A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (21 page)

Then it hit me what day it was. “Marco, Sergio’s funeral is at two o’clock.”

“I’ll be home by one,” Marco said. “That’ll give me time to shower and dress.”

That meant I’d have to be back at the apartment with Seedy no later than twelve forty-five. I didn’t have a minute to spare.

*   *   *

“Tara, how are you coming on that research I gave you?” I asked my niece on the phone as I gobbled down a piece of toast slathered in peanut butter and cinnamon.

She yawned. “Sorry, Aunt Abby. I forgot all about it. But I’m free this morning. I’ll do it now.”

“Good. And just to show how badly you feel for forgetting, would you watch Seedy for a few hours?”

“Sure. She can have a play date with Seedling. Want me to come over? I can be there in an hour.”

“Better yet, I’ll bring Seedy to you because I have to leave now.” I was taking no chances of Marco finding Tara at the apartment and wanting to know where I was.

I dropped Seedy off, then headed downtown to pick up a bouquet of flowers for Sandra. I had to park a block away and then slip in through the alley door so Marco wouldn’t spot me.

“What are you up to on your day off?” Lottie asked as I wrapped a bouquet of lavender, lilac phlox, blue wax flowers, and wisps of mountain grass.

“Nothing much, and you never saw me.”

Lottie looked at me askance. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Nothing dangerous,” I said.

“If it’s not dangerous, why are you sneaking around?”

“How about if we call it undercover work instead?”

“A rose by any other name,” Grace said, coming out of the parlor.

“Marco doesn’t want to pursue Rosa’s case,” I said, “and I don’t have the heart to tell her, so I’m trying to solve it on my own.”

“You won’t miss the funeral, will you?” Grace asked.

“Of course not. I’ll see you both at the funeral parlor before two.”

“Sweetie,” Lottie called as I headed toward the curtain, “promise you’ll be careful.”

I paused to smile at her. “I promise.”

“A fat lot of good that’s ever done,” Grace muttered.

*   *   *

Lorelei was waiting in her car in front of the Victorian when I pulled up. We both scurried to the front door with our umbrellas up, then left them on the porch as we stepped inside.

“I was really surprised to get your call,” Lorelei said. “I didn’t think you were interested in this house.”

I started up the steps, calling back, “I’m not interested. I just need to see the attic.”

“The attic?”

I waited until she had reached the landing at the top
to say, “I’m working on a private investigation. I really can’t say more than that.”

“Oh,” she said in a whisper. “I see.”

Hoping there weren’t any spider assassins waiting to spring out at me, I opened the door to the attic staircase cautiously, then groped for a switch on the wall and turned on an overhead bulb. It was so dim I could barely see four steps in front of me.

“I have a flashlight if that will help,” Lorelei said from behind, making me jump.

“Thanks. It would.”

With her narrow beam as my guide, I made my way up the creaking staircase and stepped onto a wooden floor. With Lorelei sticking close—she hated spiders, too—I shined the light on the ceiling to see whether any webs lurked over my head, then on the floor in front of me. I swept it along the walls and into the corners, finding only an old wood-handled dust mop. Amazingly—and thankfully—I saw no spiders and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“It’s surprisingly clean,” Lorelei said. “The last tenants must have been using it, though God knows for what.”

There was only one window, white trimmed, narrow, and double hung, situated in a dormer at the front of the house. Sweeping the floor in front of me with the light, I made my way toward it. There, I inspected the area for spiders, then moved the beam around the entire window frame. I was taking no chances. I noticed colored flecks on the sill and touched my finger to them.

“Bugs?” Lorelei asked, peering over my shoulder. I jumped again. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Crayon shavings,” I said, showing her. I found more on the floor, as though someone had sat there to sharpen crayons. There were also stray marks in a variety of primary colors, but they seemed to have soaked into the wood as crayon wax would not. From a child’s paint set, perhaps?

“This must have been used as a playroom,” Lorelei said.

Remembering that I’d seen only one twin bed downstairs, I said, “Or a third bedroom.”

I noticed a long black hair snagged on the side of the window and pulled it free. Daisy was the only one with hair that length. If Sandra tried to argue that the children couldn’t have witnessed the accident because they didn’t use the attic, here was my proof to the contrary. I still had the plastic bag in my purse with Sergio’s note in it, so I coiled the hair and tucked it inside.

I knelt on the floor to peer outside from a child’s perspective, then pushed up on the frame to open the window for a better view. The window rose easily, as though the track had been oiled. With the window in the open position, I could see smudged fingerprints on the glass, as though small fingers had pressed up on it.

