Moss Hysteria (10 page)

“I don't doubt that, Abby, but it was a mistake for you to come. When you're dealing with people's lives and livelihoods, you have to be on your toes.”

I couldn't have felt any lower if I'd tried. “Honestly, I thought I was fine. My lack of sleep is affecting me more than I realized.”

“I was going to suggest we stop to talk to Connie, but you're clearly not up to it.”

“No, we're here and so is she, so we might as well take advantage of it. I'll stay quiet and let you handle it.”

He gave me a skeptical glance. “Then we'll have to make it quick. I really do have to get back to the bar.”

We found Connie in her office, making a pot of coffee. Before we went in, Marco pulled me aside. “Are you sure you can stay awake? I don't want any mistakes this time.”

“I understand. Let's do this.”

A big-boned woman with short brown hair, twinkling eyes, and a dimpled face, Connie had on her standard uniform of brown slacks and a print top with brown loafers. We'd gotten to know Connie when she helped us choose the fixtures, flooring, cabinets, and paint for our house prior to construction. She had struck me then as a fair and competent saleswoman.

“Hello, you two,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “What are you up to today?”

“Do you have time for a few quick questions?” Marco asked. “We're investigating Dirk Singletary's case.”

“I wondered if you would be,” she said. “Some of the residents were taking bets. Would you like some coffee?”

Like. Need. Crave.
I knew Marco wanted to make it a fast stop, but if he wanted me to stay awake, he had to give me this. “I'll take a cup—black, please.”

“I saw the article about Dirk in today's paper,” Connie said, handing me a cardboard cup filled with strong-smelling brew. “I see they've officially declared it a murder. It's so hard to believe something like that could happen here.”

I nodded in agreement but didn't comment. I took a drink of coffee instead and nearly spit it out. It was so strong my tongue curled, but I forced myself to drink more, hoping it would kick-start my energy.

“What appointments did Dirk have scheduled for Friday after the meeting?” Marco asked.

As I set the cup on the filing cabinet beside me and opened the notebook to a clean page, Connie swiveled her chair toward her desk and flipped through an appointment book. “He was scheduled to meet with the Rosenbaums at two o'clock, with Mrs. Nabhan at three o'clock, and then nothing until seven thirty, when he was supposed to meet with Theda.”

“Did Dirk always work that late?”

“Just on Fridays. It had something to do with picking up one of his children after a sporting event. I heard him talking on the phone with Jane about it.”

“Jane is his wife?” Marco asked for verification reasons.

“I'm sorry. Yes, Jane Singletary.”

“Did Dirk keep his Friday appointments?”

“Two of them. Theda said he didn't make it to hers.”

“Is there any way to verify her claim?”

“Not without asking Dirk, unless Theda's neighbors saw him there. Oh, that would be you, wouldn't it?” She laughed.

“We hadn't moved in yet, but Mitzi Kole might know,” Marco said.

I paused as a big yawn overtook me, then made a note to ask Mitzi, only it looked like
Arf Mitsu Hobe.

Marco continued. “How long did Rye Bishop work on the day of the murder?”

“I leave at five, so I couldn't say how long he stayed beyond that time.”

“Doesn't Rye usually leave at four?” I asked, then remembered my promise. I gave Marco an apologetic look.

“Rye stayed later on Fridays because Dirk did.”

Another contradiction to Rye's story.

“What appointments did Rye have last Friday afternoon?” Marco asked.

Connie checked the appointment book again. “He doesn't have anything written down, but that's not unusual. He's our troubleshooter, so he goes where he's needed. It's often a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

I leaned my elbow on the filing cabinet, overcome by a desire to lie down.

“Did you hear Dirk and Brandon argue after the meeting?” Marco asked.

“I came in at the tail end of it. I had been out showing a model home.”

“Do you know what their argument was about?”

Connie shook her head. I gave mine a shake, too, trying to wake myself up.

“Did you hear anything that was said?” Marco asked.

“Of course,” I answered, then realized Marco had directed that to Connie. I coughed into my hand, trying to make it sound like
Of course.

“Well,” Connie said, “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but—”

I closed my eyes as the conversation swirled around me, the words blurring into meaningless sounds. My elbow slipped off the cabinet and jerked me awake. Fortunately, the coffee didn't spill.

But I did come to just in time to hear Connie say, “As Dirk passed me he said, ‘Tell Brandon to go jump in the pond.'”

