Evil In Carnations (25 page)

Mrs. Frey’s sunken-cheeked face seemed to be formed into a permanent frown, so I couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or scowling, but my bet was on the scowl.

“What are you doing here?” she said in a decidedly unfriendly tone.

“I don’t know if you remember me, but I was in the other day to drop off some laundry.”
Good job, Abby.
Like that would make me stand out from all the other customers.

She went back to the big presser and removed a pair of men’s slacks. “I remember you. The nosy florist. What do you want?”

“I’m helping my friend, an investigator, with a”—might as well use Marco’s gambit—“a hit-and-run accident that happened in the parking lot of the Wild Boar Steak House in Maraville after the Cloud Nine speed-dating event last Thursday night, and I thought maybe—”

“I wasn’t there,” she snarled.

“Yes, I know that, but did Iris mention anything about the accident to you?”

“Iris isn’t here.”

“I know that, too, but she
was
at the restaurant that night.”

“That stupid girl. I told her not to go there. Men are nothing but trouble anyway. Why would she want to meet someone and get married? What is marriage but misery? I had nothing but misery for thirty-seven years. Misery and hard labor. But has Iris ever listened to me? Ha! Do you listen to your mother?”

“Most of the time.” Fingers crossed behind my back.

“Iris doesn’t listen to nothing I say.” Mrs. Frey put in another pair of pants and closed the machine. “I don’t know what I can tell you, except how stupid that girl is. Now look what happened. We get nosy investigators poking into our business.”

“Has someone been around to question Iris?”

She glared at me. “Looks like Iris ain’t the only stupid girl around here.”

It wasn’t going to be easy to get useful information from this nasty old woman, but I was determined to find a way, even if I had to be sneaky. “So you’re not in favor of Iris dating then?”

“Iris? Why would she want to date? Where does it lead except to a miserable marriage?”

“I hear you loud and clear,” I said, playing along. “It’s hard to find a decent guy out there. At least Iris has her comedy-club gig to keep her socially active.”

Mrs. Frey turned the pants in the presser. “Comedy,” she said, scoffing. “Is there anything funny about life? Misery, that’s all it’s ever been. Misery and hard work.”

“Maybe you need to try something new, like taking up a hobby,” I said, but at her fierce scowl, I figured that boat wasn’t about to sail anytime soon.

“I got my bingo night. I don’t need a hobby. Iris, she don’t care for bingo. Says it’s for the geezer gals. Says that’s why she needs her comedy club.” Mrs. Frey ended with a snort of disapproval.

“You and Iris lead a very quiet life then.”

“What of it?”

“Nothing! Quiet is good. Everyone needs a little quiet.” As Mrs. Frey put the pants on a hanger and reached for the next pair, I cast about for some way to broach the subject of Iris’s alibi, but couldn’t think of a damn thing. “So, this past Sunday evening, another quiet night at home for the two of you?”

Mrs. Frey’s eyes immediately narrowed. “I thought you wanted to know about Thursday night.”

I smacked myself on the forehead. “I meant Thursday night, not Sunday night.”

I could tell by her clenched jaw that she wasn’t buying it. “You’re a nosy girl. I’ve had enough of your questions. Get out of here.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll drop by some other time.”

She started toward me, yelling, “Not some other time. Not ever! You hear me? I don’t want you coming around here ever again. Get out!”

I backed quickly out of the room, nearly falling into the cart again, and turned toward the shocked face of the counter clerk and her one remaining customer, Ms. No-Cuts, who was watching with a smug grin.

Regaining my composure, I called back, “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Frey.” Then I returned No-Cuts’ smile and strolled idly toward the door.

“Don’t forget your free newspaper,” the girl called, but I was halfway out the door and not about to go back.

Just as I was about to cross the street, I heard, “Hey! Wait up.”

I turned to see the young clerk scoot out the door behind No-Cuts and hurry up to me with a newspaper. “Take this, please,” she said, and thrust it at me. “I needed a reason to talk to you. You’re the florist, right? The one who was in the newspapers for helping to solve some murders?”

“That’s me,” I answered with some hesitation.