I poked my head out and looked up at the V of the roof, then down at the ground, glad the rain had stopped. If the top of Sergio’s ladder had reached just below the windowsill, he would have stood several rungs below that, so the trunk of his body would have been about window height. Anyone could have opened the window and touched him . . . or pushed him.

I thought of the small round bruise Rosa had seen on Sergio’s abdomen but I couldn’t imagine Daisy’s little fist
hitting him with enough force to cause a mark like that, or even Bud’s, although his fist would have left a mark larger than a quarter. Besides, why would either child have wanted to hit him?

I realized my knees were damp and stood up, blocking most of the light from the open window. “The floor’s wet here. Be careful. The window must not have been shut all the way.” I brushed my soggy jeans as though that would make the wetness disappear.

“Here,” Lorelei said. “You can dry the floor with this.”

When I turned around, she was holding the mop with the handle end toward me as though getting ready to joust.
Good thing you like me,
I almost said to her. One hard jab to my stomach and I’d fold in half, flying out the window like a—

Like a painter on a ladder.

I took the mop and examined the handle. It was round at the tip with a diameter the size of a quarter.

“Is something wrong with it?” Lorelei asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Hold the mop like you were before and pretend you’re poking a hole through the window.”

“What?”

“Use the mop handle like this.” I demonstrated what I wanted her to do.

She gave me an odd look. “Why?”

“It’s for my investigation.”

“Oh, I see,” she said again in a whisper. She took the mop and proceeded to make a jab.

“Now freeze,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “I need to take your picture.”

It was only a hunch so far, but I had a strong feeling
that the mop handle, not Adrian’s ring, had caused Sergio’s bruise. The question was, who had been the jouster?

*   *   *

I parked down the street from the Joneses’ residence, hoping no one would notice me. The rain had started up again and the sky was a dark gray, so lights were on in many of the houses on the block. I had a travel mug filled with coffee that I would have to drink slowly. The worst part of surveillance was not being able to consume liquids. Sitting for long periods didn’t work with a full bladder.

I played a game on my cell phone for a while, then read a magazine. After more than two hours I was beginning to think that my plan was a bust, when the Joneses’ blue van came into view, backing out of the driveway. I grabbed Marco’s binoculars and focused on the windows. I saw Norm’s large head in the driver’s side, but the passenger side appeared to be empty. Sandra must have stayed behind.

I waited another five minutes after the van had turned the corner, then picked up the umbrella and my bouquet and got out of the car. I rang the doorbell and Sandra opened the door just a few inches to peer out. “Yes?”

“Hi, Sandra. Remember me? I’m Abby, the florist from Bloomers Flower Shop. I have a delivery for you.”

I expected hesitancy. Wariness. Alarm. That wasn’t what I got.

S
andra opened the door wide, smiling as though we were old friends. “What an unexpected surprise.”

She was wearing a brown-and-red-plaid button-down shirt, a pair of dingy brown pleated slacks, and brown shoes. Her dark hair was wound into a knot at the back of her neck, making her makeup-free face seem even rounder and plainer. I had a sudden image of her in a nurse’s uniform, a plump, unremarkable woman able to slip into a nursery and out again with a baby in her bag.

“Please come in,” she said in her cottony voice. “It’s such a nasty day, isn’t it?”

I stepped into the house and glanced around, trying to take everything in quickly. To my left was a tiny living room furnished with ugly gray carpeting, a heavy, old-fashioned television on a metal stand, and a shabby green sofa. To my right was a square kitchen furnished with golden brown linoleum, a red vinyl-topped card table, and brown folding chairs. There was a white plastic clock above the range, and white cotton café curtains on the windows, one over the sink and one looking out on the side of the house toward the driveway.

Straight in front of me, behind Sandra, was a steep staircase covered with a floral-patterned rug worn threadbare on the treads. I saw no sign of either child.

“To what do we owe this honor?” Sandra asked, eyeing the bouquet in my hand. “Has someone sent us flowers?”

“Yes, me.” I handed them to her. “With my compliments.”

She held them to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes as though she’d found her bliss. “Oh, I do love the smell of lavender. How thoughtful of you. But what’s the occasion?”

I heard giggling and glanced up the steps, catching sight of the top of a head and then two eyes peering over the edge at me. I waved, which caused more giggling. “Is that Daisy?”

“Yes, that’s my Daisy,” Sandra said. Then louder, “She and Bud are
supposed
to be cleaning their room.”

“Would you let me visit with them?”

“Well, that’s a rather surprising request.” Still smiling, she darted a glance at her watch.

“Remember the accident that happened to the painter before you left New Chapel? I was hoping to talk to your kids in case one of them witnessed his fall—maybe while they were playing in the attic.”