That struck me as so ironic I had to choke back a chuckle. Marco shot me a quizzical look and I bowed my head, which was not the smartest move, because I began to fall asleep again.

“That's not something people normally say to their boss,” Marco said.

“That was how Dirk talked to Brandon.”

“Shouldn't that have gotten him fired?”

Connie smiled. “I wish I could comment on that. And I'm sorry, but I do need to leave. I have a meeting with prospective buyers at the model home in ten minutes.”

“No problem, Connie,” Marco said. “You've answered our questions for now. Thanks for your help.”

As soon as Connie was out of earshot, I said, “Sorry that I laughed at Dirk's comment, but the irony of him telling Brandon to jump in the pond struck me as funny.”

“That's okay. It made me wonder how Brandon felt. Maybe it angered him so much he decided Dirk should be the one in the pond.”

We left the office and walked up the hallway to the large storage closet beyond the men's restroom. Inside were an industrial vacuum cleaner, a squeeze mop, two blue plastic buckets, brooms, several pairs of thick yellow work gloves, a shovel, and a large rusty red tool chest. Marco crouched in front of it and snapped the fasteners on the front, then opened the lid, revealing an assortment of small wrenches, screwdrivers, scrapers, and loose nuts and bolts. He lifted the top tray and found more of the same beneath it.

“No large wrenches or hammers, and I would've expected to find some.” Marco closed the chest, shoved it back inside, and shut the door. “We'll have to ask Rye if there's another location where tools are kept.”

Back in the car, now toasty warm from the sun, I buckled myself in, lay my head against the head rest, and shut my eyes. They hurt so much they felt like sandpaper.

As Marco backed out of the parking space he said, “I got the impression Connie didn't care for Dirk. Did you catch that, too?”

“Mm-hmm.” Didn't catch it at all. Had I slept through it?

“First thoughts about Brandon's interview?”

“Born politician,” I muttered. “Born . . . to be . . . a politician.” I spun off into a dream that I was lying on my bed listening to music on the radio. Then the newscaster broke in to say, “You need a nap, Abby.”

“Abby?” Marco shook my arm. “I'll handle the situation with Rye. You take the afternoon off.”

“Can't,” I mumbled. “There'll be a coup in my absence.”

“You're not making sense, sweetheart. Just stay awake until I get you home. You're too tired to be using sharp tools today. I'll call Lottie and explain.”

I turned to the side and rested my face on my hands. “It won't matter,” I said on a sleepy sigh. “Rosa will override you.”

“You're really not making sense now.”

He carried me into the house, put me on the bed, pulled off my shoes, and tucked the comforter around me. “I'll call you in ninety minutes. If you sleep longer than that, you'll be awake again tonight.”

“Okay,” I said on a sigh, as sleep carried me off. “Good night, my liege.”

B
y the time Jillian arrived at seven o'clock that evening, I was rested, refreshed, and realizing what a horrible mistake I'd made. I prayed that Marco was able to mitigate it somehow with both Rye and Brandon. I also came to the conclusion that while some people were able to function on a few hours' sleep, I wasn't one of them. I'd have to apologize to Marco again. I didn't want to lose his trust. At least I was awake enough now to deal with my fussy cousin.

Jillian Ophelia Knight Osborne was a year younger, a head taller, twenty pounds lighter, and way prettier than me. She had a waterfall of glorious copper-colored hair, large golden brown eyes, creamy skin, and just a sprinkling of freckles across her pert little nose. Mine was more like a rain shower.

Jillian was the pampered wife of Claymore Osborne, the wealthy son of one of the scions of New Chapel. He was also the younger brother of the man I would have been calling my husband, had that man not dumped me after I'd flunked out of law school.

It was history now, a tragedy back then, which had turned out to be a blessing. As with most things, I didn't see it that way for a long time. Now I could look back and breathe a sigh of relief. If all that hadn't happened, I wouldn't own Bloomers and be married to my hero.

I didn't sigh in relief that evening, however—only in irritation because of the first words out of Jillian's mouth.

“That Rosa is amazing.”

She dropped her Kate Spade tote—white with a black trim—on the sofa and shrugged off her white leather jacket with black trim and silver buckles. Underneath she wore a black top, black-and-white checkered leggings, and knee-high black boots. Jillian always made a statement, even for a casual evening at her cousin's.

“I almost cried when Tara told me she wasn't able to babysit,” Jillian said, removing a white leather notebook from her tote bag. It, too, had black leather trim. Did she have one to match every outfit?

