? No? Or you don't want to say?”

“As we've told you before, MacKay, we're not investigating, the police are.”

“You're cute when you're telling a lie.”

“I get that all the time.”

“I don't think you realize the untapped potential here,” he said, pressing his fingertips against his chest. “I'm good at hunting for clues, too. And I can get people to reveal things like you wouldn't believe.”

“Good for you. Good-bye, MacKay.”

As I turned to walk away, he stepped in front of me. “No, seriously, Abby. Let's at least do an information swap.”

“Right. Like you have information for us.”

“I'll bet I know something about Kermit Cannon that you don't.”

“Like what?”

“Not so fast, freckles. You tell me something first.”

I studied him for a moment. If he really did have useful information, I'd be foolish to pass it up. “Okay, I'll tell you this. I noticed an arc-shaped indentation on the skull.”

Connor whipped out a small notepad and scribbled it down. “Okay. And?”

“And now it's your turn.”

“That's all you've got for me?”

“That's it.”

“Well, just for the record, I feel cheated, but a deal is a deal. I went back through old police records and found three arrest reports for a Mr. Kermit Cannon. One in particular was especially noteworthy.”

“Why?”

“Because of the reason for his arrest. Are you ready for this? Seems one Kermit Cannon got into a fistfight with one Rusty Miller.”

I was all attention now. “Go ahead.”

“Apparently Kermit didn't like the way Rusty was flirting with his wife.” Connor's eyes were sparkling with excitement now. “Here's the best part. Kermit claimed the fight started because Rusty was trying to steal Lila away from him.”

Kermit was jealous of Rusty? So was the reverse true, as well?

“Ah! Look at those green eyes light up,” Connor said. “You liked that, didn't you?” He put his arm around me. “I'm telling you, freckles, you, me, and Salvare could be quite a powerhouse if we joined forces.”

“I wouldn't let Marco see you with your arm around me, MacKay.”

Connor stepped back. “Fair enough. But do talk to your hubby about my proposal and get back to me.”

“I'll do that.” When Seedy grew wings.

I waited until Connor had crossed the street to phone Marco to relay the news. “Considering that Rusty and Lila were high school sweethearts, and combining that with what Connor found out, it sounds like there could have been a long-standing rivalry between the two men,” I said.

“We'll have to put it toward a motive for Rusty,” Marco said.

“I really hate to do that, Marco, but I get your point.”

“It's vital that we remain impartial, Abby. But I'm surprised MacKay gave you that information without asking for something in return.”

“He wanted something all right—for the three of us to work as a team.”

“I'm assuming he came to see you because he'd heard about the bone theft from his police source. You didn't give him any information, did you?”

“None.” Or had I? Thinking back, I did remember mentioning that the prints were sloppy. But Connor would have known that from the police report. “No information.”

•   •   •

My spindle was so full that in the next four hours Lottie and I put together over forty arrangements. We were floral machines. And because we were so busy in the back, Francesca was kept occupied up front. So in a way, even Marco's mom improved my day.

Although I wasn't exactly looking forward to my dog-sitting duties, the only real cloud on the horizon was my forthcoming talk with Tara. Since Marco had impressed upon me the importance of her not seeing Haydn, I kept picturing a crazed Doug holding her prisoner until we swore to drop our investigation long enough for him to escape to Mexico. That was just the way my mind worked. I'd always been cursed with an overactive imagination.

I didn't discuss Tara with Lottie and Grace, however. I informed them only about our interview with Doug and let it go at that.

At noon, Marco, Seedy, and I made the trip to Tenth Street, located about a mile inside the northern edge of the New Chapel town limits. Parthenia's studio was housed in a small, two-story white frame building with black trim that had once been a grocery store. According to my mom's information, Parthenia's gallery and workshop took up the main floor, and she lived on the second floor in an apartment she'd designed herself.

“What's our strategy?” I asked Marco, as we parked at the curb in front.

“From what I could gather, the Duchess is exceedingly egotistical, so we're going to have to lay on the charm if we want her cooperation.”