A look of surprise flitted across her face—was it because I’d guessed correctly about the attic’s use? Then she nodded gravely. “I do remember the accident. Yes, of course I do. It was a tragedy. But my children were in the kitchen with me making cookies that morning.”

“All morning?”

She blinked at me.

Before she could reply, I said, “If you don’t mind, Sandra, I’d really like to talk to them about it.”

I could see a battle being waged behind Sandra’s small eyes. If, as she professed, her children had been with her the entire time, then where was the harm in letting me interview them? She couldn’t refuse without being rude, and she seemed the type to find rudeness out of the question.

“Well, of course you may talk to them— But where are my manners? Let me make you a cup of tea.” She glanced at her watch for a second time as she started into the kitchen, then paused to motion for me to follow. “Come sit down and talk to me while the water heats.”

I pulled out a chair at the card table as Sandra filled an old black aluminum tea kettle with water from an even older faucet at the kitchen sink, the handle groaning as she turned on the cold-water tap. “This kitchen leaves something to be desired,” she said over her shoulder. “Fortunately, it’s only a temporary residence.”

I was betting most of their residences had been temporary.

Next, she took a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water, then inserted the bouquet stems in it, taking her time to arrange the blossoms. Setting the makeshift vase in the middle of the table, she said, “Now, let’s see what goodies we have to share today.” She talked the way my mom did when speaking to her kindergarten class.

After opening a cabinet and searching inside for just the right vessel—and from the glimpse I got of the contents, she had no reason to search that long—Sandra placed a large orange plastic plate on the counter, then lifted the lid of a ceramic cookie jar painted to look like
a fat friar and peered inside. “Do you like oatmeal cookies?”

“Love them, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“Why would it be any trouble?” She pushed back the curtain over the sink and took a quick glance outside, then checked her watch for the third time before turning with a smile. “You’re a guest in my home, and I always make guests feel comfortable.”

Sandra’s actions were beginning to make me feel anything but comfortable. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“Just chores,” she said blithely, “and I certainly don’t mind taking a break from them.” She reached inside the ceramic jar and pulled out one small brown cookie at a time, humming softly as she made a neat mound on the plate. At the sound of a car door slamming outside, Sandra paused and lifted her head. Then she continued humming until she had filled the plate.

Now it was me glancing at my watch. Eleven thirty. I didn’t have a lot of time to spare.

“Here we are,” she said, setting the plate in the middle of the table. She sat down opposite me and smiled, resting her chin in her hand.

“I hope the kids will be down soon,” I said. “It really won’t take me long to talk to them, and I hate to eat up too much of your time.” Or your cookies.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, her eyes opening wide. “Napkins. Silly me.”

Completely ignoring my request, Sandra went back to the counter, opened a drawer, and pulled out a handful of white paper napkins. After taking another quick look out the side window, she came back to the table and
placed one in front of me and one in front of her. Then she sat down, folded her hands beneath her chin, and smiled at me across the table—only now the smile seemed more sinister than sweet. “Try one of my cookies.”

Sandra was beginning to remind me of the witch from “Hansel and Gretel.” My antennae were rising. What was going on here?

“Thank you,” I said, reaching for the top treat. “Would it be possible to ask the kids to join us now?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll go get them as soon as I pour our tea. Tell me about your flower shop while we’re waiting.”

I rattled off some information about Bloomers, my eye on the clock, nervously waiting for the kettle to whistle. I saw steam coming from the spout for several minutes, but no whistle accompanied it. Since Sandra seemed to have forgotten it, I paused to say, “The water’s hot.”

She jerked around to look at the stove as though surprised to find it behind her. After scooting her chair back with infinite slowness, she went to the range to shut off the gas, then opened a cabinet and took out two mismatched mugs. After that she searched through a drawer for a hot pad to hold the kettle handle. Was she that unfamiliar with her own kitchen?

With her back to me, she filled the mugs, then paused to say in a voice that was almost brittle in its sweetness, “I spoke with my former neighbor yesterday. Mrs. Welldon?”

My breath caught in my throat.

“She loved the bouquet you brought her.”

Oh, damn. This isn’t good.
Sandra knew I was investigating them—and she wanted me to know it.

My heart began to thump anxiously as she calmly replaced the kettle on the stove and began a hunt for tea, opening cabinet after cabinet until she found the right one. When she paused to glance out the window again, I knew she was expecting someone. It was obvious now that she was stalling me.

My antennae were waving frantically. I needed to get out of there.

“Here we go,” she said, sounding almost giddy. She turned and held up two boxes, one in each hand. “Black or green? I may have chamomile somewhere, too. I’d be happy to look for it.”

I stood up, the metal chair legs sliding back easily on the linoleum. “I really need to get going.”

