Throw in the Trowel (8 page)

“Fries with that?” she asked.

I was in the mood to celebrate, but not to gain weight, and since French fries were my enemy, I decided to skip them. “Coleslaw on the side.”

Besides, I knew Marco would order fries. I'd just nip a few of his.

•   •   •

“Abby, try this one,” Marco said, patting the thick, quilted mattress next to where he lay.

We were in the bedding store, the only customers there at that early-evening hour, and the middle-aged salesman was hovering, a metal clipboard clasped against his white shirtfront and navy print tie. He'd introduced himself as the manager. The black plastic pin above his shirt pocket read
BOB MORRISEY
in white letters.

I had Seedy on her leash, but at the moment, she was beneath the bed Marco was testing, peering out fearfully at Bob, who seemed overly eager to sell us something.

“Too firm for me,” I said after trying it.

“This isn't too firm,” Marco said, pressing his hand into the mattress to demonstrate.

“Too firm for
me.
” I walked up the row, sat on the edge of a mattress with a fluffy pillow top, bounced a little, then lay back on it. “I like this one better.”

Marco stretched out on it, too, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. He looked so yummy that two middle-aged women who had just entered the store paused to ogle him.

He sat up. “Not enough support. My back would hurt.”

“Hello, young ladies,” Bob sang out. “Have a look around and I'll be with you after I help these fine folks find just the right bed.”

“Just browsing,” one of them called.

Bob dropped them like a hot potato. “Perhaps you'd like a mattress that conforms to each of you,” he said to us with a cheerfulness I hadn't seen in anyone since the department store Santa last December. He indicated a bed on the opposite side of the room where the expensive sets were displayed. “It's called the Duality King. Let's go have a look, shall we?”

Marco followed him, but Seedy didn't want to leave her hiding spot, so I had to coax her out and then carry her. By the time I reached the men, Marco had already read the price sign taped to the headboard and was standing with his arms folded, a frown on his face, waiting for me to get up to speed.

“Wow,” I said. “That's a lot of money for a mattress.”

“My first car didn't cost that much,” Marco muttered loud enough for the salesman to hear.

“But it's money well spent,” Bob said, lifting his eyebrows to impress that upon us. “You'll both get exactly the kind of rest you need. You'll wake refreshed every morning, ready to face whatever the day brings. Now can you put a price on that?”

I almost expected him to break out in a rendition of “Tomorrow
.
”

Obviously Marco could put a price on it. “I think we'll stick to the beds in the other section,” he said, and crossed back to his rock-hard fave.

“Do you have something in between that one”—I pointed to the mattress Marco had stretched out upon again—“and that one?” I pointed to my choice.

Bob gave me a sympathetic smile, as though it pained him that I had to lower myself to an inferior product, then led me to the far end. “This is a medium firm.” In a low voice he said, “I really think you'd be happier with the last one.”

And he'd be happier with his commission, too.

I set Seedy on the tan linoleum and perched on the medium firm. Not bad, I thought, bouncing. I swung my legs up and lay back. It wasn't as pillowy as the second one, but it also wasn't as hard as the first. Now I felt like Goldilocks. “Marco, try this bed.”

He came over and stretched out beside me. “Not as firm as I like.”

“It's not as soft as I like, but we have to compromise.”

“What kind of price are we talking about?” Marco asked Bob, sitting up.

The salesman's über-cheerful expression instantly faded. “The price is marked on the headboard.”

Marco gave him a look that said,
You know you can do better than that.

“Unfortunately,” Bob said with sad eyes, clearly trying to appear aggrieved, “I'm not in a position to lower the price.”

“I thought you were the manager,” Marco said.

“Well, yes,” Bob said slowly, “but it's still not my decision to make.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Then let me talk to the person who
can
make the decision.”

I looked around. There was no one else there. Even the two women had left.

The salesman's irritation was obvious as he said, “Wait here. I'll have to make a call.”

“You do that,” Marco said. “Meanwhile, my wife and I are going up the street to see what kind of sales your competitor is having. Let's go, Abby.”

He strode toward the door, not even waiting for me. Annoyed, I grabbed Seedy and followed him outside, where the streetlight's glow reflected on the wet asphalt and the air smelled of fish. At least it wasn't raining.

“Don't you think you could have waited to see what his boss said?” I asked.

