Seed No Evil (14 page)

“Why by myself?”

“Because you're scared of me, and I want to see how you handle yourself. And don't bother with the flowers. I hate flowers.” She motioned for me to step back; then she shut her door and started the engine. She backed out and pulled away without another glance in my direction.

•   •   •

“Marco, we need to come up with a list of questions,” I said as I sat in my car talking on my cell phone. “I can't go to the meeting with Dayton unprepared.”

“We'll do that over dinner tonight. Can I tell you how proud I am of you?”

“As many times as you want. I can't take credit for all of it, though. Grace was the one who came up with the idea.”

“But you executed it, Sunshine, and it worked. I'm going to open a special bottle of wine tonight to celebrate.”

“Let's hold off on that celebration until the interview is over,” I said. “I don't want to be premature. I could still fall flat on my face.”

“You'll be fine. We'll rehearse until you feel comfortable”—he paused, then added in a sexy rumble—“even if it takes all night.”

“What would I do without you, Salvare? Never mind. I don't even want to think about that. I'd better get back to Bloomers. I'm hoping some orders came in while I was out.”

“Before you go, I spent the morning checking into the lawsuits that Bev had filed and none appear to have been against anyone connected to the animal shelter, so I think we're safe focusing our attention on Stacy and Justin Shaw, Dayton Blaine, and Emma Hardy. Unless another suspect pops up, of course.”

“Oh, that reminds me. The one tiny bit of info I got out of Dayton today was that Bev apparently caught Emma Hardy moving money from a PAR account into her own. You might want to check with the fiscal director to see if he can verify that.”

“What brought that up?”

“She was questioning why we would take Emma's word on anything.”

“Got it. I'll contact John Bradford and see what he has to say. See you around five, babe.”

I tucked away my phone and started the engine. The rain had ended and the sun was out, so I put the top down, tuned the radio to a rock station, and sang along. I was still smiling from Dayton's compliments. She thought I had spunk. She thought I was unstoppable. Yep, that was me. Spunky, unstoppable Abby.

Maybe that was why the cop car was following me with its lights flashing.

T
hrough my side-view mirror, I watched as the cop got out of his patrol car and removed his sunglasses. Sauntering up to my side of the 'Vette he said, “And just where do you think you're going? To a fire?”

“Reilly, it's you! Sheesh. You scared me to death.”

Sergeant Sean Reilly and I went way back. When he first came onto the New Chapel police force, he trained under my dad and years later worked with Marco during his short stint on the force. Reilly had brown hair, intelligent brown eyes, a pleasant face, and was tall and sturdily built, all of which gave him an imposing presence. His only failing, as far as I could tell, was that he considered me to be a nuisance, always getting mixed up in murder investigations. But he'd been invaluable to Marco and me on a number of occasions, giving us just enough helpful hints to help crack open cases. With a scowl, he said, “I ought to give you a speeding ticket, you know that?”

“Ought to but won't, right? Because you wouldn't do that to a friend.” I smiled up at him.

“Don't press your luck, Abby. You were going ten miles over the limit, and on busy city streets, that's a danger to you as well as to everyone around you.”

“I'm really sorry, Sarge. My mind was”—I made a little twirling motion with my finger—“elsewhere. But you know I'm a good driver. I've never gotten a single ticket. That tells you something, right?”

“And that's why you're getting off with a warning. Pay attention, okay? Don't let your mind go”—he made the same twirly motion—“
elsewhere
when you're behind the wheel.”

“I won't. I promise. Lesson learned.”

“So,” he said, dropping the angry cop role, “you and Marco still investigating the Powers case?”

“Yes, why? Got any new info?”

He leaned down, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. “Let Marco know the tox screen came back negative for drugs and alcohol and the final autopsy report will be in later today.”

“Thanks, Reilly. I will.”

“And no more speeding; got that?”

“Got it.”

“Get out of here.”

Not only did I watch my speed, I was also very careful to obey all the traffic signs on the way back, coming to a complete stop at each corner. I simply couldn't afford a ticket, not with that plumbing bill to pay.

When I got back to Bloomers, only one order had come in, but the good news was that Lottie had picked up the box of flyers and had called her sons to come down to the shop to distribute them.