“Are you investigating the Jonas Treat murder?”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to see Mrs. Frey? Look, I can’t talk long. I don’t want her to see me. Besides, it might not mean anything, but after I read about Mr. Treat’s murder, I figured someone should know.”

I was all ears now. “Know what?”

“That Iris had a crush on Mr. Treat, and ever since his murder she’s been acting really weird—weirder than usual, I mean.”

“Have you talked to the cops about Iris?”

“No way. I’ve had a few run-ins with them, and . . . well, you know, why remind them of it, right?”

“Maybe Iris is grieving over Mr. Treat’s death.”

“I guess that could be it. Iris
was
in love with the guy. She even went to that speed-dating thing Thursday night because he was going to be there. Iris never does anything like that.”

This girl knew much more than I expected. “Do you have any idea how Iris knew Mr. Treat would be at that event?”

“She came across an invitation in his suit coat pocket. She always went through his pockets. She wouldn’t let anyone else wait on him or handle his clothes.”

“How do you know Iris found the invitation?”

The girl darted a nervous glance back at the building. “I saw her take the envelope out of his suit and open it.”

“What did Iris do after she opened the envelope?”

“She took it over to the window to read it—her eyesight isn’t real good—and then got all flushed in the face, like she does when she gets angry or excited. Then she went to the restroom and started talking to herself. She does that a lot.”

The girl smiled sheepishly. “My friend and I, we like to make fun of Iris and her freaky ways, and sometimes we listen at the bathroom door when she practices her comedy routines. She hates being overheard. We only do that after Mrs. Frey leaves, though.”

“What did Iris say or do after she saw the invitation?”

“She said Mr. Treat—well, she called him Jonas—would be her captive audience for nine minutes, and she’d have to be really on her game so he’d see the person behind the fright mask.”

Iris seemed to be a realist about her appearance, which made it even odder that she thought she had a chance with Jonas. “Did you see the invitation?”

“Just for a second. It was black with silver writing on it, in a silver envelope.”

That sounded like something Carmen would use. “Did you happen to see a return address on the envelope?”

“No. Iris put everything back in the pocket and took the suit into the back room, and then I got busy and forgot about it.” The girl glanced over her shoulder, saw a customer enter the shop, then said, “Oops. Gotta go,” and darted back.

Puzzling over the new information, I headed for the courthouse square. At least the girl had solved the riddle of how Iris had known Jonas would be at last Thursday’s Cloud Nine event. How frustrated Iris must have been when Carmen refused to put her on Jonas’s list, not to mention how embarrassed when Jonas blew her off during the mixer.

I’d walked two blocks when I suddenly remembered Marco’s soiled T-shirt still in my purse. Oh, well. I’d just launder it myself.

As I approached the corner of Franklin and Lincoln, I happened to glance through the big plate-glass window of Bindstroms Jewelry Shop and saw Rafe waiting at the counter, probably on his mission to repair Marco’s watch.
Hmm.
If Robin had purchased a wedding band locally, this would be the place to do so, yet I didn’t dare make inquiries if Mrs. Bindstrom was in the shop. She was one of the biggest gossips in town. Who knew what story she’d concoct from my questions? I’d hate to start any rumors about Robin.

Trying not to be obvious, I glanced inside twice more as I strolled past. No sign of Mrs. Bindstrom. So, on impulse, I joined Rafe, deciding to take advantage of the opportunity to do a little extra sleuthing.

“Hey, Freckles,” Rafe said, as I joined him in front of a long glass case filled with diamond rings. “What’s happening?”

Two customers stood just a few feet away, looking at a display of watches, so I moved closer to him and said in an undertone, “I’m investigating.”

“May I show you a ring?” a saleswoman asked, sliding open a glass door on her side of the counter. I’d never seen her before, so I doubted she knew who I was.

“Actually . . .” I began.

The eager saleswoman set a tray full of diamond rings in front of me. “I’m not sure what style of engagement ring you’re looking for, but the emerald cut is always classic.”

Engagement ring? As the woman held out a ring for me to slip over my finger, Rafe said, “Go ahead, Freckles, try it on.”

