Acts of Violets (18 page)

“It’s a place in Chicago called Thayer Floral Thupplies. You can find them on the Web.”

“Thayer Floral Supplies,” I repeated, pulling out my notebook and pen to jot it down.

“No, dear. Not Thayer.
Thay
-er.”

I glanced up at her, blinking in confusion until it clicked in. “Oh, right. Got it.” I crossed out
Thayer
and wrote
Sayer
.

She daintily selected a deep pink dianthus and held it up for inspection. “These are all edible, of course. Flowerth are rich in nectar and pollen, and even in vitamins and minerals, in thum cases. I use a thupplier I trust because the blooms must be picked fully opened in the cool of the day, after the dew hath evaporated. I’m very particular about my flowers. Take this dianthus, for exthample.” With her index finger she pointed out a wilted petal. “See this?” She plucked it off and dropped it in a trash container under her counter. “I won’t use anything on my cakes that’s the least bit defective.”

I indicated the flowers on the tray. “How long will these last?”

“With the crythtallithation protheth they’ll latht up to a week, but mine latht longer becauthe I add thomething thpecial.”

I started to reach for a rosebud, then saw her mouth open in a silent gasp, so I pulled my hand back. “How do you crystallize them?”

Her eyes shimmered with pride as she lovingly traced a gloved fingertip across a gleaming mint leaf. “It’th my thecret rethipe.”

“A secret recipe. Of course.”

She moved her hand over the tray, then plucked out a stem of miniature rosebuds. Using tiny snippers, she cut off each bud, then selected one and held it up. “This one will never do. It’s flawed. See how ugly it is next to the retht?” She deposited it into the can with the other less-than-perfect blooms.

“I use fresh flowers on my cakes, as well, but those are mostly for thpecial occasions, such as weddings, when I know they’ll be used right away. They’re harder to process and don’t last as long, so I have to make sure I don’t order too many flowerth at a time. Of course, when I do have extras, I add them to the special cake I take to Denny every Thaturday.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized her mistake. Struggling to keep her composure, her chin trembling, she added a mint leaf to her design. “He always looked forward to those cakes. His favorite wath banana. He would only allow himthelf one thlice a day tho it would latht all week, until I brought him a new one.”

She turned her back to me, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs as she reached for a tissue from a box on the counter behind her. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying to block it from my mind, but it’th so painful.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She blew her nose, dropped the tissue into a large waste can, took a moment to compose herself, then pulled off the used gloves and put on a fresh pair. She heaved a tremulous sigh as she resumed her decorating. “I’ll be so relieved when the police finish their investigation and I can put this all behind me.”

“We all will, believe me. Have the police told you how the case is going?”

She dabbed the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “They’re not very talkative. I called yethterday afternoon to thee if they could tell me anything, but Offither—oh, heavens, what was his name? Kensington . . . Kenderman . . .”

“Kellerman?”

“Yes. Kellerman. He wathn’t very nithe. He thaid he’d get back to me when he had something to report.” She sighed sadly. “It’s tho frustrating.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“You? How?”

“Believe it or not, I have sort of a sideline business going as a private investigator.”

“Really?”

I pulled out the frayed newspaper clipping. I was going to have to get it laminated before it fell apart. “This is one of the cases I solved.”

She scanned it, then turned her twinkly gaze on me. “Wath your picture in the newthpaper about a month ago . . . thomething about a profethor who wath thtabbed at the law school?”

“Yep. That was me.”

She nodded sagely. “I remember now. You’re a very bright young lady, Abby.”

“Thank you. I do try. So . . . what do you think?” She placed another leaf in her design. “I apprethiate your offer, but I can’t afford a private invethtigator. It takes a lot of money to run a business, as I’m sure you’re finding out, and there’s not much to spare. I’m afraid it would be quite out of the quethtion.”

“Money won’t be a problem. I’ll do it pro bono.” (Actually, pro Marco.)

“Good graciouth, I couldn’t athk you to work for free.”

“Then how about throwing in a cake and we’ll call it even?”

“Just a cake? Are you sure?”

“Positive. Just one thing I should mention, however. It would be better not to say anything to Officer Kellerman about me. The police can be very territorial about these matters.”

“I underthtand.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get started.” I pulled out my notepad and pen. “I understand Dennis moved to town about two months ago. Correct?”

She pondered it as she arranged the last two rosebuds on the icing. “Yes, I believe it has been two months thince he moved back here.”

“Did he live here before?”

“For about ten yearth. My huthband and I had a home in the country, a cothy little cottage bethide a brook. I started a catering business there—mostly desserts, you know. That’th my specialty.”

Cozy country cottage
, I wrote. “Do you still live there?”

“I had to sell the house after my husband died. I have an apartment in town now, so I can walk here. I’m not much of a driver, you see.” Her voice caught and she paused, her gaze staring past me. “Besides, there were too many memories in that house.”

I couldn’t tell by her expression whether they were good or bad memories, so I elected to step around that subject. “Do you know if Dennis had a girlfriend here in town?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Two of the neighbors reported that they saw a young woman visit Dennis right after he moved to town. I thought maybe you’d know who that might be—a friend, a cousin, a coworker maybe? It could be important.”

“No, I’m thorry. I don’t know who that could be. I wasn’t familiar with the people at the motorcycle shop, and Dennis didn’t have any cousins. My husband was an only child and so was Dennis.”

I jotted the information in my notebook. “I understand Dennis was in a clown troupe.”

Eve sighed wistfully as she reached for a rosebud. “As with most children, he loved clowns from the very first time he saw one perform. I’m sure you had a thimilar exthperienthe. Heaventh, did I thay something wrong?”

