Acts of Violets (11 page)

“Was that the only time you got into it with Mr. Ryson?”

Ed leaned close, as though to share a confidence—and more cigar smoke. “I ain’t normally afraid of nobody, but some nutcase comes at me with a tire iron, I leave him alone. I got a wife to think of. I can’t go gettin’ myself hurt and leave her defenseless, know what I mean?”

“Right. You wouldn’t want to do that. Did Ryson ever threaten your wife?”

A third hesitation. “No, but I’d have wrung his ugly head right off his neck if he had.”

I’d have to get his wife’s side of it. Maybe Ryson
had
threatened her and Ed had acted on that urge to do some neck wringing. “Have any of the other neighbors tried to talk to Mr. Ryson about the noise?”

He lifted his thick shoulders. “Search me.”

“Did Mr. Ryson have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, his mommy.” Ed chuckled, his belly shaking.

I stared at him in surprise. “Ryson’s mother lives around here?”

“I guess so. She stops by here every Saturday afternoon like clockwork. She brings him a box of goodies from the bakery, like he was a little sissy. A mama’s boy. I ain’t got time for none of that crap, I’ll tell ya.”

I jotted it down. Marco must not have known about Ryson’s mother; otherwise, he would have sent me to interview her. “How did you know the woman bringing baked goods was Ryson’s mother?”

“She introduced herself to me once. I think her name was Taylor. Yeah, that’s it. Eve Taylor. Mebbe she divorced her first husband or somethin’. I was trimming the shrub out front when she came by. She works at that place on the square—Cake and Icing, or somethin’ like that.”

“The Icing on the Cake?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Seems like a nice enough lady. How she ever gave birth to that piece of trash Ryson I’ll never know.” Ed took a puff of his cigar. “Now, I did see a young lady come around here a few times just after he moved in, but I ain’t seen her in a while.”

“What did she look like?”

“Couldn’t tell ya about that. I didn’t pay much attention to her looks, but her car sure had seen better days. It was a white Mustang, a ’ninety-one, I think. Local plates. All rusted out along the bottom. What a shame. They don’t make Fords like they used to. Chevys, neither. By the way, that’s a good-lookin’ Corvette you got there. A 1960, ain’t it? What’s it got, like, a four twenty-seven engine? Now
that’s
when they knew how to make a car. Am I right?”

Another flutter of white drew my attention to the doorway, where I caught a glimpse of a face—a strange, almost tribal-looking wooden face—that popped up, then disappeared. I pointed to the doorway. “What was that?”

He turned for a look. “What?”

“I’m not sure. It kind of looked like an African tribesman.”

“That’s just my wife.”

“Your wife is a tribesman?”

“Naw. She collects masks.” He didn’t explain further, so I dropped it for the time being.

“Got any more questions?” he asked, shifting the area of his scratching.

Afraid of where that itch might travel next, I packed up my pad and pen. “That’s all I have for now. Thanks for talking to me.”

Ed reached for his wallet in his back pocket. “If you want to know anything else, come see me here.” He handed me a plain white business card, bent at the corners, with WALT’S TOWING SERVICE in bold black letters on it. An address and phone number were underneath.

“Thanks.” I tucked it in my purse, and when I looked up, Ed was already inside the house, slamming the door behind him.

Not a bad interview considering he hadn’t been very cooperative at first, but also not a good one, either. Although Ed hadn’t been a fan of Ryson’s, he seemed more the type to do a lot of barking but no biting. In fact, his motive, such as it was, wasn’t anywhere near as strong as Trina’s, and she allegedly wasn’t even in town at the time of the murder. And neither of their motives was as strong as Marco’s. As for the mysterious former girlfriend, neither Ed nor Trina could give me a description. But it didn’t seem to matter since she hadn’t been seen near Ryson’s house in a long time anyway.