“But Harper took to Rosa just like that.” Jillian snapped her fingers. Her nail polish, I noticed, was black with white polka dots. “I was shocked. You know how attached that baby is to me.”

“Yes, well, be careful. You might find your position as mother usurped.”

“What are you talking about?”

I plunked down on Marco's old tan sofa beside my cousin, who was sketching the room on her iPad. “I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, but sometimes it feels like Rosa is taking over my shop.”

Jillian laughed. “No one is going to push you out of your own business.”

I had to agree it sounded ridiculous. “You're right. Okay, what do we need to do to get this house decorated? My party is coming up soon.”

“Do you have a floor plan to scale?”

“Somewhere. I'll have to dig it out.”

“I'll need that. Next is a questionnaire that will help me determine your decorating style.”

“I don't have a decorating style. That's why you're here.”

Jillian stopped drawing to look at me. “Seriously? You want me to decorate your house in
my
style?”

I did a quick once-over of her outfit. “Probably not.”

“Back to the questionnaire. Here you go. Fill it out while I make a list of furniture pieces that we can use.”

I looked over the questions on her tablet and found one I could answer. Favorite colors: yellow, orange, purple, green.

Jillian did a full sweep of the living room and came back. “Well, that was easy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Everything in this room must go.”

“I don't think Marco will want to give up his recliner.”

Jillian heaved a sigh, one hand at her waist. “Do you want a beautiful house or not? If you do, then that beat-up recliner goes. Let me see your questionnaire.”

I handed it over and she did a quick scan. “You answered one question.”

“It's the only one I could answer.”

“So what you're saying is that you want your house to look like a children's playroom.”

“Do you understand now why I asked for your help?”

Jillian put down the tablet then formed a square with her fingers as though looking through a window. “Envision this room stripped down to nothing.”

I mimicked her hand position. “No problem. That's what it was six days ago.”

“Now in your mind's eye, put one piece of furniture in the room. Let's make it a sofa. What color is it?”

“Tan.”

Jillian glared at me. “Not the one that's already here.”

“I can't do it, Jillian. I can't envision something that's not here. You do it.”

“No! This is a team effort, Abby. Stop being difficult and focus. If you were designing a floral arrangement, what color would you start with?”

“That would depend on the type of arrangement.”

“Then pretend you're designing a chic but comfortable arrangement for a living room.”

“A comfortable floral arrangement?”

Jillian heaved a frustrated sigh. “Go for dressy casual, then.”

“That sounds like an outfit.”

“I'm a fashion consultant, Abby. Would you bear with me here?”

“Bright yellow.”

“Okay. That's a start. But you might not want such a bold color for a large piece of furniture. How about we use yellow for your accent color?”

“That'll work.”

“
Now
what color is your sofa?”

I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine the room. “Tan.”

Jillian heaved a sigh then checked her watch. “Could I have a glass of chardonnay, please? This is going to be a long evening.”

Saturday

At breakfast the next morning the first thing I did was apologize to Marco for the terrible mistakes I'd made during Brandon's interview. I couldn't help but thank God that it had worked out to our advantage. And then as I refilled our coffee cups, I filled him in on my planning session with Jillian.

“Here's my problem. I can picture a floral arrangement before I pull the flowers for it, but when it comes to imagining a room, I draw a big fat blank. Last night was like banging my head against the wall. I actually felt sorry for my cousin.”

“So basically it took two hours to decide on yellow pillows.”

“She gave me homework to do when we're out shopping today. I have to take photos of every piece of furniture I like. We're going to meet again Monday evening to go over them.”

“Taking photos is pure genius. I'm impressed, Abby. It sounds like Jillian knows her stuff.”

“But what if I like everything?”

“You won't like everything. Do you like our dining room table?”

“It's nice—for a card table.”

“Now you're being difficult. Push your anxiety aside and see what we come up with today. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.”

“It will definitely be a surprise. I'm not sure about the
pleasant
part.”

“Would you have a little faith in Jillian? You're the one who said she's an expert.”

I took a drink of coffee and sighed. “I wish I had your optimism.”

“You know your cousin isn't going to steer you wrong. She wouldn't want her name associated with anything tacky. Trust her on this, Abby.”

I took my plate to the sink. “She could do it if she wanted to. She understands my tastes as well as I do.”