“Just a sudden chill.” I tried to discreetly pat down my hair, which was doing its best to stand on end. Not a pretty sight unless you were fond of red-maned lions.

“But with Denny, hith love of clownth continued. I do believe if he could have made a living at it, he would have quit his mechanic’th job in an inthtant. But he altho loved tinkering with engines, so I thuppose he had the best of both worldth.” Her chin started to tremble again, so I switched topics.

“Have you met any of Dennis’s neighbors?”

“I’ve met Mr. Mazella. He was very rude to Denny. He actually threatened to do thomething dreadful if Denny didn’t move out of the neighborhood. Thuch a violent man. It’th not thurprithing that hith wife hath mental problems.”

“You’ve met Mrs. Mazella?”

“No, but Denny told me about her. She’s a little off her rocker, poor creature. Denny thought she might be a witch because she’d been holding thecret theremonies in her back yard late at night.”

“Secret ceremonies?”

Eve selected a stem of dianthus. “Yeth. With candles. Denny thaid it wath thpooky. He thought maybe the was trying to catht a thpell on him.”

Hmm. Maybe that spell had worked. “Did Dennis ever mention the name
Lily
to you?”

“Not that I remember.”

“How about
Trina
?”

“Trina Vathqueth? Heaventh, yeth. She lived acroth the thtreet from Denny.” Eve lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hate to say this, but she’s a thtrumpet.”

There was something very satisfying about writing the word
strumpet
beside Trina’s name. “Really? How so?”

“She was a tease. She’d egg Denny on with those
come hither
glantheth and thkintight clothing; then the’d call the polithe and claim he wath harathing her.”

It wasn’t my fault; it was hers
was a common excuse among stalkers. “Have you ever met Trina?”

“No, but I’ve theen her.” She stepped back to size up her arrangement. “I wouldn’t be at all thurprised if she was in on the murder.”

“In on the murder with whom?”

“That former policeman. Oh, dear. What was his name? I believe he ownth a bar over on Franklin. Down the Hatch.”

My hands suddenly went clammy. “Are you talking about Marco Salvare?”

Her forehead wrinkled for a moment; then she nodded. “Yeth. Salvare was his name. I’m glad the police are investigating him. It was just horrible what he did to my thon two yearth ago. I’m thtill outraged when I think about it.”

I swallowed a small lump of dread and managed to say in a calm voice, “I was away at school two years ago. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“Of courthe not. It’th a matter of public record. Officer Salvare arrested Denny for robbing a convenience store—wrongly so, of course. Denny sued the police force and as a result, Officer Salvare was given his walking papers.”

Dennis Ryson
was responsible for Marco being off the force? And Marco hadn’t told me?

Eve glanced at me over the wire rims of her glasses. “I would think that would make a polithe offither quite bitter, wouldn’t you? Bitter enough to want revenge. Would you like a glath of water, dear? Your freckles are as pale ath buttermilk frothting.”

I
accepted the glass of water and sipped it while I collected my thoughts, which at that moment were all over the place.

“Feeling better?” Eve Taylor asked, peering at me in concern.

After hearing that little bomb go off? It would take more than a glass of water to pull me together now. “Thanks. I must have been dehydrated.” I set the empty glass on the marble counter, put away my notepad and pen, and took out a business card. “I’ll let you get back to work. If I find out anything at all, I’ll let you know. And if you think of anyone else who might have had a beef with Dennis, will you call me?”

“Of courthe. Don’t forget your cake.”

Oops. The cake. I was already at the door and had to turn back. The only way I would leave a cake behind was if my mind was preoccupied, which it was, big-time. I couldn’t decide whether I was more angry or more concerned. Why would Marco have withheld such crucial information from me? Had he been carrying a grudge against Ryson all this time? Was that why the prosecutor had zeroed in on him? And, most important, what else was he not telling me?

Hmm. Angry or concerned? I’d have to go with—angry. Marco and I needed to have a serious talk.

As I cut across the courthouse lawn I checked my watch and saw that it was eight forty-five, too early to catch him at the bar, so I phoned him instead and got his voice mail. He had to be up by now. Why wasn’t he answering?

“Hey, Marco. It’s me. We need to talk. Call me the moment you get this.” I dropped my cell phone into my purse, crossed over to Franklin Street, and headed up the sidewalk toward Bloomers, where Jingles the window washer was cleaning one of our bay windows.

Jingles had been a fixture on the square for as long as I could remember, toting his bucket and squeegee, an old rag hanging out of his back pocket, as he moved from storefront to storefront, making sure every piece of glass on the square was polished to a diamondlike shine. Besides washing windows, he also served as a general maintenance man and Mr. Fix-It for minor emergencies.

He was a tall, stoop-shouldered, slow-talking man who had to have been in his early seventies. He had a sparse covering of hair on a freckled pate and a long, thin, droopy face that always sported at least two days’ growth of gray stubble. He wore a plaid shirt beneath a faded brown jacket, with navy work pants and worn brown shoes.

He had come by his nickname because of his habit of shaking the coins in his pockets whenever someone stopped to talk to him. It was common knowledge that if you wanted to know what was happening on the square, all you had to do was ask Jingles. And now that I was almost at the shop and could see that he wasn’t cleaning the window but staring through it, I did just that.

“Hey, Jingles. What’s happening?”

He glanced around at me, then, with a sheepish look, started wiping the glass with his rag. “Morning, Ms. Knight. Seems like you have lots of feathers in there. I didn’t know birds came in all those colors.”