Nightshade on Elm Street: A Flower Shop Mystery (19 page)

“You know other lawyers,” I said.

“I don’t trust anyone else. If it comes down to it, I’ll represent myself.”

“You’re a corporate attorney, Pryce,” I said, rubbing a spot just above my left shoulder blade. “You don’t have any experience in this realm. You’ve heard that saying
about a doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient? That applies to lawyers, too.”

“Seriously, Pryce,” Marco said, “
if
the body is Melissa’s, and I’m just saying
if
, then you’ll need an experienced lawyer at your side, because they will probably want to question you. It would be for your own protection.”

We stepped onto the deck and walked across to the railing to look at the scene below. It looked like the movie set for a disaster flick. Red and blue lights flashed on a dozen different vehicles parked close to the sand; men in uniform combed the beachfront in a straight line, looking for evidence; a photographer knelt on the dock taking pictures; reporters and their cameramen did live broadcasts; and two EMTs lifted a black body bag onto a gurney and wheeled it to the back of an ambulance. Minutes later, the ambulance pulled slowly away.

Pryce raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture he would never have made unless he was really freaking out. “Do you see what I mean about the media? My parents are bound to find out.”

That
was Pryce’s main concern?

As we watched, two men in navy blazers and khaki pants entered the fenced-in pool area, circled the pool, and came toward us, climbing the steps to the deck. Both displayed their detective badges. “Do you folks live here?” a tall, gray-haired man asked, wiping perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief.

Pryce’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he replied hoarsely, “I do.”

The other detective, a stocky, dark-skinned man, took out a small tablet and pencil. “Can I have your name?”

“P-Pryce Osborne. The S-Second.” He was breathing so shallowly, I was afraid he would pass out.

“How about you?” the gray-haired detective asked, looking at Marco and me.

“Marco Salvare,” Marco said calmly, pulling out his PI badge. “This is my fiancée, Abby Knight.”

“Any relation to Sergeant Jeffrey Knight?” the gray-haired man asked.

“My dad,” I said proudly.

“Good man,” Detective Gray Hair said with a nod. “Great cop, too.”

“Thanks.” I loved hearing that.

“Did any of you notice any suspicious people or activity or unusual noises last night?” the second detective asked.

“I heard n-nothing,” Pryce said shakily. “It was a quiet evening.”

“We just got here,” Marco said, slipping his wallet into his back pocket.

“Wh-who is”—Pryce swallowed hard as he nodded toward the lake—“the woman?”

Seeing Marco’s quick shake of the head, Pryce tucked his hands into his armpits, no doubt to keep the cops from seeing them shake.

Marco moved forward, putting himself between Pryce and the detectives. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“All we know at this point is that we’ve got an unidentified body,” the second detective said. “We’re talking to all the neighbors along the lakefront to see if anyone has helpful information on that subject.”

“Okay, then,” the gray-haired detective said, tucking his tablet into his blazer’s chest pocket. “Thanks for your help.”

“Thank you, Detectives,” Pryce called as the men walked back down the steps. He turned toward us and sighed in relief. “Let’s go inside. I need a drink.”

“A cup of coffee sounds good to me,” I said. “Marco, anything for you?”

“Coffee sounds good to me, too.”

“In that case,” Pryce said, “Abigail, you’ll have to operate the coffeemaker. Mrs. Ambrose is off today.”

While I was in the kitchen waiting for the java to finish dripping, I heard the front door open and the click of high heels come toward me. A few seconds later, Jillian came around the corner carrying two giant shopping bags. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

“Oh, good, you
are
here. Lottie said this is where I’d find you, but I seriously didn’t believe her. I mean, why would you be here so early in the morning?”

Her questions, along with her curiosity, ended there. She set down her bags and straightened, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face as she looked me over. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“You’ll see in a minute. Turn around and don’t peek. I’ve got a meeting with a client, so I can’t stay long.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing here?” I asked her.

“Later.”

