Night of the Living Dandelion (31 page)

“Because he hated Lori,” Diane replied. “Because I’ve heard him brag that he knows ways to kill people that would never be detected. And because if you dig deeper into his alibi than the police did, you’ll find he was lying.”

“Can you be more specific than that?” Marco asked, writing down the information.

“That’s about as specific as I want to be.”

“Do you know what Holloway’s alibi is?” I asked.

Diane used a terry-cloth towel to wipe her forehead. “Medical conference in Phoenix.”

“He didn’t go?” I asked.

“Oh, he went, all right. But like I said, dig deeper.”

“So he went to Phoenix,” I said, “but not to the conference?”

“You’re half right,” she said. “And that’s all I’ll say on it. I like being employed.”

“How do you know this information?” Marco asked.

She smiled. “I can’t tell you that. But I have it from a reliable source.”

“Did you see Lori Wednesday morning?” he asked.

“Not Wednesday, no. I went to Lori’s place Tuesday morning. I’ll bet Mrs. Green told you Wednesday, didn’t she? That old busybody. She’s half off her rocker and always sticks her nose into everyone’s business.”

“Every neighborhood has a Mrs. Green,” I said.

Diane took another look at me. “Do we know each other?”

“Possibly. Do you ever buy flowers at Bloomers?”

Diane’s mouth dropped open. “You’re the florist who’s always helping catch criminals!”

“Not
always,
” I said modestly. “A few times, perhaps. Well, okay, ten.”

She leaned against the door and crossed her arms. “You’re such a little thing. How do you do it, and on crutches yet?”

Marco cleared his throat. He was growing impatient.

“The crutches are temporary,” I said, then put my hand on Marco’s arm. “And he’s how I do it.” Then I turned the floor over to my intended before he started pawing the ground.

Marco pulled out the photo of Lori. “Would you mind looking at this?”

Diane took it from him, saw what it was, and turned her head away with a grimace. “You should have warned me.”

“I know it’s difficult,” Marco said, “so try to look only at the clothing, see if it looks familiar.”

Diane closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself. Then she took a long look at the photo and handed it back. “That’s the outfit Lori was wearing Tuesday morning.”

“Are you certain?” Marco asked.

“She had a matching blazer when I saw her, but it’s the same skirt and blouse. She called it her power suit. She was also wearing a shiny yellow flower pendant, kind of Art Deco style, with a white center, and matching earrings.”

“What kind of flower?” I asked.

Marco glanced at me as if to say,
What difference does it make? A flower is a flower.

“It wasn’t a daisy,” Diane said. “It had lots of thin petals, like a dandelion.”

A flower was definitely
not
a flower when it was a weed that a certain vampire look-alike had a thing for.

“Why did you visit Lori Tuesday morning?” Marco asked.

“To get my hibachi back,” Diane said. “I leave it on my patio. Every time Lori decides she wants to grill, she takes it. But that’s how Lori is—was. Whatever she wanted, she took.”

Including someone else’s promotion. Diane had just opened the gate for us. That must have been what Marco was waiting for.

“I understand you and Lori were up for the same position a few years back,” Marco said.

Diane’s nostrils flared, as though the thought of it still stank. “Yeah, until she went behind my back to sabotage my chances of getting it. Then she couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to be friends anymore.”

“Being stabbed in the back is hard to take,” Marco said.

“I was furious for a long time,” Diane said. “I went to Parkview before Lori did and helped her get hired. Then she sabotaged me. I couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with her after that. But I ended up with a position at County that I like even more—and she ended up dead—so it all worked out.” She smiled wryly.

Macabre sense of humor. I liked her.

“Were you at County Hospital when the wrongful-death lawsuit was filed against Lori and the hospital by a patient named Jerry Trumble?” Marco asked.

“Sure was,” Diane said.

“Do you know how Mr. Trumble learned about the dosage error?” Marco asked.

“I sure don’t.”

“Did you have a conversation with Jerry that might have tipped him off?” Marco asked.

She looked confused. “Are you asking if I told Jerry that Lori gave his wife the overdose? No!”

“Did you say anything to him at his wife’s funeral that might have led him to believe Lori had a hand in Dana Trumble’s death?” Marco asked.

“No! Jerry asked
me
if I knew that Lori had given his wife the heparin. All I said to him was that I didn’t know anything about it and I was sorry for his loss. I only knew them through the Lamaze class I taught when Dana was pregnant.”

“Would you have said something to Jerry to get back at Lori?” I asked.

“Get back at her for what? Dana died while Lori and I were still at County, well before the director’s position became available. Look, even if I had known something about Dana’s death, I wouldn’t have told Jerry about it. I’d have gone to my supervisor.”

Marco wrote it down. “Last question, and this is just a formality. I know you’ve already given a statement, but would you tell us where you were last Tuesday night?”

“I spent the night at my boyfriend’s place. We had dinner with another couple and spent the evening playing the Wii. I didn’t come back here until after work on Wednesday. I’ll be glad to provide names and numbers so you can check.”

Marco took down the information, thanked her, handed her his card, and told her to contact him if she thought of anything else.

“I vote for crossing Diane off the list,” I said to Marco as we headed for his car. “She doesn’t strike me as a vengeful person, and her motive is weak.”

“First we need to give her friends a call to check out her alibi. Remember, verify everything.”

“Diane also denied what Jerry told us about her encouraging him to file the suit. So why would he tell us something that could be disproved?”

“That’s Diane’s version, don’t forget. That’s why we—”

“I know. Verify everything. What do you think Diane was hinting at when she told us to dig deeper into Holloway’s medical conference?”

