A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (4 page)

“I’m saying that when it comes to Jillian, I keep my distance.”

“You never know, Marco. She just might come through for us.”

“If she does, I’ll be happy to take a look. You can be the official scout.” His cell phone rang so he pulled it out of his back pocket and checked the screen. “Reilly,” he said, pressing it to his ear.

“Hey, Sean, what’s happening?” He listened for a few moments, said, “I’ll tell Abby. She’ll be relieved,” then listened some more. “Interesting. So when do they expect to hear something? And in the meantime? Sure, I’ll talk to her. Make it noon.”

“Tell Abby what?” I asked as he put his phone away.

“Reilly interviewed the Joneses thoroughly and found nothing suspicious about them.”

Clearly Reilly’s internal radar wasn’t as finely tuned as mine was. “Does he know they moved?”

“It wouldn’t make a difference, Sunshine. He cleared them. End of story.”

Not the story in my notebook. “So even though I sense something is off, you’re going to believe Reilly?”

“It’s not a question of choosing one of you, Sunshine. I’m simply not interested in pursuing it unless I see some verified proof that the Joneses are doing something wrong.”

I saw a challenge in that statement.

“Moving on,” Marco said, “Reilly wants me to talk to the painter’s wife, Rosa Marin. She’s convinced that her husband’s fall wasn’t an accident—that someone tried to kill him.”

“While we were standing there?”

“That’s what she believes. And so far the preliminary medical report shows no sign of a heart attack, stroke, flu, appendicitis, or any other obvious medical condition. Toxicology results will take up to ten days. In the meantime, the detectives told Mrs. Marin that they haven’t found any evidence that supports her accusation, so she informed them she would hire her own investigator. She wanted to know who the best PI in town was, so Reilly gave her my name.”

“That was nice of him.”

“We’ll see. He said she’s hot-tempered.”

“Marco,” I said as we stopped at the corner to wait for the light to change, “if I thought someone had tried to kill you and the detectives wouldn’t listen to me, I’d be hot-tempered, too.”

Marco put his arm around me and pulled me close. “Baby, you’re just hot, period.”

*   *   *

Turned out I wasn’t the only one who was hot. Rosa Marin was a voluptuous, thirtysomething beauty with long legs, wavy dark-brown hair held back on either side by large silver barrettes, smooth olive skin, full lips, and expressive dark brown eyes that right now fairly sizzled with outrage. She wore a baby blue V-neck sweater that hugged her curves, a silver pendant in the shape of a lightning bolt that nestled in her cleavage, large hoop
earrings, and tight black jeans with high-heeled black ankle boots.

Marco had already done some research and learned that Rosa was twenty years younger than her husband, worked as a bookkeeper for a local manufacturing company, and made a very small wage that barely covered child care costs. The Marins had one child of their own, an eight-year-old boy named Peter. In addition, Sergio also had two college-aged daughters from a previous marriage.

The three of us were seated in Marco’s modern gray, silver, and black office, Marco behind his sleek black desk and Rosa and I in the black sling-back chairs facing him. He’d given me his tablet and a pen so I could take notes, which was our normal arrangement. It wasn’t sexist, merely prudent. I needed to be able to read them later.

Rosa’s full lips were pressed together in barely concealed anger, her arms folded beneath her breasts, one leg crossed over the other, her foot bouncing as though to release pent-up energy. Marco leaned forward in his mesh-backed swivel chair, hands folded on his desk, discreetly taking her measure, no doubt to decide whether to accept her case.

“The
estúpido
detectives refuse to believe me,” Rosa said, her dark eyes snapping with ire as she glanced from Marco to me. “‘Step back and let us handle the matter,’ they say, as if my husband, who lies near death, is a
matter.
It was probably an accident, they tell me, but I know that’s a lie! Sergio has been on ladders all his life. How would he fall backward if he wasn’t pushed? And who
was up there near my husband? Four men who hate him.”

“What makes you believe one of them pushed him, Mrs. Marin?” Marco asked.

“Call me Rosa, please. I know one of them is responsible because of things that have been happening to Sergio lately. Bad things. A tire slashed on his truck. A dead rat left in his locker at work. Red paint splashed on his coveralls right here.” She pointed to her heart. “They were
advertencias
. Warnings. Sergio told me to forget about them, that they meant nothing, but I knew better. And I was right.”

“What are the names of these four men?” Marco asked.

Rosa counted them off on her fingers. “Adrian, Jericho, Clive, and Sam. I knew they were jealous but I never thought one of them would be so jealous that he would want my Sergio to die.” She dug for a tissue in her oversized navy purse, dabbing the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

“Jealous for what reason?” Marco asked.

She blew her nose and put the tissue away. “Because the boss chose my husband to be the foreman.”

