Acts of Violets (15 page)

A
s soon as I’d eaten a quick supper of leftover chicken salad and stale tortilla chips (clearly I needed to make a trip to the grocery store), I put a short black jacket over my shirt and changed from khakis to black slacks, then sped to Bloomers to pick up one last funeral arrangement (which I’d purposely waited to deliver). Then I zipped around the corner to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home, owned by Maxwell and Delilah Dove.

The huge, cream-colored Victorian house had dark green and light green trim and accents of mauve, in a style commonly known as a painted lady. It had a reception area in front and two parlors, A and B, one on each side, that ran from the front to the back, with an entry on both ends that led to a hallway between the two. When I arrived at ten minutes before seven o’clock, I was relieved to see that parlor A was empty and dark, which meant that any guests arriving tonight would be there for Ryson’s service in parlor B.

I checked in with Max, a genial man with a calm, pleasant demeanor, to let him know I was bringing another arrangement; then I casually mentioned my surprise at how soon the Ryson funeral was being held.

“What can I say, Abby? Those were his mother’s wishes. I always follow the family’s wishes.”

“I’m just saying it seems so rushed. Was it just Mr. Ryson’s mother who met with you? No other family members, or girlfriends, by any chance?”

“No one else.” Max opened a file on his desk and scanned the information. “Apparently there are no other siblings or close relatives, and she didn’t want anything elaborate or drawn out.”

“How did she seem to you?”

Max shrugged. “She was doing all right. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“Is she here yet?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“Okay, thanks, Max. I’ll drop off these flowers; then I might hang out for awhile to pay my respects.”

“You’re always welcome, Abby. The service is scheduled for eight o’clock.”

I left his office and slipped quietly into room B, surprised to find myself the only one there. At the back of the room was the closed casket, covered by my floral blanket of cream- and peach-colored roses. Another surprise was that there were so few flowers in the room. Normally, the floor on either side of the casket and the console tables along the side walls were filled with arrangements of all kinds, but tonight there were a mere seven, and most of those were mine. Obviously Dennis Ryson was not a popular person.

I waited more than fifteen minutes for someone to show up—where was his mother, for heaven’s sake?—and was on the verge of leaving when suddenly I heard loud male voices outside the parlor. I hurried to the front doorway and peered into the reception area, where I saw a group of men wearing various black leather items and sporting lots of tattoos headed my way. I was betting they were Ryson’s coworkers at the motorcycle shop, but I hated to typecast. I quickly took a seat at the end of the fourth row of chairs and dug for a tissue in my purse, trying to look properly mournful.

Their loud voices ceased the moment they entered the parlor. With heads bent and meaty hands hanging limply at their sides, they shuffled up one side, past the closed coffin, then down the other side, where they stood in a huddle, talking in low murmurs. Although I wasn’t keen on interrupting a pack of alpha males, I also wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass. I gave them another five minutes, then scooted out of the row and walked up behind them.

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt, guys, but would you mind if I asked some questions?”

Heads swiveled to give me a slow once-over, making me feel like an ice cream sundae on display in a Baskin-Robbins window. Then they turned away to resume their conversation.

As if a snub would discourage a redhead. “Excuse me again. I know this isn’t the best time, but I have some questions about your friend—”

“Dude, do you hear something?” That was from a big guy in a studded black leather vest and white T-shirt, a pack of cigarettes wedged under one rolled sleeve. (Now
there’s
a funeral outfit.)

A guy with gold rings stacked on his thick fingers cupped a hand around one ear. “I don’t hear nothin’.”

“Me, either,” grunted another fine product of our educational system.

“Sounds like a gnat buzzing around to me,” Leather Vest said.

“You know how we get rid of gnats?” To answer his own question, Gold Finger smacked his palms together, making the other guys snicker.

Very cute. They were playing
Let’s be cool macho studs and ignore the nosy chick.
Well, I could play games, too, and all I had to do to outsmart them was dumb down to their level.

Within ten seconds I had the clip out of my hair, two shirt buttons opened to reveal cleavage, and a coat of gloss on my lips. I tossed my hair back and said in a husky voice, “I prefer to think of myself as more the lady-bug type. You know . . . all red-hot and hungry.”

Five heads turned and five pairs of eyes devoured me from the scalp down. Time to turn on the bimbo act. Shameful, perhaps, but, hey, what wouldn’t I do for Marco?

I tilted my head, batted my eyelashes, and pushed my lips into a pout. “I saw you big, tough guys standing here and was really hoping you could help me out. See, I’m a very curious girl. In fact, some people say my curiosity is, well . . .” I twirled a lock of hair around my finger and let them fill in the blank any way they wanted. “So, any of you hunks feel up to answering some questions?”

I could see drool forming in the corners of their mouths.

“What do you want to know?” Leather Vest said, his voice thick with saliva.

“For starters,” I purred, “tell me what a bunch of macho guys like you do for a living.”

Gold Finger undressed me with his eyes, causing an unpleasant shiver to crawl up my spine. “We’re mechanics at Wheel and Deal Motorcycles.” He cracked his knuckles, as if to prove how manly he was. “We know bikes inside and out. You got a problem, we can fix it.”

“
Very
impressive. So you and Dennis must have worked together.”

That was clearly the wrong comment to make, because immediately a surly, thick-necked man stepped forward as the rest closed ranks around me. “How do you know Denny?”

He had a shaved head, wore a black T-shirt with a HOGS’ BREATH SALOON logo on it (motto: “Hog’s breath is better than no breath at all,” something I would not dispute) and black leather pants, and sported a tattoo of a wicked-looking cobra down his arm.

Obviously I shouldn’t have jumped into the serious questioning so soon. Now I’d have to backpedal into bimbo mode to put them at ease.

