Acts of Violets (12 page)

I opened my mouth to ask him, then shut it again. Sometimes, the point-blank method wasn’t the best route to take.

Fortunately, I knew another way to get an answer, a method known only by magicians and every single woman on the planet over the age of thirteen. I had stumbled onto it as a preteen, when my brothers decided they wanted to be illusionists and my dad took us to a class sponsored by the YMCA, where a local prestidigitator gave a demonstration that stuck with me to this day.

It was a simple matter of using diversions: Keep the audience’s attention focused on one thing so they won’t realize what you’re doing somewhere else. Being of the feminine persuasion, it had quickly occurred to me that this sleight of hand would work in other situations, too, such as getting someone to answer a question.

With that in mind, I stood my remaining sandwich half on one short end to see whether I could get it to stay there. Then I let it go, watching as it toppled over. I tried it again, balancing it carefully, watching as it wobbled a bit but held its ground. Marco, I was pleased to see, was watching, too.

“Look, Marco. I’m sorry I went off like that. I promise I won’t pester Eve Taylor. Okay?”

He raised those beautiful brown eyes to mine, looking so utterly miserable I felt terrible for snapping at him. “I’m sorry, too, Sunshine. This is really getting to me. I hate not having control over my own life.”

“I understand completely.”

“So, just out of curiosity—” The sandwich began to lean to the left. I cupped my hands on either side, ready to catch it. Marco seemed to be holding his breath, waiting to see whether it would fall. “Why do you think it’s understandable that Ed would have a soft spot for Trina?”

“Hey, Marco,” Bob, one of the bartenders, said, coming toward our booth. “Phone call. You should take it in the back, man.” He lifted his eyebrows as if to signal that it was too personal for me to hear. Bob was high on my list of guys who thought they were hot but in reality had all the spice of white bread. Too bad no one had ever clued him in on it.

Marco slid out of the booth and rose in one smooth, pantherlike move. “I’ll be right back.”

“Want another beer?” Bob asked me.

I let the sandwich fall, then propped my chin on my hand and sighed morosely. “No, thanks. I’m fine. Hey, Bob, who’s on the phone with Marco?”

He grinned smarmily. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That was the whole point of my question,
Bob
.”

He winked and walked away. Boy, did I wish I was a real magician, because Bob would make a great toad.

I was considering a trip to the bar with my sandwich to distract information out of Bob when Marco returned. “I have to run home for awhile. Stay and finish your food. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Is there an emergency?” I asked, trying to appear innocently concerned.

“Family matter. Nothing to worry about.”

I hated it when he said that.

 

As I left the bar I heard the lively strains of “The Beer Barrel Polka” coming from the green and white striped tent behind the courthouse and remembered that tonight was the Pickle Polka dinner dance. Since my Vette was parked in a lot in that direction, I decided to stop by for a peek inside. If nothing else, seeing a tent full of drunk people careening around like wounded llamas might improve my mood.

I entered through the wide doorway, the tent’s flaps held back with giant hooks, and was nearly bowled over by the pungent aromas of sauerkraut and Polish sausage. Picnic tables and benches were set up on either side, while at the far end a long banquet table held large platters of food, which, along with the sausage and kraut, included Wiener schnitzel, German potato salad, green beans with bacon, hard rolls, and tall torte cakes, some stuffed with strawberries and whipped cream, and others layered with creamy chocolate.

To my right, a four-man band played the usual selection of polkas, while at least two dozen couples galloped around the dance floor to the delight of the diners who clapped to the beat and shouted their encouragement. I wasn’t surprised to see the mayor and his wife and members of the town council among the rollicking group. The only person that was a surprise was Reilly. Who knew he could polka?

Reilly was a good-looking man, about forty years old, who displayed an air of confidence without the normal policeman posturing. He had intelligent hazel eyes, good bone structure, medium brown hair that was beginning to show a teensy bit of gray at the temples, and, more importantly, no gut hanging over his belt. He was dancing with an attractive blonde who was almost as tall as he was, which would have made her nearly six feet tall. Was she his steady? I’d never seen him out with anyone, so I was curious about her.

As they swung past, Reilly’s gaze landed on me, and I held up a hand in greeting. He instantly turned red, as though he was embarrassed to be caught being human. When the song ended, he came over, leading his partner by the hand.

“Hey, Sarge,” I said, sizing up the woman and deciding she was okay. “I didn’t know you polkaed.” I stuck out my hand to the woman. “Hi, I’m Abby Knight.”

Reilly took over as I shook her hand. “Abby, this is Karen Jenkins. Karen, Abby owns Bloomers Flower Shop. Her father is former police sergeant Jeffrey Knight.”

“Of course.” She gave me a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hi, Abby. I love your little shop, and Sean has told me wonderful stories about your father.”

Yes, indeed. This woman was a winner.

“You should have brought Marco over,” Reilly said.

“Considering what’s going on, he wasn’t exactly in a dancing mood. . . . But since you brought it up—”

Pffft.
A few harmless questions wouldn’t make him lose his job.

“I really need to talk to you about Marco—when you have time, of course.”

“Abby,” he said, using the same tone my mother always used when I was on the verge of doing something I shouldn’t—as if a tone of voice would have stopped me.

I moved closer to him. “He’s your friend, Reilly. I’m sure he’s done plenty of favors for you. Come on. I just want to talk.”

Reilly glowered down at me and I glowered back.

Karen glanced from me to him, then patted his arm. “Why don’t you talk to Abby and I’ll go get us some of that luscious strawberry torte cake. I hear it came from the Icing on the Cake. Would you care for some, Abby?”