“Are these four men painters as well?” Marco asked.

“No, they are roofers, like my Sergio. There weren’t enough painters for this house, Mr. Appleruth said, and Sergio had been a painter when he was younger, so the boss had him fill in.”

“What kinds of things did the men say to your husband?” Marco asked.

“They called him a bootlicker,” she said, “and a brownnose, and other names I won’t even say.”

“This happened when Sergio was promoted?” Marco asked.

“Sí
.
”

“What was your husband’s response?” Marco asked.

She shook her head. “Not good, I’m afraid. My Sergio had a temper that he could not always control. He got into some bad fights.”

“Fistfights?” Marco asked.

“No, argument fights,” she said. “‘Sergio,’ I would tell him, ‘you cannot fight with your men. You’re the boss.’ And he would say, ‘Rosa, they need to learn respect.’”

“Do you have the men’s last names?” I asked.

“Only one, Adrian Prada,” she said, nearly spitting out his name. “The boss, Mr. Appleruth, he can tell you the rest. He’s a nice man. He trusted Sergio. That’s why he chose him over Adrian Prada.”

“When was Sergio promoted?” Marco asked.

“A month ago, maybe a little more,” Rosa replied. “That’s when all the bad things began happening.”

“How is it that you know Adrian’s last name and not the others?” Marco asked.

“Adrian and I went to the same high school,” she answered, her mouth curving down in distaste. “He was a friend of my brother.”

“Don’t you like Adrian?” I asked.

“I cannot stand him. I called him El Diablo because he would make passes at me when Sergio wasn’t around. I finally told him to leave me alone or I would tell Sergio. He stayed away after that, but who knows what he will do with Sergio laid up?”

“Where were you when Adrian made passes at you?” I asked.

“I used to work for Mr. Appleruth. That is where I met Sergio.” She fingered the lightning bolt pendant, her expression turning tender. “After we were married, I took another job. I didn’t want to make trouble between my husband and Adrian.”

“Did Sergio know about the passes?” I asked.

“No. Sergio has a bad temper, and I was afraid of what he might do.”

“Does your husband normally leave his coveralls at work?” Marco asked.

“He keeps a spare in his locker,” she said. “All the men do.” She turned her big, imploring gaze on Marco first and then on me. “So will you help me find this terrible person?”

“Don’t you want to know how much it’ll cost?” I asked.

“I don’t care how much it costs,” she said, her eyes sparkling with passion. “I will empty my bank account if I have to. I just want justice for my husband. I refuse to let one of
los
matones
get away with this.”

“What does
los matones
mean?” I asked.

With a disdainful curl of her upper lip, she replied, “The bullies.”

Bullies and justice? I couldn’t help but stare at her. She was the Latina version of me!

“J
ust so you’re aware,” Marco said, “this is what my hourly fee is.” He wrote down a figure and passed it across the desk to her.

Rosa’s eyes widened; then, pressing her lips together, she pushed it back. “Just find the man who did this terrible thing to Sergio and I will find a way to pay you.” She stood up. “I have to get back to work now. When will you start?”

“Right now,” Marco said. “I’ll contact Mr. Appleruth and take it from there.”

Rosa was so happy she threw her arms around me, lifted me off the ground, and set me back down. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Salvare, Mr. Salvare,” she said enthusiastically as she backed toward the door. “I feel like I can breathe again.”

“Poor woman,” I said after she’d gone. “If her husband dies, or even continues on in a coma, with all those medical bills piling up, what will she do?”

“Struggle,” Marco said, picking up the phone on his desk. As he dialed the telephone number, he said, “I’m going to do this case pro bono.”

“That’s a generous gesture, Marco.”

“You didn’t marry a greedy man, Sunshine.” He paused, then added, “Except when it comes to you.” Resuming his business voice, he said, “Mr. Appleruth, please. Private detective Marco Salvare calling.”

Ten minutes later, Marco had four full names and a plan.

“Mr. Appleruth said Adrian Prada will be doing some work on his building tomorrow, and we’re welcome to talk to him there. Our best bet with the others is to catch them at the HHI office around five fifteen p.m. when they come back from their jobs.”

Continuing to read from his notes, he said, “Clive Bishop came over from the UK about a year ago. If we don’t catch him after work, we can find him at the Thrifty-Inn Motel, where he rents a room. Sam Walker lives in New Chapel and rides a motorcycle to work. And Jericho, no last name, claims to be an artist, lives alone in a trailer in an unincorporated part of the county, and likes his privacy. If we want to see some of the canvases he’s done, Appleruth said to check the Art Barn, north of town. It’s a collective of some kind.”

“I’ve been to the Art Barn,” I said. “My mom took watercolor lessons there one summer. The Barn displays work done by their students.”

“Did Maureen sell any?”