I heard tissue paper rustling and got a queasy feeling in my stomach. “Jillian, if you brought a dress for me to try…”

“You can look now.”

I turned, and she handed me a mint green dress on a hanger. “Here. Go try it on.”

I took one look at the ruffle trim around the V-neck and the big bow that tied at the waist in the front, and thrust it back into her arms. “Not my style. Too chic. Besides, I already have an outfit for the shower.”

“I hope you’re not talking about that old brown and white floral thing you had back in college. No one is wearing that color or style anymore, Abs. This is what’s in now. It’ll look fabutastic on your short little body. Trust me.” She tried to hand it back, but I wouldn’t take it.

“Jillian, what don’t you understand about the word
no
?”

“Would you just try it? Trust me, Abs, this is
the dress
for you.”

“You’re going to have to take
the dress
back, Jill, because I’m not wearing it. I’m not a fashionista like you are, and I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.”

“But it’s a gift from your parents!”

I folded my arms. “No. Way.”

She stamped her sandaled foot on the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like people dictating what I should wear or do or eat for my shower. It’s
my
shower, Jillian. My. Shower.”

She huffed as she knelt to put the dress back in the shopping bag. “You’re being anti-tractable.”

“It’s
in
tractable, and
you’re
being anti-observant. Look out the windows. What do you see?”

She stood up with a frown. Her gaze moved over my shoulder to the view outside and instantly her eyes widened. “What happened?” she cried, hurrying to a window.

“A woman’s body washed up on the beach this morning.”

Jillian gasped. “Melissa’s?”

“We don’t know.”

She pulled out her cell phone and began to tap in numbers. “I have to let Claymore know. He’ll want to be here for his brother, just in case. I’ll have to cancel the meeting with my client, too.”

“Jillian, wait. Canceling your meeting isn’t really necessary at this point because it might not be Melissa.”

“Claymore? Hi, it’s me. You’d better get out to the cottage
immédiatement
.” She held her hand over the phone and whispered to me, “Run along. I’ll meet you outside.”

When I stepped onto the Osbornes’ deck carrying two mugs of hot coffee, Halston and Orabell had joined the party, or so it seemed from their buoyancy. Halston had
taken a seat at a table with Pryce and Marco, while Orabell had parked herself on a wrought iron bench near the railing where she could watch both the people on the deck and those on the beach.

Unlike Halston, who wore a casual gray linen shirt and white shorts, with sandals and a straw hat, Orabell had on an ankle-length red sundress made of a flowing gossamer cotton, over which she’d tied a multicolored silk wrap, red gladiator sandals that gripped her skinny ankles, and a bright red floppy sun hat. Her earlobes sported large red feather earrings that brushed her shoulders and, in combination with the rest of her attire, made her look like a large crimson parrot.

Both Burches had margarita glasses filled with a pinkish brown drink. An insulated pitcher sat on the table in front of Halston, no doubt holding refills.

“Come sit, darling,” Orabell called, patting the bench. “Halston, pour Ally a drink.”

“It’s Abby,” I said, “and I’ve got coffee. But thanks for the offer.” I handed Marco his mug, then leaned against the side railing.

“Look at all the excitement down there,” Orabell said with a girlish squeal, jumping up to join me. “We haven’t had so much activity in eons, have we, Halston?”

“Say what?” he asked, cupping his ear.

“Buy a new hearing aid, you old fool,” she said, throwing him a scowl.

“Wish I could hear you, Mummy,” he said. Then, when she glanced away, he gave her a smirk and took a drink from his glass, making me wonder if he didn’t prefer not to hear her.

“Who do you think drowned?” Orabell asked Pryce.

He stiffened, saying nothing, his gaze never leaving the beach.

Orabell tapped my shoulder with a pointed red fingernail. “He’s worried it’s Melissa, you know.”

“I think we’re all worried that it’s Melissa,” I said.

“Well, of course we are, darling, because Pryce would be numero uno on the suspect list.” She sighed dramatically as she flounced over to the bench. “Poor dear.”