“Abby, he's the manager. He can make that decision. I hate it when salespeople play games.” Marco opened the passenger door for me. “If he wants our business, he can trot his butt out here with a better deal.”

Why had I never seen this stubborn side of Marco before? Did he think the other bedding store would deal with him any differently? Were we fated to wander from town to town looking for a forthright salesman? I sighed in frustration as I slid into the car, imagining weeks, maybe months, of sleepless nights. Marco got behind the wheel and started the engine, but left his door open.

“Sir?” I heard someone shout. “Wait.”

I looked out the back window, stunned to see Bob loping toward Marco's side of the car, his metal clipboard still clasped against his shirt. Panting, he said, “Let's go back inside and talk.”

“Not unless you've got a better price for me,” Marco said, and shut the door.

Seedy, clearly believing she was safe, growled at Bob from the backseat.

The salesman pressed a sheet of paper against the window. “Would this bring you inside?”

Marco studied it for a moment, then rolled down the glass. “Change that fifty-nine on the end to two zeros and maybe.”

Bob pretended to ponder the matter, then nodded. “I believe I can do that for you.”

“You're starting to make sense now,” Marco said. Under his breath, he said to me, “Let's go buy a mattress.”

•   •   •

As we stood at the counter waiting for the credit card to clear, Marco's cell phone rang.

“Salvare,” he said quietly, walking away.

“Here's your sales receipt and your warranty information,” the salesman said, handing me several papers. “I can get this delivered to you by Saturday afternoon, if you're going to be home.”

I'd have to put up with the lumpy mattress for three more nights, but at least the end was in sight. “I'll be there.”

I was just tucking the paperwork into my purse when Marco returned. “All done,” I said. “The mattress is coming on Saturday.”

“Great.” He didn't sound great. In fact, he had a furrow between his eyebrows.

“What's wrong?”

“I'll tell you outside.”

My heart was in my throat as I picked up Seedy and hurried after him. He didn't say a word until we were in the car, and then he said, “The bones are gone.”

“Did the coroner come for them?”

“Not the coroner, Abby. Someone stole them.”

C
HAPTER EIGHT

M
arco hit his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn it.”

Seedy jumped from the backseat into my lap and hid her head under my arm. “Tell me what happened,” I said.

“Rafe saw muddy shoe prints leading from the back door to the basement doorway and followed them downstairs, thinking someone had gone down to get supplies from the storage area. He noticed the overhead bulb was on over the excavation site and went to investigate. That's when he discovered the theft.”

“Did it happen just now?”

Marco started the car. “He didn't know, but it had to have been sometime after we left because I walked that hallway. I would have spotted muddy footprints.” He smacked the steering wheel again. “I've told Rafe over and over again to make sure that the back door isn't left propped open. I can't tell you how many times I've warned my employees about that, and yet they do it anyway. That's why Rafe
has
to monitor it when I'm not there.”

“Why do they prop it open?”

“It gets hot back in the kitchen, so they do it for fresh air. Sometimes they'll leave it ajar because they know they'll be making another trip out to the Dumpster soon, or someone is out for a smoke and leaves it open. Right now I don't really care what the reason is. Someone is to blame and that person is going to get fired.”

I was glad I wasn't in Rafe's shoes. Whether he was directly responsible or not, he'd screwed up yet again. “Is there an alarm you can put on the door that will sound an alert when it's left open longer than a minute?”

“Since I can't seem to count on my brother to monitor it, I guess I'll have to look into it.” With a heavy sigh he said, “What do I tell the coroner when he comes to collect the bones?”

I wanted to reply,
That he should have collected them as soon as they were discovered so they weren't our problem,
but I knew that in Marco's present mood, the comment would only stir his wrath. Instead, I tried to channel his thoughts away from the angry side.

“How is it possible to get a skeleton out of the basement without being seen?”

“The bones aren't connected. They were probably thrown in a bag and carried out like a load of laundry.”

“Still, any of the staff could have come upon the thief leaving the basement,” I said. “Who would take that risk?”

“A desperate person, Abby. Do you understand now why I didn't want that newspaper article to come out yet? And why I want the police to handle the investigation? I could choke MacKay for bringing us into it.”

Well,
that
diversion didn't work.

