A Root Awakening: A Flower Shop Mystery (9 page)

“Doesn’t sound promising.”

Using Marco’s GPS, we traveled up a winding country road past the Art Barn, where my mom had taken classes. Deeper into the country, Marco stopped in front of a lone mailbox on a post beside a gravel road and checked the address printed on the side. “This is it.”

“All I see is a rutted path, Marco.”

“It has to lead somewhere.” He took a right onto the narrow road and followed it through a thicket of pine trees until we came out into a clearing. Fifty yards ahead stood a small, ancient mobile home.

“It sure is isolated out here,” I said, looking around at the surrounding trees.

“You can wait in the car if you feel uncomfortable, Abby.”

“Right. Like there’s never been a slasher movie where the innocent young woman decides to stay in the car.” I pulled up the hood on my coat and tightened the scarf around my neck. “Let’s do this, Salvare.”

Marco killed the engine and turned up the collar on his jacket. We got out of the car but hadn’t taken more than two steps when Jericho appeared from around the
back of his trailer, a shotgun in his hands. Marco grasped my arm and brought me to a stop.

“What should we do?” I whispered.

“Be ready to jump back inside the car.”

“Jericho,” he called. “We’d like to ask you a few additional questions about Monday morning.”

“Why?” came the low rasp.

“Forgot to ask them before,” Marco called.

Jericho moved slowly toward us, taking our measure. He was wearing a camouflage jacket and pants and military-style black boots. He stopped directly in front of Marco, standing with feet spread and arms crossed, his pale, hollow-eyed gaze shifting from Marco to me. “What do you want to know?”

Marco held up both palms. “Do me a favor and put the weapon down. Army Ranger training still makes me uneasy when someone is carrying, especially when I’ve got my wife with me.”

Jericho studied Marco for a long moment, then emptied the chambers and dropped the bullets on the ground at his feet. “Good enough?”

When Marco continued to eye the shotgun, Jericho laid it on the ground behind him. “Now?”

“Thanks, man,” Marco said. “I’ll make this as quick as I can.”

Jericho folded his arms and braced his legs, clearly intending to conduct his business right there. “Go ahead.”

A strong gust of wind blew the hood off my head. I couldn’t suppress a shudder as I pulled it up and hugged my coat tighter around my body.

“Oh, hell,” Jericho said. “She’s freezing. Just come inside.”

We followed him to the trailer, but when he opened the door to let us go in, Marco took one look at the dark interior and said, “No, man. You first.”

Jericho gave him a quizzical glance, then climbed the two metal steps, went into his mini abode, turned on a light, then motioned for us to enter. Marco signaled for me to let him proceed first and then climbed the stairs, staying just inside the portal until he took a quick survey of the room.

He turned to hold out his hand to assist me up; then I stepped in to see a very small but tidy living room/dining area/kitchen. The living room had just enough space for a beat-up brown tweed sofa, an end table with a white ceramic lamp, a green recliner, and a tiny TV. The dining table was a plank of polished wood that extended from the wall, with wooden benches on either side. The decor was sparse but immaculate.

The kitchen consisted of a short avocado laminate counter on the opposite wall from the table, a white-enameled sink, a small white refrigerator and stove, and a few walnut cabinets above the counter. On the counter was a metal baking pan holding what appeared to be a small, skinned animal about the size of a squirrel. I shuddered, revolted by the sight.

Noticing the direction of my gaze, Jericho said, “Tomorrow’s supper.”

Okay, then.

Beyond the kitchen I could see a hallway that led to the back. Through the open door, I saw a bed with a white comforter neatly pulled up.

“Cozy digs,” Marco said.

Jericho gave a slight nod to acknowledge the compliment. “Beer?”

“No, thanks,” Marco said. “We won’t be here that long.”

Jericho indicated the sofa with a tilt of his head. “You can sit down if you want.”

As we headed for the sofa, I spotted a door off the living room that I assumed led to a second bedroom at the front of the trailer. We had just sat down when Jericho’s phone rang. He pulled a small flip phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

“I need to take this.”

“Go ahead,” Marco said.

He walked past the kitchen and headed up the hallway. “Yeah?” he answered. “Just a minute.” When he got to the bedroom at the back, he shut the door.