“Who’s the poor dear?” Halston asked, tapping his hearing aid. “Pryce or Melissa?”

Orabell glared at her husband. “Both, of course.” To Pryce she said, “If it is Melissa, do you think she threw herself in?”

I could see the shock on Pryce’s face as he rose and strode toward the sliding glass door, meeting Jillian on her way out of the house carrying a steaming mug of what was undoubtedly tea.

“Pryce, I was just coming to tell you that Claymore is on his”—she stepped aside as he brushed past her—“way.” She turned to give me a puzzled glance.

“Jillian, darling!” Orabell called. “Come join me over here.” She patted the bench.

“Oh, bother,” Halston said. “Here come those blasted police again.”

The same two detectives strode toward the deck stairs. At once, Marco got up and walked down to meet them. He listened to what they had to say, then came back and headed straight for the sliding glass doors.

“What’s the story, General?” Halston called.

“I’ll let you know in a minute,” Marco replied.

“What happened?” I asked breathlessly, hurrying inside after him.

He closed the door and said in an undertone, “The detectives have an ID on the victim. They want to talk to Pryce, but I told them he was on the phone with his attorney and would be unavailable until the attorney arrived.
That will stall them for a while, but not forever, if they’re determined.”

My heart started to race, imagining Pryce’s shock. “Then the body has to be Melissa’s.”

“That’s my guess. I tried to get them to say more, but they wouldn’t budge. We need to find Pryce and warn him.”

We found Pryce sitting on the front verandah, staring blankly into space. Hearing the screen door creak open, he jumped. “Do you have news?”

“There’s been an ID on the body,” Marco said.

Pryce lost all color in his face. “Who is it?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. They wanted to speak with you, so I told them you were talking to your attorney. They’re gone for now, but they’ll undoubtedly be back.”

“Dave Hammond could help you,” I said. “You remember Dave, don’t you? Public defender? The lawyer I clerked for?”

Pryce rubbed his forehead. “I remember him vaguely, but I’d prefer not to complicate matters more by switching law firms.”

He thought
that
would complicate matters?

“Do whatever it takes to protect yourself, Pryce,” Marco said. “Dave would be a good man to call. And remember what I told you before. Mum’s the word. Listen to what the cops have to say, because they just may want to inform you of what they know. But if you feel at all as though they’re trying to get information from you, then tell them your lawyer gave you instructions to wait until he arrived. Got it?”

“Wouldn’t that merely serve to make me look guilty?” Pryce asked.

“Don’t analyze it,” Marco said. “The cops know it’s routine procedure. Now get on the phone and call your attorney’s associate and tell him it’s urgent that you speak with him.”

Pryce stared out at the trees for a few moments, then seemed to gather his strength and rose, straightening his shoulders. “Thank you for the advice. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.”

He opened the screen door and waited for us to enter. “Anyone for a glass of tea? I have a pitcher in the refrigerator.”

“I think I’d rather have coffee,” I told him.

“In that case…,” Pryce began.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” I finished with a sigh.

“Think I’ll go down to the wine cellar to pick out a fine Bordeaux for lunch,” Pryce said.

I started a fresh pot brewing while Pryce went to the basement to get his wine. Holding full cups, Marco and I stepped out onto the deck, where we found Jillian and the Burches watching the somber scene on the beach below. No one spoke. Even Orabell had settled down, sitting with her shoulders hunched and elbows propped on her knees.

Marco and I walked to the side railing and stood sipping our coffees. Hearing the sliding door open behind me, I glanced around and saw a blond woman of about my age step outside.

Her highlighted hair was long and straight, with bangs that covered her eyebrows and half of her eyes. She wore a long pink halter dress, shiny tan flip-flops, a big green plastic watch, and a black patent leather tote bag over one shoulder.

“Why is the road blocked?” the woman asked, dropping her glossy bag onto an empty chair. “I had to park a mile away.”

Orabell’s head swiveled and she let out a gasp. “Melissa!”