Acts of Violets (17 page)

He didn’t say a word. I knew he agreed with me, but he wouldn’t say so, and that really bugged me. “I’m going to pay Trina another visit tomorrow to see what she has to say about it.” I folded my arms and silently dared him to say otherwise.

“I’ll tell you right now, she’s not the killer.”

“And you know this how?”

“The same way you know things. I feel it in my gut.”

Wasn’t that a comfort.

 

Driving Marco back to his apartment, I turned on the radio and cranked up the volume, partly because my temper was still simmering, and partly to drown out the silence that stretched between us. I pulled up behind the LeSabre and sat there, engine running, not sure what to say to banish the tension. A curtain lifted in an upstairs window, then dropped again.

“We’re being monitored,” I told him.

“I don’t doubt it.” He leaned over to plant a chaste kiss on my cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If you’re lucky.”

“Then I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” Marco gave me that little quirk-of-the-mouth smile that always zapped me through the heart, then got out of the Vette and strode up to the house. I glanced at the upstairs window again and waved good-bye to whomever might be watching, then gunned the engine and took off, squealing my tires and feeling very satisfied about it.

When I got back to my apartment, the message light on the answering machine was blinking and Simon was meowing for food. Being the kind, caring person I was—and also because Simon’s howling could drown out the voice on the machine—he got fed first. Then, after kicking off my shoes and grabbing the carton of frozen chocolate yogurt and a spoon, I hit the Play button and plunked down on the sofa to listen. Simon jumped up beside me and stared longingly at the container, having abandoned his food in favor of a sweeter treat. I kept my eye on him as I shoveled a spoonful into my mouth. He was a shameless hustler.

“Abigail, where are you? I haven’t heard from you in two days. How are my frames and fans selling? Do I need to bring more? And don’t forget about dinner Friday night. Call me.”

No need for that. Mom would be phoning in a few minutes anyway. Another mouthful of yogurt went in as I contemplated our weekly custom, when my entire family gathered together to share a meal and hear from my sisters-in-law just how successful my brothers were. Always a delightful time. My spoon hit the bottom of the carton with a dull thud. I glanced inside. Where had the yogurt gone?

I went to the kitchen for something else chocolate and had just spotted a Ghirardelli bar at the back of a cabinet when the phone rang. I peeled away the gold foil and bit off the end before answering with a cheerful, if somewhat mumbled, “Hi, Mom.”

“This is Dave.”

I swallowed the bite. “Oh, sorry, Dave. What’s up? Please tell me you have good news.”

By the long moment of silence that followed, I knew he didn’t.

“Here’s the story, Abby. I received a preliminary report from the prosecutor’s office that says Ryson suffered blunt-force trauma to the left temporal area, causing a subdural hematoma. They’re still trying to determine if a weapon was involved, and they don’t have toxicology results, but at this point it appears he suffered the trauma falling against something wooden, possibly the corner of his coffee table. They’re analyzing wood fibers found in the scalp to see if they match the table. The prosecutor is alleging the fall occurred during the fight with Marco.” He paused a beat, then added, “You know what that means. A charge of voluntary manslaughter.”

I sank to the floor with my back against a cabinet as a wave of nausea swept over me. “Voluntary manslaughter? Marco acted in self-defense, Dave. And Ryson was alive when he left.”

“You and I may believe that, Abby, but will a jury? Because if we go to trial, that’s what this whole case will hang on. I’ll present Dennis Ryson in the worst possible light, of course, and Marco in the best light, but it still boils down to what the jury believes. And with the amount of circumstantial evidence the prosecutor will present—I have to be honest with you. It’s not looking good for our side.”

My stomach was knotted so tightly I couldn’t stand to look at the chocolate bar in my hand. Voluntary manslaughter?

My gaze darted to the calendar on the wall. Only five days left to make sure that didn’t happen.

I
cupped my hands around my eyes to peer through the plate glass window of the Icing on the Cake and saw more than a dozen customers queued up inside, waiting to choose their donuts from the big display case. Rats. This was going to take longer than I’d expected. Why hadn’t I left home earlier? The bakery opened at seven a.m., and I was fully aware of how popular those donuts were.

You know why
, my conscience chided.
You’re stalling because you feel guilty bothering Ryson’s mother so soon after his funeral. How passive-aggressive of you.

I never should have taken those psychology classes in college. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock, the time I normally showed up at Bloomers. I’d just have to try the bakery again after work.

Damned know-it-all conscience. Fine. I’d stay.

I hugged my denim jacket close as a gust of wind blew my hair into a tangle of red straw, always an attractive look for me. As I stepped inside, I ran my fingers through the blunt-cut ends, wincing as I encountered a knot. But the tangle was instantly forgotten when I got a whiff of the yeasty, sweet aromas of glazed, powdered, and jelly-filled donuts. I was drooling before the door shut behind me.

The Icing on the Cake was primarily a carryout store, although the owner had managed to squeeze in four small tables along the right side of the narrow shop. The bakery had a long, glass-fronted counter along the left side, a faux-brick linoleum floor, peach-colored walls, and a blue ceiling painted with clouds to look like a sky. The store had been open less than a year but had quickly become a town favorite, known largely for its artistically decorated cakes.

I sized up the two female clerks waiting on customers, trying to guess which one was Eve Taylor. Both women appeared to be in their fifties and wore peach-and-white-checked bib aprons and little white caps pinned into curly salt-and-pepper hair. One had a thin face and pasty complexion with a long, hooked nose and deep creases from nose to chin that gave her a permanently exhausted look. The other woman was cheerful and robust, with creamy caramel-colored skin, a generous mouth, a double chin, and gigantic gemstone rings on the fingers of both hands. She looked too happy to have been Ryson’s mother, so it fell to the thin-faced woman.

