A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (18 page)

“If this makes you feel any better, Reilly called. He said the marker was in the evidence locker, but nothing had been done with it because there isn’t an investigation. So I phoned Appleruth, and he said that although the men typically carry carpenter’s pencils, it’s quite possible that Sergio had a marker with him.”

“So it’s another dead end.”

“Another in a long line.” Marco stretched out his legs and leaned back. “I think the detectives were right not to open an investigation.”

My cell phone rang just as Gert the waitress showed up to take our orders. “I’ll have whatever he has,” I told her, then answered the call.

“¿Eres Abby?”
a woman with a heavy Spanish accent asked.

“Am I Abby? Yes, I am.”

Apparently believing that I understood the language, she said,
“Yo soy la madre de Rosa. Mi hija me dijo que te llamara. Su marido ha muerto.”

I knew she was talking about Rosa, and I could tell from the sadness in her voice that the call was not good news. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you said.”

“
Perdóname
. My daughter Rosa . . . she asks me to call you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No.
Su marido
, Sergio, is dead.”

*   *   *

Marco and I drove to the hospital where we met Rosa’s mother and many members of her extended family, all gathered in the waiting room with their Rosary beads in their hands. The women had red, swollen eyes and the men stood around with their hands in their pockets looking grim. Rosa’s son was staying with his cousins.

Rosa came out shortly after we got there and immediately threw her arms around me and wept on my shoulder. “What will I do without my Sergio? He is my life, Abby.”

Just as Marco was mine, and I didn’t even want to think of life without him. In a choked voice I said, “I’m so sorry, Rosa. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

She took my hand and Marco’s hand and said through her tears, “I know without a doubt that someone did this to Sergio. It is more important than ever that we find him.”

“Rosa,” Marco began, but she interrupted.

“No, do not
Rosa
me! You have not seen what I discovered today when I asked to see my husband’s body. Sergio has a bruise right here—” She pressed her fist against her abdomen in the soft V below her rib cage. “Someone punched him. That is why he fell.”

“Are you sure it’s not a new bruise?” Marco asked. “Sometimes when a patient is transported—”

“This is not a new bruise,” she said in a rising voice. “I have a son. I know bruises. This one is mostly yellow with
a little purple in it. It is about this big, like a quarter.” She made a circle with her thumb and finger.

“Then it couldn’t have been the result of a punch,” Marco said. “It’s too small.” He made a fist with his right hand and showed her.

Rosa tapped his wedding band. “But it could have been made by a ring. Go back to see Adrian and look at the big ring he wears on his right hand—then tell me this bruise did not come from that ring. You will see that I have been right all along about Adrian.”

“Adrian wasn’t in the right proximity to punch him,” Marco said.

“How else would you explain it?” she asked.

“Did you ask the doctor for an explanation?” I asked.

“He said there was no serious internal trauma, so perhaps Sergio had been in a fight. ‘Then tell me why Sergio fell,’ I said. ‘Rosa, we have performed many tests, but we cannot always explain why someone gets dizzy,’ he said. ‘Maybe Sergio looked around too suddenly. Maybe he had an inner-ear disturbance. Maybe he was simply up too high.’” She made an angry motion with her hand. “No one here will believe that someone wanted my husband dead.”

“Rosalita,” her mother said, taking her arm, “come sit down.”

“Marco,” I said quietly as Rosa’s mother led her to a nearby chair, “Sam did say he saw Sergio put his hand there before he fell.”

“It would have been physically impossible for Adrian to punch him in the gut while he was on the ladder.”

“I understand that, but what about a punch from the night before? I know the doctor said there wasn’t any internal trauma from it, but he’s still only making
educated guesses. Maybe Sergio did get into a fight at the bar after work that caused him some kind of distress the next morning.”

“The accident happened on Monday morning, Abby. The fight would have had to take place on a Sunday.”

“So? Sergio might have gone to watch a hockey game or something. Clive told us Sergio’d suffered a few bruises from some of the fights he was in.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I remember Adrian’s insignia ring, Marco, and its diameter was about the size of a quarter. I think we need to talk to him again.”

Marco led me farther away. “I know you want to help Rosa, but our investigation is over. With no internal trauma to show for it, we’d never be able to prove that Adrian is responsible for Sergio’s death. It’d be a waste of everyone’s time.”

“Not to Rosa. Even if a direct punch didn’t cause Sergio’s fall, at least knowing how he got the bruise might answer that question for her.”