I spent the next hour talking to neighbors in the houses closest to Ryson’s, but didn’t turn up any new information. Apparently, Marco was the only one who’d been seen there the evening of the murder. And now I had to meet him for supper and give him the news. Some investigator I was. Miss Marple would hang her head in shame.

O
n a dark autumn evening, what could be better than sitting in a cozy back booth at Down the Hatch, having a bowl of steaming ham and split pea soup and a thick, gooey grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich on crisp rye bread, accompanied by a cold Bud Light, with a Paul McCartney song playing in the background? Just one thing—sitting there with Marco.

There were two things wrong with that setting tonight, however—Marco’s bruised face and somber mood. I couldn’t complain. My mood was just a notch above his.

He had ordered only a lager for himself, ostensibly because of a late lunch, but I had a feeling his appetite was as low as his spirits. He made notes in pencil on a legal pad as I nibbled my food in between filling him in on my conversation with Trina and my rounds of the neighborhood.

“So we have a gruff next-door neighbor who Ryson threatened with a tire iron and an unknown female who used to visit him.” Marco rubbed his forehead. “It’s thin.”

Thin was an understatement. Pitiful was more like it. I felt terrible that I hadn’t come up with more. “There’s one more person we need to consider as a suspect, Marco. Trina.”

His gaze darted to my face as though he couldn’t believe I was serious. “Trina was out of town.”

“We need to verify that.”

“I
sent
her out of town.” He said it as though my brain was operating on low batteries—an attitude that wasn’t like him, and that ticked me off. Marco wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad day. I’d had to deal with Miss Split Ends and her host of runny-nosed kids, a burly, cigarchomping tow-truck driver, and all those
feathers
.

“I know you sent her, but are you sure she went? She may be your sister’s best friend, Marco, but you’re the one who’s always saying we can’t cross anyone off the list until we check them out.”

He frowned, bending his head over his notes once again. “Point taken.”

“Trina said you’d have her mother’s address in New Buffalo, Michigan. If you’d like to share that with me, I’ll go see her in the morning before work.”

He wrote a name and address at the bottom of a sheet of paper, tore it off, and pushed it across the table. He had it memorized. Why did he have it memorized? How close
was
he to Trina?

Gert, a skinny waitress with a bad cough and tobacco-stained teeth who’d worked at the bar since before the blue anchor and fake carp made their appearances back in the 1950s, halted in front of our booth. “You two need anything?”

Marco shook his head, so Gert glanced at me. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good.” Then she left. Gert didn’t waste words on anyone. She didn’t have the lung capacity for it.

I nibbled a corner of my sandwich. “Ed Mazella was probably the neighbor who identified you to the police. He mentioned several calls he’d made about Ryson. It seems to have been a habit of his. I can check that out with Reilly.”

“Didn’t we decide to leave Reilly out of this?”

“But I’m sure he’d want to help.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble for him, so let’s leave him out. Okay?”

He pinned me with those dark eyes, so I gave him a nod. I knew Marco well enough to stop pushing him on the issue. When he dug in his heels, arguments didn’t sway him. What he failed to take into account were my heels, and I didn’t mean the spiked kind. They dug even deeper than his, especially when his life was at stake.

“Did Mazella say how he knew me?” Marco asked.

“He mentioned seeing you at the bar, so he must come here.”

“What was your impression of him?”

I swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese, wiped my buttery fingers on a napkin, and readied my soup spoon for a dip in the bowl. “He’s a thickset guy with a south-side-of-Chicago accent who seems to have little patience for things that irritate him, like noisy motorcycle engines. But he didn’t strike me as a killer, just a tough talker. I’m guessing he’s the all-talk no-action type, although he got very riled when I asked if Ryson had ever threatened his wife. He also seemed to have a soft spot for Trina.”

“Understandable. Go on.”

The spoon was almost to my lips, but at his remark I put it back in the bowl. “Why is that understandable?”

I was smiling—okay, perhaps glowering was a better word—which might have been why Marco started to stammer. “What I meant by that—what he probably—never mind. It’s not pertinent. What was your impression of Mazella’s wife—what was her name, Eudora?”