“Tiny place,” I said, glancing around. “I don’t know how he stands it. I’d be claustrophobic.”

“That’s because you
are
claustrophobic.”

I noticed the door to the second bedroom standing partway open and got up.

“Where are you going?” Marco asked as I pulled out my cell phone.

“I want to see what’s in this front room.”

“Abby,” Marco whispered as I switched on my phone’s flashlight. “Don’t.”

“Just a quick peek.”

I opened the door wide enough to see inside, then shined the light around the small room. In front of a window I saw a table loaded with tubes of oil paint and a jar full of artist’s brushes. In front of a swivel stool, I saw a canvas on an easel that had a partially finished portrait of a nude woman on it, her back toward me.

“It’s his art studio,” I whispered.

“Fine, now get back out here.”

“One minute.”

Around the perimeter of the room were stacks of canvases in various sizes. More hung on the walls, all of them of women in various nude poses. What was really odd was that all of the women had identical long, curling dark hair. Had he painted the same woman over and over?

I focused the beam on the portrait nearest me and felt a chill run through my body.

Rosa Marin stared back, a sweetly seductive smile on her face.

I moved to the next canvas. It was of Rosa, too. With a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, I swung the beam around the room. The walls were filled with nude portraits of Rosa Marin.

I
returned to the sofa in a state of shock, wishing I could take a scrub brush to the image in my brain of Rosa’s naked body. The good news was that I’d had the presence of mind to snap a quick shot before leaving the room. But all I could think of now was that if she had posed for Jericho—many times, apparently—were they lovers? Wouldn’t they have to be? Which led to the bigger questions: Had they conspired to murder her husband? Was Rosa playing us?

“Are you okay?” Marco asked as I sat down beside him.

“You won’t believe what I saw.”

Before I could pull up the photo, the door opened and Jericho came out. “Business call,” was all he said. He sat in the recliner and waited for Marco to speak. He was totally at ease, elbows resting on the chair arms, face impassive. A man good at keeping secrets.

I slipped my phone into my purse and took out my notepad and pen as Marco said, “I appreciate your taking time to talk to us and I’ll keep it brief. Let’s start with who is next in line to be foreman.”

“You asked that before. It’s Adrian.” Jericho’s gaze shifted to me and his eyebrows drew together ever so slightly. I realized then that I was frowning at him and tried to return to a neutral expression. Using the top end of my pen, I pushed against the wrinkle that always appeared between my brows when something was bothering me.

“Does Mr. Appleruth decide on a foreman on an individual basis,” Marco asked, “or is Adrian just the next one in line?”

“Adrian has the most seniority, so unless he screws up, he gets the job.”

“Is Adrian aware of that?”

“Everyone is aware of that.”

I wrote it down and added,
If true,
Adrian lied to us.

“Is the foreman’s position something everyone aspires to?” Marco asked.

“I don’t know.” His voice, as well as his expression, were flat.

“Would you like the position?” Marco asked.

He shrugged as though he couldn’t have cared less.

“Do you know what Sergio was doing right before he fell?” Marco asked.

“Painting the trim under the eaves.”

“Did you see him painting?”

“It didn’t register at the time. I know it now because people have said it.”

“Did you see who was close to him?”

“The guys say Adrian. I wasn’t paying attention to what anyone else was doing.”

“What were you doing at the time?”

“Nailing shingles.”

“Who else was nailing shingles?”

“Sam.”

“What was Clive doing?”

“He kept us supplied.”

“So he was up and down a ladder?”

“Yeah.”

“Was the ladder near Sergio’s ladder?”

Jericho lifted one shoulder. If he’d been any more laid-back, he’d have been snoring.

“Did you hear Sergio say anything when he fell?”

“‘Help.’”

“Then what happened?”

“I stopped nailing and looked around. That’s when I saw Sergio falling backward.”

“So you had your back to him initially?” I asked.

He picked at a hangnail. “Yeah.”

“And you could hear him call for help over the nail gun’s noise?” I asked.

“It isn’t a continuous noise.”

“What were the others doing when you glanced around?” Marco asked.

“They were on their feet watching Sergio.”

Marco waited for me to finish writing, then asked, “Did you ever witness Sergio drunk?”

“I never hung around the bar that long.”

“Better things to do?” I asked, tapping my pen on the notepad.

