Seed No Evil (2 page)

“Thanks for asking, but on Mondays at five o'clock I volunteer at the animal shelter, and sometimes I'm there two hours, so I'll just meet you instead.”

“It sounds like a plan, Mom.”

“I'll feel so much better with you and Marco looking into this,” Mom said, giving me a hug.

“We'll do our best to find out what's going on.”

On the minus side, what we would do with that knowledge was beyond me. Every case Marco and I had worked on since we'd teamed up more than a year ago had centered around a murder investigation. But being creative was important to my mom and she was important to me, so we'd figure it out.

On the plus side, with my wedding coming up soon, it was a
huge
relief to be working on an
investigation that had absolutely nothing—nada, zero, zip—to do with murder.

B
y noon, Lottie and I had managed to fulfill all the funeral orders except the two that had specified lilies, and Grace had installed the new espresso machine and was operating the coffee-and-tea parlor full steam ahead. I'd added the Victorian-inspired parlor when I'd first purchased the shop more than a year and a half ago as a way to draw in more customers, and luckily, it had paid off. For many of the clerks and secretaries at the courthouse across the street, Bloomers was the first stop of the morning to get their cup of java and a scone.

I stepped into the parlor to let Grace know I was leaving and found her making the rounds of customers seated at the white ice-cream parlor tables, with the coffeepot in one hand and teapot in the other, pouring refills and chatting.

“Grace,” I said, taking her aside, “I've got a meeting with Marco at the bar about my mom's situation. I've already told Lottie. I'll be back by one o'clock, well ahead of the Monday Afternoon Lady Poets Society get-together.”

“I'd wish you luck, but you don't need it,” Grace said in a whisper. “That darling man of yours will be delighted to help. Such is the power of love.”

I found myself humming the oldie song “The Power of Love” as I stepped out on the sidewalk and headed north. It seemed impossible to think that in less than two weeks I'd be married to the man of my dreams and off on my honeymoon to gorgeous Key West, Florida. I had to pinch myself to believe it was all going to come true.

Feeling on top of the world, I squinted into the sunshine of the warm September day and smiled. I'd also never dreamed that I'd own a shop on the town square, and yet right behind me was a sign that said
Bloomers Flower Shop, Abby Knight, Proprietor.
After having failed to make a go of law school, I wouldn't have given two cents for my future.

I turned around to take a long look at the three-story redbrick building that housed my floral business. Bloomers was the second shop from the south end of Franklin Street, directly across from the big four-story limestone courthouse with its tall clock tower on top. Around the square were local shops, restaurants, banks, and law offices, all thriving even in a tough economy. I was thrilled to be a part of it.

With a happy sigh, I turned again and headed to Marco's establishment, Down the Hatch Bar and Grill.

Down the Hatch was New Chapel's favorite watering hole, a gathering place for the attorneys and judges from the courthouse, as well as college kids from New Chapel University. Marco had purchased the bar just a few weeks before I bought Bloomers, but of course I hadn't known him then. It wasn't until someone backed into my old yellow Corvette that I met Marco. He'd presented himself at Bloomers, offered his services as a private investigator to help me find the hit-and-run driver, and
wowzers!
We'd felt instant chemistry.

I opened the door, stepped into Down the Hatch, and glanced around for my fiancé. The bar had been decorated in a corny fishing theme decades ago, long before Marco became owner. There was a fake carp mounted above the long, dark wood bar, a bright blue plastic anchor on the wall above the row of booths opposite the bar, a big brass bell hanging from a post near the cash register, and a fishing net suspended from the beamed ceiling. I kept urging Marco to give the bar a giant makeover, but so far he was resisting, claiming his clientele would revolt if he changed a thing.

“Where's Marco?” I asked Gert, the petite, gravelly voiced waitress who had been there as long as the fake carp.

“In his office, hon. Last time I checked, he was on the phone dickering with a beer salesman. Want me to tell him you're here?”

“No, thanks. I'll surprise him.”

The bar was busy serving lunch, so I stepped around another waitress carrying a big tray of food and headed past the row of booths to the hallway that led to Marco's office. I rapped lightly on the door, then opened it and peeked in.

“'Morning, Buttercup.” Marco leaned back to stretch, lacing his fingers behind his dark, wavy hair, putting his hard-muscled torso on display. “Your timing is perfect. I just got off the phone.”

He was wearing blue jeans and a formfitting gray T-shirt with
DOWN THE HATCH
running the length of one sleeve in white lettering. A sexy look, I thought, but then everything Marco wore made him look sexy to me. I gazed at him adoringly. He was ruggedly handsome, had dark, soulful eyes, and sported a light five o'clock shadow most of the day.

Marco had graduated from Indiana University, enlisted in the army and quickly advanced to the Army Rangers Special Ops division, where he served for two years. He returned to New Chapel, became a police officer, and a year later decided such a regimented life was not for him. Now, in addition to the bar, Marco had his own private investigation business, which I was gradually joining.

“Sit down and tell me what's on your mind,” Marco said.

“How do you know something's on my mind?” I teased, settling into a black leather director's chair opposite his desk. “Maybe I just want to have lunch with you.”

“Lunch with me doesn't cause worry lines between your eyebrows. Or at least it never did before. Should I be worried, too?”

I smoothed out the lines with my index finger. Who knew that worry lines ran in families? “Okay. It's true. Something's on my mind, but that's because something's on my mom's mind, and for once it's not our wedding.”

“Shouldn't we be celebrating?”

“You'd think. But Mom is so miserable, Marco, I promised I'd help her, and I'm hoping you'll want to help, too.”