Marco finished his oatmeal and joined me at the sink to rinse out his bowl. “I know you too well to let you get away with this, Sunshine. You're afraid your choices won't be designer enough, so you're trying to force Jillian into making your decisions.”

“Would you like to make them instead?” I asked as he headed toward the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“With some team effort, I'll bet we could do it. You're always saying how in sync our tastes are.”

“We don't have the decorating knowledge, Marco. For instance, look at your recliner.”

He stopped and turned to stare at me. “What's wrong with my recliner?”

“Jillian said it's worn-out and has to go.”

“Not going to happen,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

“What about
Have faith in your cousin
and
She's the expert
?” I called.

“Not going to happen.”

•   •   •

Jane Singletary sat across from us in the expensively furnished living room of her spacious two-story colonial, watching us with tired but wary eyes. She had welcomed us with some reluctance and had ordered her boys to go up to their bedrooms immediately.

An attractive, physically fit woman, Jane had shoulder-length light brown hair held back with a bright blue headband, accenting her vivid blue eyes and light complexion. She wore a wedding ring with an enormous diamond setting, and if she had on makeup, I couldn't detect it. The deep purple circles beneath her eyes stood out clearly. Wearing a light blue T-shirt that said
Pump Up the Heat
, a pair of black workout pants, and black sneakers, she had a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead as though she'd just been exercising.

“We'd like to express our condolences on the loss of your husband,” I said.

I had expected a tearful reply but instead got a terse “Thank you.”

“When is his funeral?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. They just released his body yesterday. Would you like coffee or anything?” This was asked perfunctorily.

“No, thanks,” I said. “We won't take up any more time than is necessary.”

“As I explained on the phone,” Marco began, “we're conducting a private investigation on the matter of your husband's death at the behest of a resident in Brandywine who fears she will become a target for police detectives.”

“And as I said on the phone, I've already been over everything with detectives. Can't you get information from them? This is difficult for me.”

“I wish they would permit that,” I said. “Also, we try to look at a case from all angles, which they don't always do, so our questions may be completely different.”

Jane didn't reply, but her expression said plenty. She wanted to get it over with.

“Let's start with some basic information,” Marco said, reading from the list of questions we'd written that morning. “How long were you and Dirk married?”

“Twelve years.” Anticipating the rest of our questions, she began to rattle off information. “Our boys are Chad, ten, and Chase, eight. They attend private school. We moved here from Fort Collins, Colorado, and before that we lived in Wilmington, Delaware. I don't work outside of the home, and I was out last Friday evening from six p.m. until sometime after nine.

“I dropped my oldest son at baseball practice at six then went to the grocery store, the drugstore, and Target. My youngest son stayed with my mom at her home across town. Dirk normally picks Chad up from practice at seven thirty, but he said he had a late appointment, so I arranged for my mom to get Chad that night.”

Jane got up from her aqua blue armchair, placed a piece of paper on my notebook, and sat down again, while I wrote furiously to keep up with her. “Here's her telephone number and address if you'd care to check the facts.”

Jane was one prepared woman.

“Do you have receipts from the three stores?” Marco asked.

She shook her head. “I can print out my credit card statement, though.”

“Why did Dirk pick your son up from practice every Friday?” Marco asked.

“I take a jiujitsu class on Friday evenings.”

“Why didn't you go last week?”

“I had too many errands.”

“Did Dirk say who his late appointment was with?”

“One of the residents, but her name escapes me. I know it concerned moss. Dirk said this woman was driving him crazy about it.” She added bitterly, “Believe me—for him that was a short drive.”

“Do you think Dirk would have harmed this woman?” Marco asked.

“I'm sure he would have been nasty to her, but nothing more than that.”

“Was the resident Mitzi Kole?” I asked.

“No. It was a foreign-sounding name. Athena? Thena?”

“Theda?” I supplied.

“That sounds right.”

“Did Dirk say anything about meeting a plumber?”

“No.”

“Do you know whether he kept that meeting with Theda?” Marco asked.

She shook her head.

“Did Dirk keep a large wrench in his truck?”

“He kept a lot of things in his truck. Why?”

“The police believe the murder weapon may be a wrench or similar tool. Where is the truck now?”

“Parked behind the garage. The police brought it back yesterday, but they didn't say anything about a wrench.”

Marco studied her for a moment. “I don't mean to get too personal, but how would you describe your marriage?”

Jane crossed her arms. “Fine until a detective showed up at my door two months ago to tell me my husband was a jewel thief.”