“Yes, to my dad. That was the end of her watercolor period.”

Marco put his notepad away and shut the desk drawer. “Want to visit there this evening?”

“
This
evening?”

“Did I say that in Chinese?” he quipped. “Yes,
this
evening.”

“So,” I said, “you’re not too busy to make a trip to the Art Barn, but you are too busy to see a house with Jillian?”

He came around the desk to pull me into his arms. “If my mom claimed to have found the perfect house for us, wouldn’t you want me to preview it for you?”

Marco had a valid point. I loved Francesca Salvare dearly but she did love to run the show wherever she was, which often caused us to bump heads. In fact, I was shocked that she hadn’t been house hunting for us. Shocked—but grateful.

“See you later tonight, Salvare.”

*   *   *

Bloomers was so busy that afternoon that I didn’t have a chance to think about little Daisy Jones, but I did tell Lottie and Grace all about our interview with Rosa Marin and the resulting investigation. They were impressed with Marco’s offer to work pro bono.

“I understand what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck,” Lottie said, “not knowing if you were going to have enough left to buy food for your kids and still pay your bills. You’ve got yourself a winner with that man of yours, sweetie.”

At that, Grace assumed her lecture pose—hands gripping the edges of her cardigan as though they were lapels, feet together, head up.

“As Kahlil Gibran once said,” she began, “‘Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.’”

“Good one, Gracie,” Lottie said as we both clapped.

Grace had an uncanny ability to produce exactly the right quote at a moment’s notice. And she expected to be properly applauded afterward, which we always happily obliged.

Another task I didn’t have time for was to call City Hall about leaving Dad’s Two Skeater bench outside, but it stayed there anyway because I didn’t want my lovely wicker settee to shiver in the basement. I’d found a place for two of Mom’s iPots on a shelf in the antique armoire, but Lottie wasn’t happy with the arrangement because she was convinced they were watching her. The other iPots that Mom had dropped off were stacked on the floor near some of our potted plants. Not one had sold. Most customers took one look, wrapped their coats tighter, and scurried past.

As busy as we were, I didn’t make it to Down the Hatch until after six o’clock, which left just enough time to have a bowl of chili with Marco, drop Seedy off at our apartment, and make it to Jillian’s building by seven o’clock. From there we headed to a section of new homes on the eastern border of New Chapel.

“This house is just eight months old,” she said as I parked my ancient yellow Corvette on the street in front of a brown aluminum-sided ranch home. “The owners defaulted on their loan, so the bank is selling it in a short sale.”

“What’s a short sale?”

“A sale that is short. Duh.” She rolled her eyes, then climbed out of my car with much groaning. “This is absolutely the worst possible vehicle for a pregnant woman to ride in. What is it, like, ten inches off the ground?”

“Hey, don’t talk nasty about my baby. She’s a 1960 vintage Corvette, Jillian. Show some respect.”

“You paid two hundred bucks for a beat-up 1960 tin bucket that had been stashed away in a barn for twenty years, Abs. There are so many cracks in these leather seats, I’m surprised the farmer didn’t pay you to take the car off his hands. Seriously, couldn’t you have driven Marco’s Prius?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it.”

With one hand on her lower back, Jillian climbed the porch steps and unlocked the door. “Now keep in mind that the house needs a little work. But I’m sure you’ll see the potential here.”

Just about what Lorelei had said about the Victorian.

The front door opened directly into the living room. It was a nice-sized room with a big picture window in the front and two double-hung windows on the outside wall. Everything in the room was beige, and the carpet still had a new smell to it.

Not a bad beginning.

Then we stepped through a doorway into the kitchen, where I gazed around in surprise. “Where are the appliances?”

“Wow. They even took the sink. But look—the walls are yellow, your favorite color.”

“But look—we’d have to buy everything except the cabinets.”

“But look,” she retorted, “the price would be low enough that you’d have money for nice appliances—if you bid high enough and win, that is. Let’s go see the bedrooms.”

Following her up a hallway, I said, “I still don’t understand how a short sale works.”

“Ow! Ow!” Jillian leaned against the wall clutching her belly, her face turning ashen. “Ow! Oh, no. Ow!”

“What’s wrong?”

Dropping to her hands and knees, she said, “I’m going into labor, Abby!”

“What? Are you sure?”

Grimacing through a contraction, she managed to grind out, “Well, we could wait around and see, but how many babies have you delivered, doctor?”

Valid argument.

“Would you just take me to the hospital?”

*   *   *

I helped Jillian ease into the ’Vette and managed to get the seat belt around her—no easy feat. The county hospital, which used to be just two blocks off the town square, had built a newer, larger facility north of town, turning what used to be a five-minute ride into a good fifteen-minute one. And those fifteen seemed endless right now as Jillian’s complaints got louder and longer. All I could think was: a) I wasn’t prepared to deliver a baby, and b) what would that do to my cracked leather seats?