I glanced at each one of them, my hand at my heart in a gesture of complete surprise (drawing their gaze straight to my cleavage), and in a breathless voice exclaimed, “Oh, I didn’t know him at all. I just came to deliver flowers. But I read about the murder in the newspaper this morning, and then when I saw your friend up there I couldn’t help but wonder what brought him to such a terrible end.”

That seemed to satisfy them.

“Yeah, poor bastard,” Gold Finger said, making no attempt to raise his eyeballs away from my breasts. “I’ll bet he didn’t see
that
one coming.”

“And you’ve probably been friends with him, like, forever, right?” Boy, was it difficult to do any intelligent questioning while pretending to be a twit.

“Only a couple of months,” Cobra Man replied, “when he started working at the shop.”

“I see.” I paused to glance around the nearly empty room. “I can’t believe you’re the only ones here.”

“Doesn’t surprise me none.” Cobra Man flexed the biceps on one arm. “Denny wasn’t what you’d call easy to get along with.”

“But you’d think he’d at least have a girlfriend, right?” I smiled prettily. I didn’t dare come right out and ask about the girl in the 1991 Mustang.

“No girlfriends. Only the chicks he paid for.” Gold Finger snickered.

Okay, I didn’t want to go there. Forget that line of questioning. “So you guys hung out together?”

“Nah. We didn’t see him too much outside work,” Leather Vest said. “He did his clown gigs on weekends. Sometimes he’d drop by the bar, but he was always alone.”

I tilted my head and gave him a coy smile. “So where do you guys hang out? I’m always looking for a new place.”

Leather Vest snapped his fingers. “What’s the name of it? You know, that mick place out by Dunes State Park.”

Mick place? Lovely.
“Do you mean Luck O’ the Irish?”

“That’s the one.” Leather Vest winked. “You should drop by some Friday night.”

“I might do that.”
Like never.
I had to suppress a shudder, remembering the one and only time I’d been there, tracking clues to find a missing groomsman in Jillian’s wedding party. I was still having nightmares about guys with greasy beards and nose hair long enough to braid. Who would have guessed facial hair could hold so much food?

I turned to glance at the coffin. “So what do you think happened? A robbery gone bad or maybe someone with an ax to grind?”

Clearly puzzled, Gold Finger glanced at Cobra Man. “Denny was offed with an ax?”

“Hey, numb nuts,” Cobra Man snickered. “Don’t you know what
ax to grind
means?”

“It means that someone had a beef with him,” I explained, making a note to myself not to use big words with them—like
ax
and
grind
.

Leather Vest said, “I’d bet you any money it was someone who had a beef. Denny had a way of pissing off people.”

“Even you guys?”

“Whoa there, girly,” Cobra Man said, stepping closer. “We didn’t have any beefs with Denny.”

Yikes. Bad move, Abby.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“When we have a beef with someone, we settle it like men.” He balled one hand and smacked it against his open palm.

“Only a pansy attacks with a weapon,” Gold Finger added.

And here I had mistakenly believed real men settled their differences by talking things out. Silly me. At any rate, I was fairly confident that none of them had killed Ryson. They weren’t bright enough to sneak into Ryson’s house without attracting attention.

I tossed my hair back and gave them a pouty smile. “You are so right. Aren’t the cops questioning someone for the murder anyway?”

I waited for an answer, but all they did was glance at one another. I couldn’t tell whether they hadn’t read the article or were just playing dumb, so I pressed a little harder. “I read his name in the paper just this morning. Salvare, wasn’t it? Do you guys know anything about him?”

Leather Vest started to answer, but Cobra Man put out a hand to stop him. “Wait just a damn minute, here. You think we’re stupid?”

No way I was going to answer that. I tilted my head and pushed my lips into another pout. “What do you mean?”

Gold Finger said to him in a hushed voice, “Take it easy, dude.”

“I’m not going to take it easy until she tells us what’s up with all the nosy questions. Now she’s asking us about the guy who offed Denny. What gives?” He glared down at me. “You’re no delivery girl. Who are you?”

“Okay, let’s all take a deep breath and calm down,” I said, deciding a little bit of the truth wouldn’t hurt. “You’re partially right. I’m not just a delivery girl. I’m a florist. I own a flower shop.” I pulled a business card out of my purse and handed it to him. “See? Bloomers Flower Shop. It’s right around the corner, facing the courthouse.”

He read it, then passed it to Gold Finger. “Big freakin’ deal. Anyone can have a card printed up.”

I was on the verge of simply walking away, but I figured I had more to gain by giving them some kind of explanation and winning their confidence. “Can you guys keep a secret?”

They exchanged glances; then Cobra Man said, “Let’s hear it first.”

Make it good, Abby.
“Okay. Here it is.” I took a deep breath, giving me a precious moment to gather my wits. “First of all, I really am a florist. See all those arrangements up front? They’re mine. I did them. I’m also a private investigator, kind of as a sideline business. You know, florist by day, PI by night? Here, I’ll show you.”

I flipped open my wallet and pulled out the yellowed clipping from the
News
. “This is an article about how I solved a hit-and-run accident and caught a murderer. It was my first case.” I held it out, waiting for a taker. “Go on. Read it. My name is in there.”

Cobra Man took it, looked it over, and passed it along. “So how come you’re working on Denny’s case? I thought the cops had their guy.”

“Again, this is strictly between us, okay? I’m working on it because I think the man the cops have targeted is innocent.” I glanced around to be sure no one was near. “Do you guys know Marco Salvare? He owns Down the Hatch Bar and Grill.”

“Yeah. I know him. He used to be a cop,” Leather Vest said.

“And before that,” I told them, “he was an Army Ranger.”