Moss Hysteria (19 page)

A
s Marco cautiously circled the vehicle, I got out my cell phone and prepared to dial 911 at his signal. He approached the driver's side, bent down to look inside the window, then reached inside. Then he pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo before returning to the 'Vette.

“Is Maynard in the van?” I asked.

“Yes, and he's either napping or passed out. He had a steady pulse, but I couldn't rouse him.” Marco showed me the photo. “See that silver object on the passenger seat? That's a hip flask with its cap off, and there's a strong odor of alcohol inside the van even with the window open.”

“What should we do?”

“I'm going to take more photos. Then I'm going to wake him up.”

Marco returned to the van, took more pictures, one with his watch to show the time, then stuck his phone in his pocket and rapped on the doorframe. “Maynard! Are you all right?”

It took several attempts before he got a response. Marco spoke to him briefly then returned to our car and started the engine.

“Are we done?” I asked.

“No, but I want Maynard to think so.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“It took him a minute, but he did remember. He wasn't pleased to see me.”

“Did you tell him why we're here?”

“Nope, but I have a feeling he figured it out. Keep your eye on him as I pull away.”

I swiveled to watch out the back window as Marco turned the car around and drove off the way we came in.

“He's getting out of the van,” I reported. “He's leaning against the side so he doesn't fall. It looks like he's watching us leave.”

The street curved at the bridge so I lost sight of Maynard. Marco pulled off the road, got his phone out, and made a call to the Washtub Tap.

“As I thought,” Marco said when he ended the call, “Maynard just finished a two-hour liquid lunch. And we have photos of the results of that lunch. If we need to interview Maynard again, the photos will make him much more inclined to be honest.”

“We need to report him to the town council, Marco. That's unconscionable behavior.”

“In good time. Let's catch a killer first and deal with Maynard later.”

While heading back to town, my cell phone rang and Jillian's image popped up on the screen. “What's up?” I asked her.

“Have I got fantastic samples for you, Abs. Get excited, because your dream room is about to happen. I'll be there at seven o'clock tonight. Have the wine poured.”

When I ended the call, I said, “Jillian's bringing living room samples over tonight. She says they're fantastic.”

“And once again, damn! I'll be working.”

“Don't look so pleased about it. I really appreciate all the time she's spending on us. I can't wait to see what she chose.”

“You're letting her decide everything?”

“Why not? She knows our tastes.”

“Did you tell her I like navy?”

“Yes, I did. And before you drop me off, have you heard from Jane Singletary?”

“Not a word. We're going to have to catch her at home this weekend so we can find out what her third vehicle is. We also need to investigate Rye's missing tools. Let's take a walk around the neighborhood during our lunch hour tomorrow and talk to some of the construction crew. I want to find out if tool theft is a common problem.”

As he pulled up in front of Bloomers to let me off, I spotted Seedy in the bay window, wagging her tail eagerly. “Look, Marco. She knows the car.”

“She's one smart pooch.”

“You wouldn't believe how Seedy gets along with Theda's cat. They're best buddies now.” I leaned over to give him a kiss. “Dinner at the bar tonight?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how long it takes me to have that talk with Alfred. I'll text when I'm on my way back to Down the Hatch.”

I opened the car door. “Good luck with that.”

Marco only smiled.

•   •   •

Bloomers was so busy all afternoon, I never found time to call the director of the regional flower show to have my entry pulled. It wasn't until we closed for the day and my assistants had gone home that I finally had an opportunity. Unfortunately, my call went to voice mail, so I had to leave a message. To be doubly sure, I went online and got an e-mail address to send yet another message canceling my entry.

I felt much better afterward. Now no one would ever need to know.

Marco and I met at five thirty for dinner, with Seedy happily retiring to Marco's office for a nap. With all the traffic in and out of Bloomers that day, she'd had her fill of people. We ordered our entrees then sat in the booth with our drinks to talk.

“Tell me how it went with Alfred,” I said.

“It went nowhere. First of all, he wouldn't agree to meet face-to-face, and when I told him over the phone what I'd learned about the restraining order, he basically said to mind my own business.”

Exactly what I'd predicted.

“After that conversation I phoned my mom to tell
her
what I'd found out.”

“Let me guess. She told you to mind your own business, too.”

“Yep.”

“At least she knows, Marco. You did what you could to warn her.”

Marco merely took a drink of beer. The wheels in his brain were still turning. He wasn't finished with Alfred Donnerson yet.

•   •   •

Jillian arrived thirty minutes late that evening muttering about Claymore coming home an hour after he was supposed to, Harper being cranky, and Princess tearing up one of her sofa pillows. She was carrying a box loaded with fabric samples, sported a large burgundy patent leather tote bag over one shoulder, and, despite the turmoil at home, had excitement sparkling in her big golden eyes. Jillian was in
the decorating zone.

“Wait till you see what I brought,” she sang, dropping the box in the middle of my living room. She took off her plaid Burberry raincoat and tossed it over the back of the sofa then glanced around the room. “Where's the wine?”

“Coming up.”

When I returned from the kitchen, Jillian had laid out three piles of samples on the floor and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of them, her iPad on her lap. She took the wine, drank a sip, then set it on the old black trunk we were using for a coffee table. She directed me to sit beside her, then began.