“Are you trying to get a speeding ticket?” Jillian cried, in between panting and blowing air out through her mouth.

“Do you really think they’d give me a speeding ticket now? Call Claymore and tell him to meet us there.”

“Ow. Ow. I can’t—manage that—right now. Ow! You’ll have to call.”

“I can’t call him and drive fast.”

“This can’t be happening,” she moaned. “I don’t have a name picked out yet.”

What seemed like hours later, I followed Jillian’s directions to pull up to the emergency-room door and blow the horn. When no one appeared, I said, “I think I should just take you inside.”

“Right. Like you’d be able to carry me.” She reached over and laid on the horn.

Finally a woman stepped outside the huge sliding glass doors to see what the commotion was about, and Jillian called through her open window, “Helen, I’m having my baby! Hurry!”

As Helen strolled toward the car, apparently in no big hurry, I asked, “You know her?”

“No, I’m psychic.” How Jillian managed to roll her eyes while in such pain was a marvel only a diva could pull off. “Yes, I know her. She’s a receptionist in the ER.”

Helen came up to the car and leaned in. “Are we doing another dry run, Jillian?”

“No, seriously!” my cousin cried, panting and blowing. “The baby’s coming!”

Helen looked dubious. “Seriously?”

“Seriously! Ow! Oh, no—is that my water breaking?”

At that, Helen ran inside, and moments later a young nurse’s aid came out with a wheelchair. The two of us got Jillian into it; then I was told to park the car and come to the fourth-floor maternity ward. I did as instructed and phoned Marco as I trotted across the parking lot. “Call Claymore, Marco. I just took Jillian to the hospital. She’s in labor.”

“Will do. How was the house?”

“Marco, Jillian is in labor! I’ll tell you about the house
later.” I dropped the phone in my purse and hurried through the main doors to the elevators. On the fourth floor, I saw a nurse and said, “Where should I go? My cousin was just brought in to deliver her baby.”

“You can wait in the maternity waiting room. Jillian’s being examined now.”

“You know Jillian?”

“Honey, everyone knows Jillian.” She sized me up and added, “Yep, I can see that you two are related.” Continuing on up the hallway, she looked up and muttered, “Does the world really need two of them, Lord?”

I followed signs to the waiting room, which was large and modern with tan vinyl chairs, round tables, a bank of vending machines, and a television mounted high in one corner. I had just put coins in to buy a cup of hot chocolate when I heard a familiar voice say, “I want some cocoa, too.”

I spun around, and there stood Jillian, with no moans, groans, or panting whatsoever. “What are you doing out here?”

“False alarm.”

“But your water broke.”

She plucked my cup out of the machine and took a sip. “Actually, I was wrong about that, too. I hope you didn’t call Claymore.”

“No,
I
didn’t call Claymore, Jillian. I had Marco do it.”

“Then you’d better try to reach him so he doesn’t make the trip for nothing. Shall we go back and finish seeing that cute ranch?”

*   *   *

“Honestly,” I said to Marco when he called later that evening from the bar, “you’d think a woman would know whether her water broke.”

“Not even going to comment on that. Is it safe to ask
now
how the house was?”

“Once I got over the shock of the missing appliances, the house itself wasn’t bad. I just don’t think we need three bedrooms yet.”

“Yet?”

“Do you want to have that discussion now?”

“Right. Let’s save that for another year. Were there any plusses to the yellow ranch?”

“It’s a short sale. Jillian thought that was a good thing.”

“If you like to gamble.”

“You’re a gambler. You took a gamble on me.”

“Nope. You were a sure thing.”

“I was a
sure
thing?”

I was trying to decide whether I should be offended when he replied, “I was sure you were the right one for me.”

“Well played, Salvare.”

“I could sense the tension from here. Do you want me to see this house?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll keep looking. Maybe Lorelei will have something new for us tomorrow.”

“How’s our girl?”

“Seedy is right here on my lap. We’re both bored.”

“Want to learn bartending?”

“Do
you
want to learn flower arranging?”

“See you in a while.”

After talking to Marco, I did a search online for homes for sale in the downtown area and came across the ad for the ramshackle Victorian that the Joneses had rented. That got me to thinking about Daisy again, so I
hunted down the name of the Victorian’s owner, a Mr. Theodore Mallory, through the county assessor’s public database system. An Internet search produced his home address and telephone number.

I sat with the phone in my hand, debating about whether to call. Why was I pursuing this? Was it simply because I was bored?

You could find a hobby,
the smart-alecky little voice in my head whispered. Scary how much that voice sounded like Jillian. Anyway, I had a hobby. It was called sleuthing.