He paused. It wasn't a long pause, but it was just enough to make me take notice, and in that split second, I wondered several things: Was he tired of hearing about my problems? Did he have an issue of his own that he wasn't sharing with me? Was it possible the upcoming wedding was weighing heavily on him?

Amazing what the brain can come up with in a nanosecond.

“Why don't we talk about it over lunch?” he said, rising. “You have that lean and hungry look.”

Marco knew me too well. I wasn't really lean, but I was always up for a meal.

•   •   •

Over bowls of chicken and rice soup, I explained the situation at PAR to Marco, and as Grace had predicted, he agreed to attend the meeting with me, as long as his younger brother, Rafe, would take over for him behind the bar. His willing attitude calmed my former worries to the extent that I convinced myself I'd imagined that pause.

“I'll give Rafe a call right now,” Marco said, and pulled out his cell phone. “He's not due to come in until three o'clock.”

Rafe, or Raphael Salvare, was a ten-years-younger version of Marco. He'd come to town from Ohio half a year ago on orders of his mom, who had decided that if Rafe could drop out of college one semester before graduation in order to find himself, she could send him to big brother Marco to help speed up that process. Marco had instantly put him to work, but it had taken several attempts at other kinds of employment before Rafe had decided he not only enjoyed the bar atmosphere but could actually tolerate working for his brother.

The plan was for Rafe to manage Down the Hatch once we were married, giving Marco time to focus on his PI business and, more important, time to spend with me. We'd come up with the plan because with my floral business, which occupied my day, Marco's bar business, which occupied his evenings, and his PI business, which could occupy any given hour of the day, we simply weren't seeing each other, and I knew that had to change to make our marriage work.

With a little encouragement from me, Marco had decided that the best solution was for him to keep ownership of the bar but let someone else manage it. Rafe had seemed like a good candidate for the job.

Marco ended his call and put away his phone, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile. “Rafe says hi and, yes, he'll cover for me.”

•   •   •

The meeting was held at the old town hall, a redbrick building with black trim and shutters that had been built in the early nineteen hundreds. We entered the first-floor meeting room through big double doors at the rear and looked for my mom but didn't see her, so we took seats in back so she could find us. The meeting wasn't well attended, with only about fifty people in the room. Clusters of people sat in rows on folding chairs that faced a raised platform, the murmur of their voices filling the high-ceilinged room.

At the front was a table at which sat four women, with a podium to their right. I recognized one of the women as Chairman of the Board Dayton Blaine, a woman in her midsixties. She was taller than six feet and built like an army tank. Dayton had short, dark blond hair with a hefty showing of gray roots, a wide mouth, and a blunt nose. She wore a no-nonsense beige suit with an aqua blouse and an aqua and gray silk scarf around her neck.

Dayton was a well-known figure in New Chapel. Her prominent family owned a manufacturing business that employed what seemed like a quarter of the population, and their donations to worthy causes were legendary. People didn't usually cross the Blaines and, in fact, went out of their way to court their favor.

The other three women were unfamiliar to me, but the signs in front of them indicated that one was the board secretary, one the treasurer, and one the vice president. Like everyone else in the room, the four women, too, were talking, and no one appeared ready to start the meeting.

I checked my watch. It was ten minutes after seven o'clock, so I leaned closer to Marco and whispered, “I hope this isn't an indication of how the organization runs, or we'll be here all evening.”

Finally, Dayton Blaine went to the podium and tapped her finger on the mic to see if it was on. After fiddling with it for a minute, she leaned in to it and said in an annoyed voice, “We apologize for the delay, but Beverly Powers is not here to run the meeting. I can't imagine why she's late and we're unable to reach her, so please bear with us for a bit longer. If she isn't here soon, we'll let Emma Hardy, her second in command, start it. Emma?”

At that moment, a woman of about my age came hurrying up from the rear of the room. “I'm here,” she said breathlessly, taking a seat in the front row. She was tall and curvaceous, with thick, curly brown hair that seemed disheveled, as if she'd just jogged a mile. She wore a fitted black linen blazer over a pink blouse, with gray pants and black flats.

“You're late, too?” Dayton remarked, still sounding annoyed. “Is there something in the air tonight?”

People in the audience laughed lightly, as though they weren't sure if Dayton meant it in a humorous way or not. The woman I assumed was Emma seemed not to notice. Once she was seated, she took a mirror out of her purse and pushed her hair into place, then checked her makeup.

“I'm going to call Mom,” I whispered to Marco, taking out my phone. “She should be here by now. She hates to be late for anything.”

I tapped in her speed-dial number and listened. The phone rang four times, then went to voice mail. I waited for the message, then said, “Hey, Mom, where are you? We're at the meeting.”

“Maybe your mom is driving and doesn't want to answer her phone,” Marco said.

“That's possible.” Except that my inner antennae were vibrating, and when that happened, I knew to expect the unexpected.

While we waited, Marco and I chatted about his PI cases for at least another ten minutes until Dayton Blaine went to the podium again and said sharply, “We're going to start the meeting. Emma Hardy is PAR's development director and she's agreed to take over.”

The young brunette with the disheveled hair rose from her seat in the front row and walked around the table to the podium, seeming much more composed now and, in fact, almost happy to be speaking.

“Hello,” she said with a smile. “Thank you for coming to the monthly meeting of PAR. We'll start with the minutes from the last meeting read by the board's secretary.”

As the elderly lady seated at the table on the stage rose, my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket and checked the screen. “It's Mom,” I said to Marco, and slipped out of the room.

“Abigail,” she whispered, a note of desperation in her tone, “would you and Marco please come down to the police station and pick me up?”

“The police station? Why are you at the station?”

“It's Bev Powers,” she whispered. “She's dead. And I was the one who found her body.”