“You should try the green. Do you take milk? All I have is two percent.”

At that moment, Daisy came skipping into the room and halted next to the table. She was dressed in blue jeans and an oversized navy T-shirt that had a motorcycle emblem on the front, clearly a boy’s hand-me-down. Her black hair fell straight down around her freckled face, emphasizing her green eyes. “Hello,” she said, twirling around.

Bud slouched into the kitchen as though bored and immediately spotted the plate of cookies. “Can we have some, Mommy?”

“Your tummy has been upset all morning, Bud,” Sandra said, her voice soft but her eyes steely. “You don’t want to upset it more, do you?”

“No,” he said dejectedly.

“Hi,” I said. “Remember me? I’m Abby, and I have a little dog named Seedy.”

“I remember,” Bud said. He seemed more interested in dessert.

“Me, too,” Daisy said. “Your dog has three legs instead of four like my dog had.”

“You didn’t have a dog,” Bud said.

“Did, too. His name was Buster.”

“Daisy,” Sandra said sharply. “Stop fibbing.”

“It’s not a fib,” Daisy said, pouting. As she hung her head, I noticed the part in her hair, and a cold feeling ran through me. She had red roots. Daisy was a freckle-faced redhead just like me.

Sandra had dyed her hair.

My eyes met Sandra’s. She knew I’d noticed.

“Children,” Sandra said, clapping her hands, startling me, “we do not eat until we wash our hands. Go upstairs right now.” She took a step toward me, pointing at my chair. “Abby, sit, please.”

Her gesture was reminiscent of Lorelei handing the mop to me, prompting a shocking vision of Sandra thrusting the wooden handle through the open window and into Sergio’s stomach. It would have been quick and punishing, and all Sam, the big wrestler, would have seen was Sergio reacting to the trauma. But what had Sergio done to deserve it?

Bud turned, his head down, his hands in his pockets, and started toward the staircase. “When will Daddy be back?”

“In a little while,” Sandra answered.

I had to get out now.

At that moment Daisy, who had been chewing on
her thumb, pulled it out and said, “You look like my mommy.”

I glanced at Sandra and saw the shock on her face. Pushing aside my anxiety, I crouched before the child. “How do I look like your mommy?”

Sandra immediately inserted herself between us and put her hands on Daisy’s small shoulders, turning her around and ushering her from the kitchen. “Miss Abby hasn’t finished the tea I made for her, and it would be rude of us to keep her from it.”

“Why won’t you let her answer, Sandra?”

Sandra stopped cold and turned to stare at me. In a voice tinged with ice, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

I stood up. “Why won’t you let Daisy answer? What are you afraid of?”

Forcing the most disingenuous smile I’d ever witnessed, she said, “Well, that would be rude of me not to let Daisy answer. I was merely concerned that your tea would get cold.”

“I don’t have time to finish the tea.”

“Sit down,” she said, her upper lip curling back, her tiny eyes pinning me to the spot, as if I were a child she could order around. Had she poisoned my tea?

“Maybe another time.” It felt as if my heart was going to beat through my chest as I strode past her and headed toward the front door.
Just let her try to stop me,
I thought. It wasn’t until I was on the porch that I dared to glance back.

My last glimpse of Sandra before she slammed the door was of her glaring at Daisy.

I dashed up the street to my car and locked the doors as soon as I was inside, my heart still pounding. I took a
few deep breaths, then started the engine, noticing that my hands were trembling. As I pulled away, a black-and-silver pickup with a Bears decal on it drove past and turned into their driveway. A shudder went through me as Norm got out of the vehicle. I’d left just in time. But why was he driving Mr. Paisley’s truck?

More significantly, what was going to happen once Sandra told Norm about my visit? Remembering the fury in Sandra’s expression, I prayed Daisy wouldn’t be punished. With every fiber of my being, I knew I had to get those children away from the Joneses before they took off again. It was time to bring the police in on the case.

I called Reilly’s cell phone, but as usual he didn’t pick up. Frustrated, I kept my message brief. “The Joneses are kidnappers—I have proof—but you’ll have to act fast or you’ll lose them.”

I turned on my navigating system and followed the directions to get back to the highway, my mind racing as fast as my Corvette. I kept going over every snippet of my conversation with Sandra and Daisy, wanting to hold it all in my memory so I could repeat it to Reilly. When he finally returned my call, I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” I said.

“You have proof that the Joneses kidnapped their children?”

“Yes. I was just at their house in Maraville. Let me tell you what transpired.”

I repeated almost verbatim my conversation, told him about Daisy’s red roots and her startling comment about me, and ended with what I’d learned about the Joneses from Mrs. Welldon and Norm’s brother Ted.