I walked over to Rosa and asked, “Did Sergio go out to a bar with any of his coworkers on Sunday evening?”

Rosa rubbed her temples. “I don’t remember. Maybe. He did do that sometimes.” She turned to gaze through the doorway and said in a voice choked with tears, “They are packing his clothing for me. They’d stored it in the closet so he could wear it home.” Big tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. “They said I should go home and rest—as if that will be possible. Tomorrow I will have to make arrangements for his funeral.” She began to cry again. Her mother put her arms around her and her relatives gathered close.

“Let’s go, Abby,” Marco said. “She needs to be with her family now.”

*   *   *

I held Marco’s hand all the way to the car. “Poor Rosa. She’ll have to raise and support her son alone now.”

“She’s fortunate she has family close by.”

“But who will she turn to in the night when she’s frightened or sick?”

Marco was silent as he opened the door for me.

Before I got into the car, I wrapped my arms around his chest and hugged him hard. Gazing up into the face I loved so much, I said, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?”

He smiled tenderly. “I don’t plan to, sweetheart.”

I mulled over the bruise as we drove home. “I still think it’s too coincidental that Sam saw Sergio put his hand over the spot where Rosa found the bruise a second before he fell.”

“The simple explanation might be that the bruise hurt and he was rubbing it. Maybe that motion threw him off balance.”

I couldn’t help but think that there was more to it than that. Yet for the life of me, I didn’t know what.

*   *   *

Thursday

At the end of a very busy morning, while I was in the workroom putting together my twenty-fifth arrangement, the curtain parted and Rosa entered. She was wearing a black coat and high heels and carried a black purse. She wore little makeup and her eyes registered deep sorrow, yet she still looked beautiful.

“Rosa, what are you doing here?”

“I just came from the funeral home,” she said in a voice heavy with grief. “The funeral is set for Saturday at one o’clock. Now I need to order the arrangements. My mother is in the other room looking at the flower book with Lottie right now.”

“Would you like my help, too?”

“Thank you for offering, but that is not why I have come.” She took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to me. “I found this in the chest pocket of Sergio’s coveralls.”

On the paper were two words printed with red marker:
Help me
.

She tapped the note. “You see? My husband knew someone was trying to kill him.”

“R
osa found this in Sergio’s chest pocket, Marco,” I said, handing my husband the note sealed in a plastic bag. I wanted to preserve it as evidence—assuming I could convince Marco to continue the investigation. “She believes it proves that Sergio knew someone was out to get him.”

Marco turned the bag over to see the back of the note, then flipped it to the front, frowning as he studied it. We were seated on a bench on the courthouse lawn eating our brown bag lunches while Seedy explored as far as her leash allowed.

“This was just now found in Sergio’s coveralls?” he asked.

“His clothes were put in a bag when he was first brought in,” I said. “Who would have thought to search them? Detectives weren’t involved.”

Marco had no comment.

“When Sam saw Sergio put his hand to his chest,” I said, “maybe Sergio was actually reaching for the note.”

Marco handed the bag to me. “It doesn’t add up. All of our suspects remember hearing Sergio call for help, so
why would he write out a help note beforehand? And which man would he have given it to anyway? He didn’t get along with any of them.”

“Then why did he have the note in his pocket?”

“Are you sure it’s Sergio’s note?”

“What are you saying? That Rosa wrote it?”

“Maybe she sensed that we were pulling out and wanted to make sure we stayed involved. In any case, first rule, Abby. Verify. If we
were
going to follow up on this, we’d need Rosa to show us something else that Sergio has written so we’d know whether it was normal for him to print rather than write.”

“But if it
is
his printing, Marco, doesn’t this note together with the bruise tell you that we should continue our investigation?”

“You’re trying to connect two separate facts, babe.”

“But it’s too coincidental not to be connected.”

“Coincidences do happen, Abby. And how would we follow up on it? Go back to the men and ask whether someone wrote it? Have them volunteer a handwriting sample? With Sergio dead, we’d never get their cooperation now.”

“If they’re innocent, why wouldn’t they give us a handwriting sample? At least we’d be able to rule out who didn’t write it.”

Marco ate the last bite of his ham sandwich and wadded up the wrapper. “You’ve got two words written in block letters. Handwriting analysts like to have at least a paragraph, if not a page, to compare. And seriously, with the way they felt about Sergio, can you picture any of them giving
him
a note asking for their assistance? I know you want to help Rosa, but at this point the best
we can do is convince her to turn over the note to the detectives and let them decide whether to pursue it.”

