Night of the Living Dandelion (36 page)

I hung up and called Marco, but that, too, went to voice mail. Frustrated, I left him a message, then phoned Dave Hammond at his law office. Luckily, he was still there, so I told him what was going on.

“I hope I didn’t get myself in trouble, Dave, but I thought it was only right to alert Vlad.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you called me. This has certainly taken me by surprise. The prosecutor should have given me a heads-up. I’ll phone Darnell right now and ask him to explain. If you talk to Vlad, have him contact me at once.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dave.” I hung up and phoned Rafe, watching the activity down the street from the bay window.

“Abby, I can barely hear you,” Rafe said. “I hope you don’t need a ride home anytime soon. It’s insane here. We’re swarming with news reporters, protesters, cops, customers . . . Now it looks like one of the detectives is getting set up for a press conference outside the bar. Is that legal? What should I do?”

“Channel Marco, Rafe. Take charge of the bar. And don’t give any interviews. I’m coming down.”

I hung up and scrolled through my address book. Time to call in that favor Claymore had promised.

A
n angry redhead on crutches was a force to be reckoned with. I made my way through the crowd on the sidewalk, elbowing people when I had to, until I was close enough to see who was giving the press conference and find out what was being said.

It was portly Al Corbison, his chest puffed up with importance, announcing to the row of microphones in his face that, due to diligence, good detecting, and a complete examination of the evidence, they had solved the murder and were ready to make an arrest.

I had worked my way to the front of the crowd, and at his last statement I called, “What kind of good detecting ignores three prime suspects to pursue a mythical character?”

A murmur went through the people standing around me. The reporters turned their microphones in my direction.

“Excuse me?” Corbison said, looking for the speaker. His eyes locked on me and his gaze narrowed to an icy slit. “We pursued every possible lead, Ms. Knight. You don’t know beans about this case.”

“Obviously you don’t either,” I said, generating more murmurs, “or you would have uncovered a physician who vowed to get even with the victim by doing some bloodletting.”

“You’re wrong!” Corbison said, red-faced, as the mics swung back to him and the murmurs grew louder. “We followed many leads and interviewed numerous persons of—”

“Did you interview the person who believes the victim was responsible for his wife’s death?” I called, as the mics were aimed at me. “A man who has the skills and equipment to drain a person’s blood? What about the man who felt he was wronged by the victim after she falsely accused him of selling drugs and kicked him out of a nursing program? Did you follow that lead, Detective?”

“Get her out of here!” Corbison bellowed, as people began to yell things, such as “Is that true?” “What kind of police work is that?” “Is that justice?” and even “Spare the vampire.”

Two cops moved in front of me, blocking my view of Corbison and the reporters. But my speech had done the trick. I saw the news reporters hustle across the street to their vans, cameramen in tow, to tape reports to send back to their stations, while newspaper reporters were trying to dodge the cops to ask me more questions. I’d stirred the pot. Hopefully, the detectives would have to take another look at their persons of interest now.

Corbison stepped between the officers and shook his fist at me. “You’re going to be sorry you did this. If it wasn’t for your dad being a cop, I’d arrest you for interfering with a criminal investigation.”

“If it wasn’t for my dad being an honest man,” I said, “I wouldn’t be here demanding justice.”

Photographers were clicking away as I hop-stepped through the crowd. Several people congratulated me, but a few booed as I headed to the corner, where Claymore waited in his BMW. He jumped out to help me into his car, then got back in and pulled away.

“Thanks, Clay. I appreciate this. You wouldn’t believe what’s going on back there.”

“Yes, I would. You’ve already made the news.” He turned up the volume on the car radio, where a reporter was recapping the exchange I’d just had with Corbison. The reporter ended with, “We are told we’ll have a statement from Chief Prosecutor Melvin Darnell within the hour.”

Claymore turned the volume down. “An earlier report said they were ready to make an arrest because of something found in the suspect’s apartment. I’m assuming the suspect is Vlad, so do you think it’s possible Vlad did murder the woman?”

How I wished I could say positively that he didn’t. “Does Vlad strike you as a killer?”

“If you’d asked me four days ago, I might have said yes, but not after meeting him, or after what he did for my wife. I know Jillian would say he’s innocent. She’s convinced Vlad is her guardian angel. She swears he was protecting her in the hospital all night.”

“She told me that, too, but she must have been dreaming. Why would Vlad be in her hospital room? Is she doing better, by the way?”

“When I left, she was lying on the sofa at home, reading fashion magazines. She’ll be on antibiotics for another week, but otherwise, she’s back to normal. Oh, and I’ll need to pick up her accoutrements. Let me know when it’s convenient to come by the shop for them.”

“Do you need them tonight? Because I really don’t want to go back into that crowd.”

“Tomorrow should be fine. Jillian buys double of everything . . . well, except for her special pillow, but I’m sure she can get along without it for one night.”

“In that case, do you want to pick me up at seven o’clock tomorrow morning?”

 

I thought I would be spending the evening moping around, missing Marco and hoping he would call. Instead, I spent the first fifteen minutes listening to messages on the answering machine and returning calls from my assistants and family members who’d seen me on the news and wanted to be sure I’d made it home safely.

I also had messages from reporters wanting to know if I was certain Vlad Serban wasn’t the killer. I deleted them. What could I say? That Vlad was Marco’s army buddy and therefore innocent? I didn’t know whether Vlad was innocent. All I knew was that I had to make sure the police arrested the guilty man.

Even Nikki called during her evening break to lecture me.