“Then it's all yours, Marco. I know what the Salvare magic does to women.”

“I don't know about that,” he said, trying to appear modest.

“Yes, you do. I'll just stand back and let you do your thing. And on a side note, would you check with me before accepting your mom's dinner invitations, please?”

“I didn't think it'd be nice to turn her down after all the help she's giving you.”

I poked him gently in the ribs. “Marriage, Salvare. It's all about communication and teamwork.”

“Gotcha.”

I put Seedy on her leash and we walked toward the black-framed glass door. We passed a bike rack with one bike in it that was decorated with glossy black-and-white polka dots. Next to the door was a large plate glass window where Parthenia displayed a dozen of her sculptures. A hand-lettered sign in the window said:
INQUIRE ABOUT ART CLASSES WITHIN
.

There was an
OPEN
sign on the door, so we entered to the soft tinkling of wind chimes. Since no one was in the shop, we wandered around looking at the artwork. Seedy stuck close to me. Unfamiliar environments made her nervous.

“The Duchess likes black and white,” I whispered to Marco, pointing out a row of tall, glossy clocks sitting on a long console against one wall. Some were in black-and-white stripes, some in checks, some in plaids, and all of their bodies curved into an elongated S shape, appearing as though they were swaying in the breeze. “I'll bet that bike out front is hers, too.”

In the center of the room, a glass dining room table held an assortment of dining plates and platters. They, too, were in black-and-white patterns and curved into a soft S shape. A small sign in the middle said:
CUSTOM ORDERS AVAILABLE IN SETS OF EIGHT OR TWELVE
.

Staggered white shelving filled the black wall at the rear of the shop, with each shelf holding sculptures in different themes, such as waterbirds, tropical flowers, cats, and dogs. All of her sculptures had a distinctly Egyptian look to them. The bases they sat on were even edged in hieroglyphics.

“Did you see the prices on these things?” my practical hubby asked, showing me the handwritten sticker on the bottom of a cat sculpture.

“But aren't they beautiful?” If only Parthenia's talent would rub off on my mom.

“I guess there's a reason why she's won so many accolades.” He pointed to the other side of the room, where, above the glass-topped cashier's stand, her framed awards were hung. On that wall, too, were oil paintings in a variety of sizes, all of Grecian and Egyptian architecture. Clearly, the Duchess was proficient in a wide variety of media.

“Yia sas,”
a rich voice sang out.

I turned to see Parthenia Pappas swish majestically into the room. A purple, pink, and blue madras, floor-length, silk caftan swayed about her curvy form, held close to her body by a blue scarf tied around her waist. A striking woman around Grace's age, she was tall and solidly built, and had the slightly slanted dark eyes and darker Mediterranean coloring that showed her Greco-Egyptian ancestry. Her snowy white hair was swept back on one side and held in place with a large, glossy purple-and-white-striped barrette that made Lottie's little pink ones look like they belonged to a doll.

I remembered learning from a former Greek neighbor that Parthenia's words meant
hello
, so I returned her greeting with a
“Yia sou.”

She didn't seem to hear me. She had come to a full stop and was staring at Seedy in amazement. “What is it?” she demanded. “Boy or girl?”

“A girl,” I said. “Her name is—”

“Come, come,” she said to Seedy, reaching into her pocket as she bent over and held out her hand. “Here's a treat for you. Come to the Duchess, little marvel. Do not be shy.”

Seedy immediately backed behind me and pressed her face against my pants, trying to hide. Parthenia straightened and looked down her nose at me. “How will this dog sit for me if she does not trust me?”

“We're not here to have her painted,” I said.

“Good. She is much too unique for a painting. She must be sculpted in my finest clay. I've never seen such a hideously beautiful animal. Come, come!” She tried coaxing Seedy out again, but my hideous marvel merely pressed harder against me.

Obviously wanting to get the interview started, Marco stepped forward and showed her his PI license. “I'm Marco Salvare, and this is my wife, Abby. We're investigating a case you may have read about in the newspapers—a skeleton that was buried in the basement of Down the Hatch Bar and Grill.”