I let out a huff and leaned against the bench back. “She just lost her husband, Marco. I don’t have the heart to tell her that we’re not going to continue the case.”

“Then wait until after the funeral. She’s probably in a state of shock anyway. Just assure her that we’re doing all we can, and then, when her life has calmed down, we’ll talk to her . . . And I need to get back.” He rose abruptly. “See you at dinner.”

“You’re leaving now? You haven’t even finished your coffee.”

“Seems like a good time to go.” He nodded toward Bloomers, where I saw my pregnant cousin waddling toward us. Seedy must have spotted her, too, because she crawled beneath the bench and hid behind my legs.

“You’re both cowards,” I said.

Marco gave me a kiss. “Some would call me a wise man. Good luck.” He strode off, giving Jillian a wave.

“Dear God, could you be any further away?” Jillian called. She wore a violet swing coat that had no room to swing at all, with black tights and boots, and a patent leather purse in peony.

With some effort, she lowered herself onto the seat Marco had vacated and dabbed her forehead with a tissue. “If I don’t have this baby soon, my womb is going to open like a ripe melon.”

“I don’t think that has ever happened before, Jillian.”

“And once again, Abs, you know this because?”

“It would have made the news. Where’s Princess?”

Jillian unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water. “With the dog sitter.”

“You hired a dog sitter? How long do you plan to be out?”

“That depends on you. Besides, Princess hates spending time alone.”

“Has she told you that or what?”

Jillian paused mid-swig. “Are you trying to make me crabbier?”

“Sorry. What brings you out here?”

Jillian sighed wearily. “This child hates me.”

“This child? Is that what you’re calling her now?”

“Actually I’m thinking of calling her Misery.” She tapped my knee. “I found a house for you.”

“Where?”

“Same neighborhood as the Victorian disaster.” She stuffed the bottle in her purse and hoisted herself off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go see it now.”

“I can’t. I’ve got a ton of orders waiting for me. I shouldn’t have left for this long.”

“Okay, five o’clock, then.”

“I’m supposed to meet Marco for dinner at five.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do I have to remind you that civilized people don’t dine that early? But whatever. We’ll have dinner with Marco and then we’ll see the house.”

We? If I were to spring that on Marco, he
might
leave me. “What about Claymore? Don’t you want to ask him to meet us at the bar?”

“He’s working late tonight.”

Imagining the look on Marco’s face when I told him my cousin was joining us, I stood up. “On second thought, Jill, you’re right about dinner. So let’s see the house when I get off work instead.” With any luck, I could wear my cousin out so she’d want to go home and nap.

*   *   *

The two-story brown cedar house Jillian wanted to show me was kitty-cornered from the Victorian, which now looked a hundred percent better than when I’d last seen it. I stood across the street from it, trying to remember exactly where Sergio’s ladder had been in relation to where I’d seen the roofers.

“Are you coming?” Jillian called from the front porch.

“In a minute.” I took out my cell phone and snapped a picture, then followed her inside. But this time we didn’t make it beyond the small front entrance hall before she sank onto the staircase with a horrific groan.

“Jillian, please tell me this is not happening again.”

Holding her belly with both hands, her face ashen, she made a guttural sound and clenched her teeth, then began to pant and blow.

“Come on,” I said, taking her arm, “let’s get you home.”

“Time me—” She grunted, then made the animal-like sound again, her whole face clenching in pain.

I’d never seen her look like that, and it started to alarm me. “Time you? Are you really in labor?”

She opened her eyes and glared at me. “I’m having contractions. Time me!”

I pulled back my sleeve to see my watch, then sat down beside her on the steps. “How long does it have to be between contractions?”

Instead of answering, another horrific groan escaped her clenched lips, bringing to my mind the scene from
Gone with the Wind
when Melanie gave birth at home and nearly died.

I got up. “Forget that. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“It might be too soon,” she managed to grind out.

“So do you want to wait here or there for the baby to come? Let’s go.”

*   *   *

For the second night in a row I was in a hospital waiting room, but the atmosphere in the maternity ward was completely different. People were excited, expectant, happy, and talkative as they waited for news.

And for the third time in a row, Jillian came out without a newborn in her arms. “False labor again.”

“Seriously, Jillian?”

“It’s not like I can control it. Come on. I want to show you how nice the new state-of-the-art nursery is.” Pressing her hand into her back, she headed toward a set of double doors and hit a button to gain entrance, only to have a buzzer sound. A minute later a nurse came out and looked around. “Jillian, are you back again?”