“No, thanks.”

Reilly jerked his head toward the doorway, so I followed him outside to a recessed area along one side of the courthouse. He folded his arms and looked down at me. “How many times do I have to tell you I can’t give out any information?”

“So, you don’t care if Marco goes to prison?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then what’s the problem? Marco needs your help, Reilly. Pretty please? I promise Kellerman won’t find out.” I gave him my most winning smile, the one that had always worked on my dad after my mom had said no.

Reilly gave me a skeptical glance. “How do you know about Kellerman?”

“Everyone knows about him.”

Reilly studied me a moment, not quite believing me. “What do you need?”

I pulled the notepad from my purse and wrote Ed Mazella’s name and address on it. “For starters, this is Dennis Ryson’s next-door neighbor. Will you find out if he was checked out as a potential suspect?” I tried to give him the paper but he wouldn’t take it.

“I’m familiar with Mr. Mazella and I can’t tell you that.”

“Sure you can. We can use hand signals, like thumbs up or thumbs down, or the wink system, one for yes, two for no. Work with me a little, Reilly. I’ve got to find out who killed Ryson before the grand jury meets next week.”

He glanced around to be sure we were alone. “Look, Abby, I’m just as concerned about Marco as you are, but I’m a divorced dad. I’ve got two kids to support. I can’t risk losing my job.”

“You have kids? I didn’t even know you were married.”

“It was a long time ago. You were probably in high school then—and do you really want to get into that now?”

He was right. I’d save that for the future, since Reilly was almost as much of a mystery as Marco was. “Come on, Reilly. You can’t even look in a file for me?”

“If there
is
a file on Mazella it’s bound to be in with the rest of the investigation. I don’t want to be caught digging through it.”

“So I’m on my own, then?”

“You’re on your own.”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “Okay, if that’s the way it is, then I’ll have to handle it—somehow.”

“We’re good, then?”

“Good? You know the prosecutor will railroad Marco if no one stops him. It’s a sorry situation when a guy’s best buddy is so intimidated by his bully of a captain that he’d let him go to prison for something he didn’t do.”

“Look, Abby, before you start passing out the insults, are you sure about—” He paused to scratch behind his ear, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say.

“Sure about what?”

“Marco?”

I stared up at him, stunned. “You’re joking, right? You don’t honestly think he would kill someone.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but think about it, Abby. He was an Army Ranger, special operations, trained to kill a hundred different ways. And don’t forget, I’ve seen him in action. He’s got a long fuse, but he’ll only allow himself to be pushed so far and then he reacts—swiftly. Efficiently.”

Oh, my God. Reilly
did
think Marco could have killed Ryson. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach. If Marco’s buddy didn’t believe in him, what chance would Marco have convincing twelve jurors of his innocence?

I stuffed the piece of paper with Ed’s information into my purse. “Well, thanks, Reilly. At least I know where you stand. And it’s not beside Marco.”

I started to walk away, but Reilly said, “Hold it, Abby. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not saying Marco is guilty, just that you shouldn’t, well, assume anything.”

“I’m not assuming, Reilly. I know Marco didn’t kill Ryson.”

He studied me for a moment, then rubbed his forehead as though agitated. “Okay, look. Let me do some thinking on it tonight and maybe I’ll drop by Bloomers for a cup of coffee one of these days.”

“Thanks, Reilly.”

“Don’t give me that
I want to hug you
look. I haven’t agreed to help.”

“I know you haven’t. Besides, I wouldn’t want to start rumors about us. Karen might get jealous.”

“Yeah, right.”

He was scowling, but I could tell that inside he was smiling. And by that I knew Reilly would join my team . . . if I had a team.

As we started back for the tent, I asked, “So how did you meet Karen, by the way? What does she do for a living? Does she have family in the area? Has she been married before?”

Reilly just rolled his eyes and kept walking.

I
nstead of my usual gulp of morning coffee to jolt me awake, I took a careful sip, rolling the brew over my tongue as if it were a fine wine.
Ahhh.
This time I’d gotten it right. Not too bitter, not too weak. I downed half the cup; then, as the caffeine molecules hit my stomach lining and began to paddle upstream into my sleepy brain, I slathered chunky-style peanut butter on a slice of toasted multigrain bread and drizzled honey on top. It was my new power breakfast, guaranteed to keep me going until noon.

“Tell me the truth,” I said to my breakfast companion as I hopped onto a stool at our kitchen counter. (Being short necessitated a lot of stool hopping.) “Am I off base to think there might be something between Trina and Marco?”

I got a bored stare as a reply.

“Don’t be so quick to judge. Look at the facts. First of all, I did see them gazing into each other’s eyes right there in front of the whole town. Then there’s her son, a little boy who—I am not joking—looks so much like Marco that it’s frightening. Same skin tone, same color eyes, same wavy hair, and his name is—are you ready for this?—Mark. And then there’s the fact that Marco knew Trina’s mother’s address in New Buffalo. What is
that
about?”

The bored stare was followed by a yawn.

“You think I’m being superficial, don’t you? For your information, hotshot, I’m fully aware of the serious nature of Marco’s predicament, but that doesn’t prevent me from having a few minor, shall we say,
questions
on the subject? Okay, fine, maybe I’m overthinking it, but I can’t help feeling you’re not giving the topic your full attention.” I tore off a corner of my toast and held it out. “Here. This is all you’re getting. Now what do you have to say?”