As I waited in line, I couldn’t help but sigh over the pastel-frosted cakes on display, some decorated with marzipan figures, some with sugared berries, and—the biggest draw—some with real flowers. My favorite was a small, two-layer chocolate cake, enough for four generous slices, with creamy vanilla frosting topped with pink crystallized roses, deep purple violets, blue orchids, and shiny, mint green leaves, which I decided to buy to take back to the shop for Lottie and Grace. After the cheerful woman rang it up, I asked whether I could speak privately with Mrs. Taylor.

The woman gave me a skeptical glance as she handed me a white box tied with string. “You’re not a reporter, are you? We’ve had our fill of reporters lately.”

“Oh, no. I’m not a reporter. I’m Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop on the other side of the square.”

She folded her arms and gave me a long, appraising look. “Is your brother a bone doctor?”

From her tone of voice, I wasn’t sure whether I should admit to it or not. “You might be talking about my brother Jordan.”

“That’s the one. Dr. Jordan Knight. He set my grandson’s ankle and did a terrific job of it. He’s got a nice bedside manner, too. You tell him Sharona says hi, okay?” She waggled a finger at me. “Wait a minute. Did you say Abby Knight? Are you the sister who flunked out of law school?”

As if Jordan had more than one sister. I hung my head. In a small berg like New Chapel you couldn’t hiccup without everyone knowing. “Yes. That was me.”

“That’s okay, sugar. Everyone fails at something. Take Evie, for instance. She knows. Uh-huh, she sure does.”

“Evie?”

“Eve Taylor.” Sharona held a hand to the side of her mouth so no one else would hear her. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but that son of hers was nothing but a giant pain in the ass, pardon my French. Poor Evie blamed herself for not raising him better.”

From what I remembered of my high school French lessons,
giant pain in the ass
was not a French expression, but in the spirit of cooperation I decided not to mention it. “I take it that Eve is either divorced or widowed?”

“Widowed six months now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was Mr. Taylor from New Chapel?”

“Not Taylor, baby. Ryson. Her husband, God rest his soul, was Douglas Ryson. Taylor is Evie’s professional name. I think it’s her maiden name, too.”

I cast a quick glance at the thin-faced woman plucking donuts from the case. “Eve needs a professional name?”

Sharona planted her hands on her hips. “Come on, girl. Everyone knows Evie’s our resident ar-
teest
.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Our artist, sugar. Evie Taylor. See all these pretty cakes? They’re Evie originals.”

“
She
decorated these?” I pointed to Sharona’s coworker.

“No, baby. Evie’s in the back. She owns this bakery.”

“Eve Taylor is the owner?”

“She sure is. She built this business from the bottom up. Why, if it wasn’t for her cake decorations, we’d be just another donut shop.”

The news was settling in when Sharona motioned for me to meet her at the far end of the counter, where there was a door marked PRIVATE. She knocked twice on the door, then pointed her index finger at me. “Now, you make it quick, girl, okay? Considering what she’s been through, Evie shouldn’t even be here today, but she’s one stubborn woman. This bakery is her pride and joy, and it gives her great—”

The door opened and Sharona cut short her sentence to say with a smile, “Evie, honey, this is Abby Knight. She owns Bloomers Flower Shop and she wants to meet you.”

“How nice. Thank you, Sharona.”

“There you go, sugar.” Sharona gave my shoulder a friendly pat, then headed up to the cash register, while I merely stood there blinking in surprise. If I could have imagined anyone to be Dennis Ryson’s mother, Eve was not her. But if I’d ever wondered what Santa Claus’s wife would look like up close—she was a dead ringer.

Eve Taylor was a short, plump, rosy-cheeked woman who smelled like a vanilla milk shake and whose blue eyes behind her silver-framed granny glasses twinkled when she smiled. She had snow-white hair that curled softly below her white chef’s toque, with tiny pink rosebud earrings on her earlobes. She was wearing a white bib apron over a navy floral print dress that fell to mid-calf, nearly obscuring her white nurse’s shoes.

The only flaw in her otherwise perfect Mrs. Claus look was her gap-toothed smile—a space between her front teeth large enough to whistle through, making her resemble
Mad
magazine’s impish mascot, Alfred E. Neuman.

With the white box tucked under my left arm, I held out my right hand, which she took in her two soft, warm ones. “I’m tho pleathed to meet you, Abby.”

Um. Make that two flaws. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mrs. Taylor. I don’t mean to interrupt you—I’m sure you’re busy—so would there be a better time to talk?”

“I don’t mind if we talk while I work. Come inthide.”

I followed her through the door into an immaculate kitchen filled with ovens, stainless steel sinks, a black marble-topped counter, and white wire shelving stacked high with white boxes. The room would have been colorless but for a row of glass jars filled with brightly hued sprinkles, powdered dyes, and candy figures, and a line of cakes in a rainbow of frostings.

Eve introduced me to Maxine Grindley, the actual baker, then led me to her marble-topped island in the back, where she was in the process of creating a garden scene on a lemon frosted cake, with a gazebo on top constructed of brittle strands of what appeared to be spun sugar. On a waxed paper-lined tray beside her were pale pink miniature roses, deep pink dianthus, blue bachelor’s buttons, tiny yellow marigolds, and an array of mint leaves, all with a sugary glaze on them that made them sparkle in the flourescent glow of the overhead lights.

Eve pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter and put them on, then carefully selected one of the roses and placed it under the gazebo. “Now, what would you like to know? Where I buy my flowerth?”

Being a tactful person, regardless of certain people’s opinions to the contrary, I decided to let her take the lead so I could approach what would undoubtedly be a painful subject in a roundabout way. “That would be great. Thanks.”