I gave him a scowl, but he merely pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

“Stop joking around, Rafe,” I said, elbowing him as I smiled at the woman. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to look at engagement rings.”

At that moment, a loud rapping sound made everyone in the jewelry store turn to look toward the window, where, outside, my aunt Corrine and three of her friends were waving at me. I gave them a quick wave back, then, when they kept waving, motioned them on.

“Your fan club?” Rafe asked, as another clerk walked up and handed him a case with Marco’s watch inside.

“Right, my fan club, all four of them.” I leaned close to whisper, “Don’t you have work to do back at the bar?”

“Subtle.” Giving me a devilish wink, he sauntered toward the door in perfect Marco style.

“What kind of ring
are
you interested in?” the saleswoman asked.

“Actually, a man’s wedding band. I’m not sure how long ago it was ordered, but it would be under the name Robin Lennox. Could you look that up for me?”

“I’m not quite clear on this, Robin, if I may call you that. You’ve ordered the band and want to know if it’s ready?”

“Well . . .” Did I really want to waste more time explaining? “Yes.”

She went to the office and returned a few minutes later to report that the wedding band had been returned for a partial refund: “By Robin Lennox.” She gave me a skeptical glance. “What did you say your name was?”

Nice going, Abby.
“It doesn’t matter.” I backed toward the door. “Thanks for your help.”

So Jillian’s gossip was correct: Robin had been more invested in the wedding than she’d wanted me to believe. I had a feeling I’d find she’d dropped a few bucks on a wedding gown, as well.

I stepped out the door and glanced up and down the sidewalk but saw no sign of my aunt and her friends, luckily. As I started across the street, I noticed a cop car waiting for the light to change. At the wheel was my buddy, Sergeant Reilly, pretending not to notice me. Like that ever worked.

At forty years old, Sean Reilly was a nice-looking man, with intelligent hazel eyes, good facial structure, and brown hair starting to show a bit of white at the temples. As a rookie cop, he’d trained under my dad, and had later become Marco’s buddy, which eventually made us friends of sorts, although Reilly wasn’t always thrilled about it.

I darted up to the car and tapped on his window. “Reilly, I need to talk to you!”

Frowning in concern, he pointed to the cross street. When the light turned green, he made a hard left turn and pulled to the curb. I dashed to the passenger side of his car as he released the lock, letting me slide in.

“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my hands to warm them. “It’s really cold today.”

“Did something happen? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just need some information about the Jonas Treat investigation.”

“
That’s
what this is about?” His face darkened like a thundercloud as he pointed toward the sidewalk. “Out.”

“Seriously, Reilly, I need to know if the detectives have been investigating anyone besides Nikki, because it seems to me they haven’t.”

“First of all, don’t put me in this position again. You know I can’t give you information. Second, don’t come running up to my car unless it’s an emergency. Got it?”

What was it with men and positions? I sat forward on the seat. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Reilly, but Nikki’s in big trouble. Can’t you just give me a hint of what the DA has in mind?”

“Do you have any idea what would happen to me if—”

“I know the drill. Come on, Reilly, you’ve gotten to know Nikki. Is she a murderer? So just give me a nod or a shake—yes or no, have they looked at anyone else as a serious suspect?”

“I don’t have any information about the case, Abby.”

“Then I’ll tell you about it The detectives are focusing on Nikki because of circumstantial evidence. But if they haven’t looked at anyone else, of course they don’t have other evidence. They’ve stopped processing it. They could be sitting on a big fat clue that would point straight to the real killer, and they wouldn’t even know it.”

“What can I say? The DA calls the shots.”

With my fingers on the door handle I gave it another try. “Why would the DA set his sights on Nikki without taking a hard look at anyone else? Is Darnell that sure of a conviction? He must realize Nikki would present a sympathetic figure to a jury.”

“Abby!”

“Okay!” I opened the door and put one foot on the ground, but my mind was still racing. “Do you think Darnell has an ulterior motive? Is he getting pressure from city hall to wrap up the case? Have I angered him by helping to solve other murders? Wait! Elections are coming up, aren’t they? Please tell me he’s not trying to make himself look good by scoring another conviction.”