“In the first pile we have this ultramodern, very hip look that Marco will just adore. Here's the sofa fabric, and here's the armchair fabric, the throw pillow fabric, a piece of the area rug, and the wall paint sample.”

It took less time to study it than to explain it. “It's all gray, Jillian. The area rug is gray, the sofa is gray, the side chairs are gray—”

“I beg your pardon. The
outsides
of the chairs may be gray, but the seat and back cushion fabric is a lively pattern of gray, yellow and white dots. And the area rug isn't solid gray. It's a gray-and-white wave. Gray is the new neutral, Abs.”

“So what you're saying is that the bold yellow accent color I asked for is a few polka dots on the insides of the chairs—which don't look at all comfortable, by the way.”

“They don't look comfortable because they have modern lines. That doesn't mean they
aren't
comfortable. And I beg to differ about your accent color. There's yellow in the throw pillows, too. See right here?”

I squinted at the pillow fabric. “You mean that thin squiggly line between the heavy gray squiggly line and the thick black squiggly line?”

“Don't wrinkle your nose until you see it put together.” She scrolled through photos and showed me the finished product. In one word: bland.

I pointed to a tall object behind the dull gray sofa. “What's that?”

“Your orange lamp.”

“That's a lamp?”

“It's a torchiere.”

“Doesn't look like any torchieres I've ever seen.”

“You wanted a modern look, Abby. This is a modern look.”

“Not
that
modern.” I reached for my glass. “What else do you have?”

Jillian set that pile aside and turned to another. “You've got to love this one. Here's your sofa fabric, your toss pillow fabric, and this is your chair fabric, which we'll also use for the roll-down window shades.”

“Is this drab gold satin supposed to be my bright yellow accent color?”

“You can't use bright yellow on this kind of blue, Abs. But isn't this bold gray-and-white peacock pattern amazing for the armchairs? Look at the completed room.” She showed me another photo on her tablet.

“Again, Jillian, they're gray. And now you've got gray covering my windows, too. And didn't I tell you I was opposed to a leather sofa?”

Jillian frowned at me. “You're being difficult.”

“I know what I don't like, and I don't like a gray room or a leather sofa. Color and comfort, Jill. Remember?”

With a frustrated huff, she began to put the piles of fabric into the box.

“Don't you want to show me the third group?”

“No. You won't like it.”

“Now you're pouting.”

“You hurt my feelings.”

“I'm not trying to hurt your feelings.”

“Well, you did a good job of it.”

“I'm sorry. I'll try to be more open-minded next time you come.”

“Next time?” She sat back on her haunches. “No way am I doing this again. Either we work on it together
tonight
or I'm done.
Together
, Abby
.
I can't do it without you. No, make that I
won't
do it without you. So you decide. We work as a team or you live with”—she gestured toward the old furniture—“this.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

We sat on the sofa with our wine, sipping silently, not looking at each other. Then I said, “I don't want to live with this old stuff. And my party is nine days away.”

She set her glass down, turned her tablet back on, and began to scroll through a collection of living room sets on a design Web site.

“What are you doing?”

“I have an idea.” She put the iPad in my hands. “Tell me what you like about this room.”

I studied it for a moment. “The coffee table and end tables are nice. Modern but not too modern.”

“Let's call them contemporary.” She marked them and moved on. “This room?”

“The area rug is colorful, and I like the free-form design.”

“Also contemporary.” She marked it and moved on. We worked in this way for over an hour. Then she packed up her tablet and put on her raincoat. “See how easy it is when we work together? Now we'll schedule a day to go up to the Chicago Merchandise Mart and pick out your new living room suite.”

Remembering how much trouble I'd had at the furniture store, I balked. “I don't have a whole day to spend in Chicago. Won't you do it for me, please?”

“What happened to our team spirit?”

“We're still a team. You just have to operate for both of us.”

She scowled at me for a long moment then carried her box to the front door. “Fine. I'll do it on one condition. You have to accept whatever I choose.”

My gaze landed on the ugly fabrics in her box. What if I hated her selection?

Reading my expression, Jillian shook her head in disgust. “You still don't have faith in my decisions. Thanks a lot, Abby.”

“No, wait, Jillian. That's not true. I'll accept whatever you choose.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She smiled. “It's a deal.”

She kissed me on the cheek and stepped outside just as the rain started. As she hurried toward her car I thought of something and called, “Jillian! No gray, please.”

She got inside and rolled down the window just long enough to say, “None that you'll notice.”

A severe thunderstorm hit half an hour later, sending Seedy scampering for cover and me dashing to close the bedroom windows. As I locked the last one, I caught movement in Theda's backyard and saw what appeared to be a human shape moving toward the water's edge.

Afraid the person was up to no good, I ran for my cell phone to alert Theda. I knew she was home because I could see the flickering light from her television in her side window. But her phone rang four times and then went to voice mail, so I turned on my back patio light to see if I could tell what was going on. The figure had waded into the water and appeared to be digging in the reeds. At the blaze of light, the figure crouched down farther as though trying to be inconspicuous.

Hoping to scare whomever it was away, I opened the sliding glass door to yell out a warning just as Seedy appeared at my feet. When she began to bark, the figure crouched low, sloshed across the shallow end to the other side, and disappeared from view.