“Abby, are you crazy?” she whispered. “I just saw the news report in the nurses’ lounge. What were you thinking when you talked to those reporters? You practically spelled out the names of your suspects. I can’t imagine what their reactions will be. You’d better make sure the lock is double bolted and the chain is on—and keep the lights out until I get home.”

“Nikki, you’re overreacting. Our suspects are going to lie low. They’re not going to do anything to draw attention to themselves now. Besides, they don’t know Marco is gone.”

“Are you brain-dead? Everyone at Down the Hatch has to know. It’s a bar! What do people do at bars besides drink? They gossip. By midnight, half the town will know that you’re home alone.”

I shivered. “My parents are coming over to keep me company, Nikki. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should ask Reilly to keep an eye on you, too.”

“Now
you’re
brain-dead. I practically called every officer working on the case a moron for not doing their jobs. I don’t think Reilly is going to be too eager to help.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s still your friend. Oops. I’ve got to go. Be careful!”

I checked the locks, then called the bar to get an update from Rafe.

“It’s still a zoo down here,” he said. “Did you ever reach Vlad?”

“No, but I left messages for him.”

“There are two cops posted outside, waiting for Vlad to show up, but he must have figured it out and gone into hiding. Let me know if you hear anything, okay?”

I’d barely hung up when the door buzzer went off. I hobbled to the intercom and pushed the button. “Yes?”

“Abigail, it’s Mom and Dad. Buzz us in, please.”

A few minutes later, I admitted my mom, who was carrying a green-handled bag stuffed with groceries, which she immediately began stashing in my refrigerator.

“Why did you bring food?” I asked her.

“Because it’s time you had something for dinner besides a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“I eat salads, too.”

My dad followed in his wheelchair, with two duffel bags on his lap.

“What would you like for supper?” Mom asked. “Pasta or meat loaf?”

“Meat loaf. What’s in the duffel bags?”

“Our pajamas,” Dad said. “Until the killer is caught, we’ll be sleeping here.”

Wow. Corbison was right. He said I’d be sorry.

 

Having my parents spend the night on the convertible sofa in the living room of our small apartment wasn’t easy. Toss in a cat who liked to race down the hallways as if he were high on catnip and a father who snored, and it wasn’t what anyone would call a restful night. However, there were benefits to having them there. I didn’t worry about being attacked; I got a big home-cooked breakfast in the morning; and I didn’t have to clean the kitchen afterward.

My parents were early risers, so when I dragged myself out of bed at a quarter to six, they had already made up the sofa and had breakfast under way. Simon was perched on my dad’s lap, eating scraps of turkey bacon from his hand, having apparently decided Dad was an acceptable male. Mom was frying eggs, and a fresh pot of java was brewing in the coffeemaker.

“Why are you up so early?” Mom asked, as I reached for a glass of coconut juice on the counter. It was part of their new healthy living plan. I tasted it and decided it was pretty good.

“I have to go to the courthouse to pick up some information for Marco.”

“How are you getting there?” Mom asked.

“Claymore is picking me up.”

“Claymore has his hands full with Jillian. I’ll take you,” Mom said.

“But he has to pick up Jillian’s things.”

“No buts. I’m taking you. He can pick them up later.”

She used her teacher voice. There was no arguing with her now. I grabbed my cell phone and sent Clay a quick text message to let him know I wouldn’t need him.

“You’d better look at this,” Dad said, and showed me the front page of the
New Chapel News.
There I was in full color, standing in front of Down the Hatch, mouth open, crutches wedged under my armpits so I could shake my fist. The headline read: FLORIST FAULTS COPS FOR FINGERING WRONG MAN. Beneath that, in smaller type: SAYS SHE KNOWS WHO KILLED NURSING DIRECTOR.

Nothing like advertising it to the killer.

The article provided a full account of the murder, as well as my exchange with Corbison. It concluded with a statement by the DA that he was there to make sure justice was served, that the good citizens of our county had voted him into office because they trusted him, and that he wouldn’t let them down. It was pure political pap.

I saw my parents scowling at me. “I didn’t say I knew who the killer was. I just mentioned the suspects that the cops overlooked.”

“You really stuck your neck out for Vlad,” Dad said. “I hope your confidence in him isn’t misplaced.”

“Marco’s the one with the confidence in him, Dad. You taught me to stand up for what’s right, and that’s what I did. When we realized that Vlad was being railroaded, Marco and I did our own investigation and found three suspects with the means, motive, and opportunity to kill Lori Willis. If the detectives knew about those suspects, then they purposely ignored them. If the cops didn’t know about them, then they weren’t doing their jobs.”

“Where is Vlad now?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach him.”

Dad gave me a skeptical look. “So he’s missing? Maybe on the run? Does that sound like an innocent man to you?”

Nikki stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, her blond hair sticking up all over.

“Did we wake you, Nik?” I asked. “I tried to be quiet.”

“No, I smelled bacon.”

Mom put her arm around Nikki and ushered her to the table. “I’ve got all the bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee you can handle. I’ve even set a place for you.”

She handed Nikki a glass of coconut juice. Nikki sniffed it, decided it was okay, and took a sip. She licked her lips and said to me, “Can we invite your parents more often?”

 

Mom pulled the van up to the rear of the courthouse and helped me get situated on the crutches. “I’ll circle around the square and meet you back here,” she said.

“You don’t have to wait. I just have to cross the street when I’m done here.”

“A lot can happen between here and there,” she said, using her teacher voice again.

A thick fog swirled through the van’s headlights as Mom bounced up over the curb and drove away. The sky was overcast, and a storm was brewing off to the west. I hoped it stayed there. I didn’t have an umbrella with me and wouldn’t have been able to manage one anyway.