Jericho gave me a skeptical glance, and I realized I was frowning at him again. “You could say that.”

“Like what? Paint?” I asked.

His gaze narrowed. “How do you know I paint?”

“Mr. Appleruth said you’ve displayed canvases at the
Art Barn. If we wanted to see some of your work, could we find them there now?”

“Maybe a few of the older pieces.”

Marco gave me a
What are you doing?
expression. Turning back to Jericho, he said, “Did you ever witness Sergio coming to work with a hangover?”

“Possibly. Could be he was just more bad-tempered than usual.”

“What made Clive think it was a hangover?” Marco asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jericho didn’t know much apparently. Marco rubbed his palms on his jeans, something he always did when he felt frustrated. Looking at me, he said, “Anything you want to add?”

I smiled my thanks at him, then turned to Jericho. “Have you heard any of the rumors about Rosa Marin having an affair with another man?”

I could feel Marco’s gaze burning a hole in my cheek. If I glanced his way, he’d only give me another
What are you doing?
look, so I stayed focused on Jericho.

“I don’t listen to rumors.”

Marco put his arm around the back of the sofa and discreetly touched my shoulder. I still didn’t look at him. “What do you paint? Landscapes? Portraits?”

Jericho’s focus shifted toward the partially open studio door then back at me, his gaze narrowing further. “Whatever strikes my fancy.”

More like
who
ever.

“What’s it to you?” he asked.

“I’m a big fan of art. I’d love to see some of your work. Do you have any pieces here?”

“I don’t show them anymore.” He rose. “Anything else?”

Marco stood up, too. “That should do it. Thanks for your time.”

*   *   *

“Where were you going with that?” Marco asked the moment we were out the door. “And what rumors were you talking about?” He sounded slightly annoyed.

“Marco,” I said breathlessly as I hustled alongside him in the fierce wind, “there were nude paintings of Rosa all over Jericho’s studio. I was hinting that I knew about them to see what he’d reveal.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying? You actually wanted Jericho—a suspect—to know you were snooping around his house?”

Marco was furious. Not many things upset him, but any situation that put me in danger sure did, especially when I created it.

“What’s one of the biggest rules I’ve taught you, Abby? Never tip your hand.” He opened the car door for me and I climbed in, feeling about two inches tall.

He slid behind the wheel and sat for a moment, key in the ignition, while I traced a drip down the passenger-side window. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to calm himself down or was doing some serious thinking. Whichever, I knew to leave him alone until he was ready to talk. Finally he said, “Are you sure it was Rosa?”

“I’m sure. I even took a picture. I’ll show you.”

He started the engine. “Let’s get away from here first. Jericho may be watching.”

As we drove back up the gravel road, he said, “What rumor were you talking about?”

“There isn’t any rumor, just my feeling that there has to be something going on between Jericho and Rosa.”

“Based on what?”

“The number of paintings I saw. I could perhaps understand a wife wanting to surprise her husband with a fantasy portrait of herself, but being painted by her husband’s coworker? Multiple times? No way.”

Marco said nothing as he turned onto the country road, but his fingers were tapping the steering wheel, so I knew he was mulling it over.

“So,” I continued, “after I saw them, my next thought was that if Rosa and Jericho are or were lovers, they might have teamed up to get rid of Sergio.”

“First rule, babe.”

“Verify.”

“Right. We’ll have to talk to Rosa again, but this time I want to be there.”

As if I couldn’t handle questioning her by myself? Really? “Then we’ll have to go see her together, because if I call her to set something up, she’ll insist that I talk to her woman to woman.”

“Then let’s go after dinner tomorrow night.”

One problem: I had planned to go see Norm Jones then. “Isn’t the bar kind of busy for you to take off on a Friday night?”

“I forgot it was Friday. Saturday during the day, then.”

“Works for me.” I was glad now I hadn’t shared my investigation of the Joneses with him. If it amounted to nothing, Marco would never know. But if my gut feeling was right, I wanted to wow him with my skill so he’d never doubt me again.

“Give me your assessment of Jericho,” Marco said.

“After seeing those paintings, the red flags are up. Jericho is a man with secrets. He’d make an excellent poker player. And did you notice the difference in what Adrian Prada told us about who the next foreman would be and what Jericho said? Adrian pretended like he didn’t know, and Jericho said everyone knew it was Adrian.”