“Yes.” Jillian sighed. “I keep having Braxton Hicks contractions.”

“You’ve got to time those contractions, sweetheart. That’s how you’ll know if they’re real.” The nurse, an older woman with short, curly gray hair, put her arm around Jillian’s shoulders and said in jest, “How many times do we have to tell you that?”

Jillian shot me a glare. “I would have timed them but
someone
didn’t want to wait. Is it okay if I show my cousin the nursery?”

“Well,” the nurse said, glancing around, “we’re not supposed to let in anyone other than family, but you’re starting to feel like family. Come on—I’ll give you a peek.”

“Why do you need a buzzer on the door?” Jillian
asked as the nurse waved an ID tag over a monitor on the wall.

“Because we don’t want anyone making off with our babies,” the nurse said.

“Please don’t tell me that’s ever happened,” Jillian said as we were taken to a glass-fronted room filled with baby cribs and beeping monitors.

“Not at this hospital.” The nurse looked around, saw that no one was nearby, and said in a low voice, “But a baby was snatched from the hospital where I used to work.” Resuming her normal voice, she said, “Now this is our full-term nursery. Next door we have a room just for preemies.”

“Wait. Back up,” Jillian said, clutching the nurse’s arm before she could take us farther down the hallway. “Did this babynapping happen recently?” She was starting to look panicked.

“No, honey, that was ten years ago,” the nurse said. “It happened at St. Christopher’s in Maraville. That would never happen here, or there today, not with the security these hospitals have now.” She held up the ID card hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “No one has access to this ward without one of these. And we have practice drills constantly, just in case.”

“Did they ever find the baby?” Jillian asked, sniffling back tears.

The nurse shook her head. “I’m afraid not. What a sad case that was. I still remember the baby’s name—Brody Dugan. That child had the thickest, blackest hair and the bluest eyes you could imagine. His mom said he was a throwback to their Irish relatives.”

Jillian pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. “Those poor, poor parents.”

“They were heartbroken, as you can well imagine. Detectives were almost positive that the kidnapper was a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform. They worked around the clock for months to find her, but none of their leads panned out. It was like the kidnapper vanished into thin air. A sketch artist drew a photo of what Brody would look like as he got older, but the last time I saw any mention of it in the newspaper was about five years ago. He’d be a big boy of ten now.”

My mind snapped to attention. Ten years old?

The image of a ten-year-old boy with black hair and blue eyes flashed in my mind: Bud Jones, as I’d seen him standing in front of the Victorian.

Suddenly Ted Birchman’s words echoed in my brain.
I only found out about Ed’s son because one day, about ten years ago, my brother showed up at my door needing a place for Sandra, him, and the baby to stay until he found an apartment. According to Ed, he had been evicted from his home in Maraville right after Bud was born. But who knows what the real story is?

My radar began to buzz. Was it too far-fetched to think that Bud Jones was Brody Dugan? Had I stumbled upon the reason for the Joneses’ sudden departure?

I needed to see the sketch of that boy.

*   *   *

“Reilly, come on, answer,” I said as I listened to his phone ring. I waited until I heard a beep, then left as detailed a message as I could squeeze into a minute’s recording. I had been to see the house for sale with
Jillian, which was just okay as far as houses went, but still too old for my taste. Now, as I drove to the bar to pick up Seedy, I had time to mull over the nurse’s revelation, which had my mind spinning with possibilities, especially when I recalled Mrs. Welldon’s words:
They were such nice neighbors, the Joneses, always willing to lend a hand. And whenever I took sick, Sandra would be right over to help. She was a nurse at one time, you know.

Sandra would have been familiar with hospital routines. If she was clever and bold enough, she could have walked into the nursery without arousing anyone’s suspicions and walked out with a baby tucked in a carryall. Naturally, she and Norm would have left town afterward. And where could they go to hide under their true identity? Bowling Green, Ohio.

But if my hunch about Bud Jones was correct, what about Daisy? Had she been snatched, too? Was there a reason that no one I’d spoken with knew about her birth or remembered that she was a part of the Jones family?

I’d have to do more Internet work when I got home to try to find out whether there had been another babynapping six years ago. Since I didn’t know where the Joneses had lived at the time, I’d have to search databases for Bowling Green and Maraville and hope it had been one of the two. First, though, I had to pick up my dog.

“Any luck with Jillian’s house?” Marco asked, pouring a beer for a customer.

If only I could tell him about my amazing stroke of luck
after
Jillian’s house. “Well, first we made another hospital run—”