“We can forget a DNA analysis now.” Marco pulled out his cell phone and handed it to me. “Would you call Sean and ask him if he's free to meet me at the bar in about half an hour?”

I gave him a look that said,
Seriously? Me?

“Never mind,” Marco said. “How about dialing for me?”

I found Reilly in his contacts and hit the
CALL
button, then handed the phone back.

“Hey, Sean, it's Marco. What's happening?” He listened a few moments, then said, “If you're free, would you meet me at the bar this evening? I need your advice on something. Great. Sure. I just have to drop Abby off at home, so give me about thirty minutes.”

I tapped Marco's arm. “You're not leaving me out of this, Salvare.”

“Make that fifteen, Sean,” Marco amended. “Thanks, man.”

•   •   •

With one beer apiece for Sean Reilly and Marco, and a fresh Shiraz for me, we sat at the second to the last booth at Down the Hatch and exchanged several minutes of pleasantries, mostly about our honeymoon.

“So this advice you need”—Reilly took a swig of beer—“does it have anything to do with those bones in the basement?”

“Is the news all over the police station?” I asked.

“Nah. I saw the article in the
New Chapel News
.” Leaning toward Marco, Reilly said in a low voice, “Several of the guys down at the station have a bet going that you'll run your own investigation.”

I was about to say,
Put your money on us, Reilly,
but decided to let Marco do the talking. As usual, he cut right to the chase. “Someone removed the bones, Sean,” he said quietly.

Reilly's eyes grew wide. “When?”

“Between six and seven thirty this evening, while Abby and I were out.”

“That's a busy time here,” Reilly said. “Damn, that was ballsy.”

“Tell me about it,” Marco said.

“Have you called it in?” Reilly asked.

“I have now,” Marco said.

Reilly grinned as he pulled a small notepad and pen from his chest pocket and got ready to take notes. “Proceed.”

“My brother discovered the theft when he noticed muddy shoe prints leading from the back door to the basement,” Marco said. “Don't even get me started on how someone was able to get inside that door. It's a comedy of errors. And to make the situation even worse, the prints aren't visible anymore, the excavation site has been smoothed over, and the shoe prints on the steps have been obliterated. I questioned my employees about the size of the prints, but no one except Rafe noticed them, and he isn't sure whether they were male or female because they were mashed.”

“Why didn't the coroner remove the bones when you first called them in?” Reilly asked.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was my question, too.”

“I was told that he was busy at an accident scene,” Marco said. “He's scheduled to come out tomorrow.”

“I'm amazed the detectives didn't close down the whole basement,” Reilly said. “You've got a crime scene down there.”

“I think they were doing me a favor by not closing it,” Marco said. “They cordoned off the excavation site and trusted, I suppose, that I would keep it secure.”

Reilly rubbed his face, thinking. “Did they take photos of the bones and collect soil samples?”

“Yes,” Marco said. “They haven't sifted the dirt yet though.”

“Well,” Reilly said slowly, “it's not the best circumstances to conduct an investigation, but at least they have something to go on. Will you show me the hole?”

I tucked Seedy into Marco's office, then followed the men to the basement, where they were already standing at the edge of the concrete. As Marco and I had seen just before Reilly had arrived, the soil was smooth.

Using Marco's flashlight, Reilly crouched down for a closer look. “See this?” He pointed to the dirt. “See these faint ridges? They look like they were made with a tool of some sort, like a trowel.”

“Trowels don't have ridges,” I said.

“He's not talking about a garden trowel,” Marco said. “He means the kind used in construction.” He glanced around. “There used to be an old one down here, but I don't see it. Maybe the thief used it and took it with him.”

Click.
The proverbial lightbulb went on in my head. “Marco, when we were down here with the plumber, Seedy dug an old garden trowel out of the dirt.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Marco said.

“I didn't think anything of it at the time. I dropped it over there with other old garden tools. When you mentioned a trowel just now, it clicked!”

“What clicked?” Reilly asked, as Marco went to find the tool.

“The curved dent in the man's skull. I've dug enough holes in the clay soil of my grandma's garden to know what kind of mark a garden trowel makes. It's an arc, and so was the dent I saw on the top of the skull. It can't be a coincidence that it was buried in the dirt near the body.”

“It's fairly unusual for a murder weapon to be left at the crime scene,” Reilly said.

“What better place to leave it than under a cement floor?” I asked.