“After work,” she said, “I, personally, will get these placed in as many shops on the square as I can, and I'll have the boys stick them under the windshield wipers of all the cars in the parking lots. By this time tomorrow, I'll bet you any money we'll have more business.”

“I've already got my scone recipes selected,” Grace said, “and I've even enlisted a dear friend's help in baking them this evening. Tomorrow we'll put out a signboard first thing.”

“Thank you, ladies. You're the best assistants in the world. Now give me something to do.”

“You can start by helping your mom,” Lottie said. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “She's in the workroom right now waiting to show you her latest art.”

“Since you're whispering,” I said, also in a whisper, “I'm assuming it isn't good.”

“Be brave, love,” Grace said quietly. “She's made worse.”

I pulled back the curtain and walked into my oasis of paradise. Mom was sitting at my desk, staring at the computer, and when I drew nearer, I saw that she was on the Web site of a business that sold pottery and ceramic pieces.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Oh, hi, honey. I was just making sure I haven't copied something I saw here. I often browse their site. Want to see what I made?” She jumped up, hoisted a shopping bag to the worktable, and reached inside. “Here it is!”

Out came a round, matte gray clay pot approximately ten inches tall with about an eight-inch circumference. The straight sides of the container looked like they were made of tiny blocks of concrete broken up by four small square openings spaced evenly around the upper perimeter. The openings were filled with tiny vertical bars painted black. The only thing Mom's creation lacked were miniature prisoners.

“What do you think?” Mom asked, gazing at her work of art with pride.

“It's unique,” I said, then added gently, “If you're into prison art.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. She was clearly clueless. “Prison art? It's a flowerpot, Abigail.”

“Mom, look at the block walls. Look at the bars in the windows. Rapunzel could have lived here.”

She picked it up and turned it around, squinting her eyes as though trying to imagine what I was talking about. Then she set it down with a thump. “I made a jail cell, a round jail cell. What is the matter with me?”

“It's obvious what's on your mind, Mom. Look, why don't you take it home and paint it in a cheerful pink and make the bars yellow and then paint on some vines or something. You used to do tole painting. You can come up with something pretty that doesn't look so—prisonish.”

With a dejected sigh, she put the pot back into the shopping bag. “It'll still be a jail cell to me. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Abigail. I know you're busy.”

I wished.

Hoping to cheer her, as I walked her to the door, I said, “We're making progress on the case, Mom. I can't give out any details, but we do have several suspects.”

“Thank you,” Mom said, and gave me a hug, then leaned back and gazed into my eyes with gratitude. “It helps ease my anxiety on that front. But the PAR board just announced that they'll be holding a special meeting next Monday to decide on the shelter's no-kill policy. They wouldn't do that unless there was going to be a change.”

“You're going to organize a protest, aren't you?”

“Yes, but if they implement the new policy in spite of our protests, the shelter is prepared to start euthanizing unadoptable animals to make room for the younger, healthy ones that people want. The little mutt that Tara is so concerned about has been there a month, Abigail. I can't sleep at night for worrying. All I can say is, pray.”

I could do more than that. I could corner Dayton Blaine about it—if I had the courage.

•   •   •

Shortly after five o'clock, I locked the flower shop and hurried up the street to Down the Hatch, which had no shortage of customers. Marco was standing with Rafe behind the bar, giving him what appeared to be a lecture. The look on Rafe's face said he wasn't happy about it.

“I
get
it, Marco,” Rafe said irritably, as I slid onto a newly vacated stool. “You don't have to keep going over it.”

“If you got it,” Marco said in a low voice, “you wouldn't have made the mistake.”

“Hi, guys,” I said.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Rafe said unenthusiastically.

Marco looked up and smiled. “Hey, babe. I'll be with you in a minute. You want to see if you can find us an empty booth?”

I swiveled to scan the wall behind me, but all the booths were filled. “Looks like we'll be eating in your office,” I told him.

“That's fine. I'll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Obviously Rafe's lecture wasn't over. I hopped off the stool and headed for Marco's office, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. My cell phone beeped, so I dug it out of my purse and read the text message. It was from Tara:
Mtg w/Dad & Mom in 10 min. Xcited!!! :-D

I texted back,
Good luck!

The door opened and closed behind me, and a moment later Marco leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. “How's my favorite redhead?”