Well, of course it wasn’t pertinent, but
never mind
? Was he saying Ed’s reaction was understandable because of Trina’s looks?

I suddenly realized Marco was waiting for an answer. What had he asked again? Oh, right. Eudora. Why was I worrying about some innocuous comment at a time like this? “I couldn’t form an impression of her because she only flitted by, and I mean flitted, like a bird. All I know for sure is that she collects masks and Ed is protective of her.”

“Halloween masks?”

“He didn’t elaborate, but I think not. I caught a glimpse of her wearing what looked like an African tribal mask. Then he told me to contact him at work if I have more questions, which makes me suspect he doesn’t want me speaking to her. Maybe she has a mental problem.”

“Or maybe she’s just shy.”

“So she hides behind a big, ugly wooden mask? Wouldn’t that be counterproductive?”

“In the world of a private investigator, anything is possible.” He studied his notes, then looked up at me. “Let’s leave Eudora alone for now and try to locate Ryson’s former girlfriend instead. I’ll give my contact at the DMV a call and ask her to search the database for a ’ninety-one white Mustang with local plates.”

“Shouldn’t I do that?”

For a moment Marco seemed nonplussed. Then, with a heavy sigh, he scribbled out the note he had made. I could see by the frustration on his face how difficult it was for him to step back and let someone else take the reins. “Yes, you should do that. Her first name is Eileen. I don’t know her last name, but she’s the only Eileen at the license bureau. Just make sure you call her between noon and one o’clock.”

“Got it. Okay, here’s a thought. Maybe Ryson’s mother knows who the girl is.”

Marco’s head came up. “His mother?”

“Yes, apparently she lives in town. Ed Mazella said she works at the bakery on the square. Her name is Eve Taylor.”

Marco tapped the pencil against the paper, working his lower lip with his teeth as though deep in thought. “Taylor,” he muttered.

“Different last name, so she must have remarried. I’ll drop by the bakery first thing in the morning and see what she can tell me about her son’s friends.”

“Leave her out of it. Just stick with Eileen at the DMV.”

I stared at him, puzzled. “Leave her out. Leave Reilly out. Leave Eudora out. You’re tying my hands, Marco. I don’t get it. Eve Taylor is Ryson’s mother. She’s bound to know things about his friends. Why shouldn’t I talk to her?”

For the first time ever, Marco glared at me—I mean really glared. “Because her son is dead and she hasn’t even buried him. She doesn’t need to be pestered with questions.”

I was on the verge of putting a little pomade in his hair with my grilled cheese sandwich, but instead I took a breath, considered his situation, and tried to put my annoyance on the back burner. “Okay. I don’t have to go
tomorrow
, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go at all, and I certainly won’t
pester
her with questions. Give me a little credit.”

“You know what I mean.”

I drummed my fingers on the table, stewing about his pestering remark, which also brought to mind his comment about Trina’s looks. One comment I could handle, but I drew the line at two. “Sure, I know what you mean. Be tactful, because apparently I’m
not
.”

His left eyebrow rose. “
Someone
got up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

That did it. “
I
got up on the wrong side? What does that mean, anyway? How do you even know which side of the bed is the wrong side? What if there’s only one side?”

In typical male fashion Marco ignored
my
testy remarks—if you didn’t notice them, they didn’t exist, right?—and instead reached for his beer, which only vexed me more. Why was I letting his comments annoy me so? The man was under enormous stress. Shouldn’t I be more sympathetic?

Okay, fine. I would own up to the fact that my irritation had started at the parade, when I saw the longing look on Trina’s face after she and Marco had talked. It had heightened with his remark about how it was understandable that Ed would have a soft spot for Trina. Was he simply being a “big brother” to Trina, or was there a mutual attraction that he hadn’t yet owned up to? If there was, fine. All I wanted was his honesty.