“What went through your mind when Jericho said Clive was up and down the ladder?”

“Same thing that went through yours. I wanted to know where that ladder was in relation to Sergio’s. And now I want to know why Clive didn’t mention anything to us about being on a ladder in the first place.”

“None of the three mentioned it before. Maybe Adrian Prada can tell us more about Clive’s movements. He doesn’t seem to be in tight with the other three.”

When we stopped at a light, I took the opportunity to show Marco the photo of the painting. Before I handed him my phone, I enlarged the image so he could see Rosa’s face—and nothing else.

He studied it a moment. “How many paintings were there?”

“On the walls, maybe seven. There could be more, because he had paintings leaning against each other on the floor.”

“I’ll call the Art Barn tomorrow to find out what he’s displayed in the past.”

My cell phone rang, so I closed the photo file, then checked the screen and saw my cousin’s name. “Hey, Jillian, what’s up?”

“What are you doing right now?” she asked.

“Marco and I are on our way to the bar.”

“And then what?”

“I’m going to collect Seedy and take her home.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to pick me up and we’re going to see—are you ready?—The. Best. House. Ever.”

Yay?

*   *   *

The Best House Ever was a tiny robin’s egg blue cottage with white trim that sat at the back of a long, narrow lot on a street of older homes. To get to TBHE, we had to walk up a flagstone path overgrown with weeds and through a rose arbor filled with dead vines and fight our way past thorny barberry shrubs that stretched their sharp branches across the small porch and snagged our clothing. Then, because no lights had been left on for us, we had to use our cell phone flashlights so Jillian could see to unlock the door.

“Are you sure this is the right house?” I asked, trying to peek in a dark window.

She shined the beam on the brass numbers beside the door. “Seventeen Eighty-Nine. This is it.”

“The address or the year it was built? Does anyone live here? It looks neglected.”

“It hasn’t been occupied for a while, but I was assured that the inside of this cute little cottage will make you flip.” Jillian hit a switch inside the door and a light came on behind a frosted dome in the ceiling, illuminating a front hallway barely big enough for four people. There was an arched doorway on either side of us, so we entered a room on the right, where Jillian flipped another switch—that did nothing.

Using light from both phones, I was able to see a
small, low-ceilinged room with white stucco walls and dark wood floors that creaked when we stepped on them. There were two narrow double-hung windows facing the street and a small brick fireplace.

“Isn’t this a darling room?” Jillian asked.

“I do like the fireplace, but the ceilings are low and with only two windows, and a north-facing house, it’ll be dark in here during the day.”

“Don’t judge it until you’ve seen the rest.”

I opened the bifold glass doors on the front of the fireplace and something rustled inside. I shined my light on it and saw two beady eyes peering out from under a pile of half-burned logs. “Ew!” I quickly shut the doors and backed away. “I think there’s a mouse in there.”

“Don’t be silly. How could a mouse get down the chimney?”

I rubbed my arms. “I hate mice, Jillian. You know that.”

“You hate spiders, Abby, not mice.”

“I know what I hate, Jill.” I followed her into a bedroom lit by another domed light on the ceiling. The room had the same two windows facing the street, the same white walls, and a minuscule closet. The room was so tiny that a bed and dresser would fit, but nothing else.

“It’s too small,” I said.

“This is the nursery, Abs. It’s supposed to be small.”

“We don’t need a nursery. We need a guest room.”

“Yeah, for all those guests that stay with you.” She left the room and went up the hallway toward the back. “Come see the master suite.”

I followed her into a room identical to the first. “This isn’t a master suite. It’s just another cramped bedroom.”

“This is a cottage, Abs. It’s supposed to be small. But don’t judge it until you’ve seen the rest.”

I followed her into a kitchen that was just large enough to fit the sink and small counter attached to it, a few cabinets above the sink, and an old oven across from it. “Where’s the refrigerator?”

She opened a screen door onto an enclosed back porch. “Here it is. Oh, look. It’s your eating area, too.”

And the laundry room, apparently, with the dryer stacked on top of the washer. “Jillian, this is horrible. I don’t want to come out here every time I need something from the fridge, and I certainly don’t want to eat out here. It’s old and dirty.”