“Hungry and nervous, in that order.”

“Nervous about the interview with Dayton?”

“That, and my mom said there's going to be a special board meeting to decide on the no-kill policy. I wish I had time to help her with the protest. The best I can do is try to convince Dayton to leave the policy as it is.”

“You can't do everything, Abby. You're going to have to trust your mom with this one so you can focus on the case. I think your mom would prefer that, too.”

The case, my wedding, my floundering flower shop . . . I massaged my neck. It ached just thinking about all there was to do. When was I going to squeeze in time to write my wedding vows?

“Tell me what you'd like to eat,” Marco said, “and I'll go inform the kitchen.”

“Whatever kind of sandwich you're having is fine with me.”

“Want to try a new brand of microbrewed beer? We just got it in today.”

“Sounds good.”

While Marco was gone, I took the yellow legal pad from his desk and wrote
Questions for Dayton
at the top. Then I wrote:

How did you find out that Emma took money from PAR?

My overworked brain refused to go any further on its own.

Marco returned with two bottles of beer, handed me one, then settled into the chair next to mine. “Food will be here shortly. What do you have already?”

I read the first and only question to him.

“Good start,” he said. “Now, if Dayton sticks to her ten-minute rule, what is it we really have to know?”

“What her alibi is and why she and Bev were at odds for the last few months.”

“Great. Put it on the list.”

Collaborating with Marco made the process enjoyable. By the time our food arrived, we had come up with ten pertinent questions and ranked them in order of importance. We broke to eat; then I rehearsed while we finished our beers.

“Feeling better?” he asked, after we'd gone over the questions three times.

“Better, yes, but still nervous.”

“That's okay. Nervousness will keep you on your toes.”

My cell phone beeped to signal an incoming text message, so I checked the screen and saw Tara's name. “Excuse me just a sec,” I said to Marco.

Tara's message was brief:
M&D ok'd it! I'm in! Thx, AA!!

I texted back,
Congrats! Xoxo AA.

“Sorry for the interruption,” I said. “I helped Tara get the okay from her parents to help Mom do volunteer work at the shelter. She let me know Jordan and Kathy okayed it. Anyway, you were saying?”

“I just thought of something. Not to make you more nervous, but given your limited time with Dayton, you probably won't want to stop to write down her answers, so you'll have to remember them.”

Like that would work. With so many things going on, I could barely remember my name. “I wish you were going with me, Marco.”

“Come here.”

He pulled me onto his lap and nuzzled my neck. “Just be your spunky, unstoppable self and you'll do fine. With luck, she may even forgo her ten-minute rule.”

•   •   •

Friday

When I arrived at Bloomers at eight in the morning, I wasn't feeling spunky or unstoppable, but after two cups of coffee, an inspirational quotation from Grace, and a pep talk from Lottie, I did feel my old self again . . . until I saw pans full of scones sitting on a table in the parlor.

“The bake sale! I've been so nervous about my interview with Dayton, I totally forgot.”

“Perfectly understandable, dear,” Grace said, as Lottie carried the signboard out to the sidewalk.

“But I won't be here when we open,” I said, “and it's bound to be busy.”

“Why don't we see if Francesca can come in for the first hour?” Lottie asked as she stepped back inside. “I know you like to limit her involvement since she does like to run things, but she's been a great help in the past. I'm sure she'll be glad to lend a hand.”

What could I say but yes? I couldn't very well leave them in the lurch.

“Great,” Lottie said. “I'll give her a call right now. And FYI, we got one whole stack of flyers passed out last night. Let's watch those orders roll in today.”

•   •   •

At eight forty-five, wearing neatly ironed coffee-colored pants with a crisp white shirt, I drove across town to Blaine Manufacturing and pulled into a visitor's space with five minutes to spare. Dayton's Cadillac was in her parking space, so I knew she was there. To steady my nerves, I sat in my car and reviewed the list of questions that I'd printed on a note card.

At a minute before nine, Dayton came striding out of the building wearing a black suit, a blue shirt, and black flats, carrying two paper cups with lids on top. I got out of my car and held up my hand in greeting.

“Follow me,” she called, and strode up a brick sidewalk that led around to the side of the building, where there were shade trees and picnic tables. She sat down at a table and placed one of the cups in front of her and the other one across from her.