“Someone must have told her he showed up for the conference but didn’t attend the sessions. My guess is he was engaged in an activity that would get him—or whoever he was with—into trouble.”

“Such as having an affair with a coworker?”

“Or gambling, meeting a lover, flying home to commit murder. Someone else knows what he was doing.”

“How do we find out who it is? Diane’s not going to give up the name.”

“Maybe we won’t need the name. Maybe all we’ll need to do is make Holloway believe we know who it is.”

Marco helped me into the car, and then we headed for the casino to try to catch Dr. Speedo in his lie.

M
y ankle was aching after hobbling around Lori’s neighborhood, but during the half-hour drive, I felt better. In fact, I was eager to confront Holloway, especially with the plan Marco and I had devised. I couldn’t wait to see the doctor’s face when he saw us again.

It was worth the effort. Holloway was seated at one of the blackjack tables looking quite pleased with the play he’d just made when I took an empty seat at the table. Holloway glanced at me, then did a double take.

“Doctor,” I said with a nod.

Before he could react, Marco clamped a hand on his shoulder, causing Holloway to turn with a jerk. Instantly, his face darkened in fury. “What are you doing here?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“We could ask you the same thing,” I said.

“We need to talk,” Marco said.

Holloway did a quick survey of the others at his table, as though to see if anyone was watching him, then said out of the side of his mouth, “What about?”

Marco bent down near his ear. “Lori Willis’s murder.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Pick your spot, Doc,” Marco said. “Here or at the bar.” He patted Holloway’s shoulder, giving the impression to anyone observing their exchange that they were buddies.

“You have no right to question me,” Holloway said in a furious whisper.

“Here, then,” Marco said, and looked around for a chair.

“I’ll report you to security and have you tossed out.”

“You do that,” I said, “and I’ll report you to the hospital administrator for putting the moves on me.” I held up my cell phone. “Amazing what these smart phones can do. Take pictures, record conversations . . .” Not that I had a smart phone. Not on my salary.

Holloway threw down his cards and got up, making a beeline for the bar. Marco helped me get settled on my crutches; then we followed him to where he’d perched at the end of the long polished-walnut counter. The only other patrons, two women who were on the lookout for available men, and a drunk who had his elbows propped on the wood to keep from falling onto his shot glass, were well outside of hearing range.

“I should have you arrested for harassment,” Holloway ground out, as we sat on the next two stools.

“Two ginger ales,” Marco told the bartender.

“Sir?” the bartender said, waiting for Holloway’s order.

“Vodka gimlet,” Holloway grumbled. Without looking at Marco, he said, “I can’t tell you anything about that woman’s death. What business is it of yours anyway?”

Marco opened his wallet to show his ID. “I’m investigating her murder. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Holloway looked at it askance. “So you’re a private eye? Big deal.”

“Did you kill her?” Marco asked.

“Of course not! I had no reason to kill her!” Holloway said, raising his voice. That got everyone’s attention, including the drunk, who sat upright and tried to focus on us. He gave up after a minute and went back to leaning on his elbows.

“That’s not the impression you gave me,” I reminded Holloway. “You told me Lori nearly ruined your career. You said she caused you deep humiliation, financial problems, and a divorce.”

“It all adds up to a powerful motive,” Marco said. He waited while the bartender delivered our drinks, then said, “That leaves just means and opportunity, Doc, and I’m betting you’re up to speed on knowing how to do some bloodletting. Isn’t that the word you use for exsanguination?”

“Who told you that?”

“Let’s talk about your alibi,” Marco said.

“My alibi is sound!” Holloway dropped his voice to a whisper. “I was out of town attending a medical conference last Tuesday and Wednesday and didn’t get home until late Wednesday evening.”

“Try again,” Marco said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Marco took a drink of his soda. “Try again.”

“Check with the cops if you doubt me,” Holloway said. “Or call the American Heart Association. They’ll tell you I was at the conference.”

“The only thing the AHA will tell me is that someone signed you in at the conference registration desk on Tuesday.”

“You want a handwriting sample? Here. I’ll provide one for you free of charge.” Holloway pulled a gold pen out of his chest pocket, scribbled his name on his cocktail napkin, and shoved it toward Marco, who folded it and tucked it away without looking at it.

“Even if the signature matches, Doc, can you prove where you were when you were supposed to be in those sessions?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marco leaned closer to him. “I know a person who knows what I’m talking about, and I think you know that person, too.”

It was a good bluff. The muscles in Holloway’s face tensed. He drank half his gimlet and signaled for another. “What do you want from me?”

“Proof that you didn’t kill Lori Willis.”

Holloway studied Marco as he toyed with the olive spear in his drink. Then, as though he’d made a decision, he turned away, ate the olives, finished the drink, and pushed the glass aside. A sly grin played at one corner of his mouth.

At the same time, Marco glanced at me long enough to give me a wink, as though he was certain the doctor was about to come clean. I wondered if he’d seen Holloway’s grin.

“I can’t prove it,” Holloway said.

Marco didn’t say a word. I knew he’d been caught off guard.

The doctor shrugged. “So what now? Call the cops and have me arrested?”

This time it was Marco’s jaw that tensed. Holloway had outsmarted us. He obviously felt confident that whoever our purported source was, he or she couldn’t do the doctor any harm, just as Holloway knew there was nothing we could do to him either. He threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, picked up his fresh drink, slid off the barstool, and sauntered toward the blackjack table, leaving Marco stewing.