“I don't see it,” Marco said, as we joined him by the pile of junk.

I pointed to the other tools. “I laid it right there. It had the same long wooden handle that these have.” I picked through the junk to make sure the trowel hadn't fallen behind them, but it was definitely gone.

Reilly walked back to the hole, studied it for a moment, then turned to Marco. “You asked for my advice, so here it is. If it were my basement, I wouldn't want a big hole in the floor over the winter.”

“It'll take that long for the detectives to get over here?” Marco asked.

“All I can tell you is they've got a lot on their hands right now,” Reilly said. “Because of the robberies, they've got a backlog of cases piled a foot high on their desks.”

“And I'll be at the bottom of the pile even with this new development?” Marco asked.

“Maybe they'll give you some priority,” Reilly said, “but it won't be until they catch the robbers. That could be tomorrow or Christmas. I'm just saying, if it were me, I'd do what I could to speed the process along.”

I wanted to hug Reilly, but instead I gave Marco a looks-like-we-have-no-choice-now shrug.

“I'll write this up and make sure the coroner gets a copy,” Reilly said. “That'll save him a trip.”

And Marco the embarrassment.

“Thanks, man,” Marco said, clapping him on the back.

That time I did give Reilly a hug.

“So we're starting the investigation tomorrow morning?” I asked Marco as we drove home. Seedy was in my lap gazing out of the passenger-side window, panting happily. I stroked her fur, waiting for Marco's reply, but got only a heavy sigh as an answer.

“Is that a no?”

“If it wasn't for that damned big hole in the basement floor it would be a
no way
, but I can't leave it open, exposing all that old contaminated soil when I serve food one floor above. The health department would shut me down in a heartbeat. So it's a reluctant yes. But just so you know, I have a lot of misgivings about you being involved, Abby. I'd rather handle the investigation on my own.”

“Well, I don't have any misgivings. We're a team now, Marco, and there's no
I
in team. Just so
you
know.”

Thursday

•   •   •

Before Lottie or Grace could comment on my tired eyes or somnolence the next morning, I greeted them with, “Morning. New mattress is coming Saturday. I need coffee.”

They smiled at me like proud parents.

I put Seedy on the floor and followed them into the parlor, where Grace poured me a cup of her special brew and offered me a cranberry scone. Although I'd had a piece of toast, in my exhausted state my willpower was weak, so I accepted. Then the three of us sat down at one of the white tables, while Seedy gazed up at me so dejectedly that I offered her a piece of scone.

“I wouldn't spoil her, love,” Grace said. “She'll get used to it and will make a nuisance of herself at mealtimes.”

“Oh, boy, I know that from the dogs my boys have had,” Lottie said. “You don't want to start it, Abby.”

“Sorry, Seedy,” I said. “That's all you're getting.”

The dog tilted her head, as though trying to understand my words. She looked so cute, I had to glance away before I indulged her again. I blamed it on a lack of sleep and drained my coffee cup.

“Any word from the detectives yet?” Grace asked.

“No, and you won't believe what happened. Someone got into the bar's basement yesterday evening and stole the bones, along with a key piece of evidence.”

That prompted a barrage of questions, so I filled them in on the details as I poured us all more coffee. “Even Reilly feels that we should investigate,” I said. “Marco and I talked about it later and he's finally seeing the wisdom in it, although he's insisting we not let it get around town.”

“My lips are sealed,” Lottie said, making a zipping motion across her mouth.

“Marco's right about staying mum,” Grace said. “It takes a lot of moxie to pull a heist under the very noses of one's employees. That speaks volumes about the person who's willing to chance it. It makes one wonder what else might be chanced to ensure that the killer's identity not come to light.”

That was basically what Marco had said, only not as eloquently.

“So where do you begin?” Lottie asked.

“With Henry Greer and the key chain,” I said. “We're hoping to meet with him today.” I checked the time. “And I need to go set up that appointment right now.”

I finished the scone and headed toward the workroom with Seedy at my heels. She went straight for her bed under the table and curled up there, chewing on a rawhide bone that Lottie had brought for her, while I made the call. As Marco and I had decided, I didn't reveal the purpose of our visit. I merely told the man who answered the phone that I wanted to talk to Henry about a business matter and hoped he had time around noon to see me. We set the appointment for one p.m., the soonest Henry was available.