Seed No Evil (5 page)

“Thanks for the reminder, but I'll pass.”

“Suit yourself, but it's an experience everyone contemplating children should have.” She paused. “You're at least contemplating children, aren't you?”

“At this moment, Jillian, all I'm contemplating is the next order on my spindle.” Unfortunately, there were only four, but I wasn't going to worry. I had enough with all the wedding details. Speaking of which, I still had to work on my vows. Marco had written his a week ago. And had I confirmed our reservation at Adagios for our postwedding dinner?

“Abs,” Jillian said, standing up and putting her hands on my shoulders. She crouched down to look me in the eye. Since I was five feet two, everyone had to crouch to look me in the eye. “Do you even know if Marco is in favor of children?”

“Jillian, we are not having this discussion. I have orders to get out and I'm sure you have somewhere to go.” To prove that I was indeed busy, I snatched the order from the spindle and read it out loud. “A fall anniversary arrangement for a thirtieth wedding celebration.”

“Okay, fine,” she said with a pout. “Then let's talk about this minuscule wedding you're having. You
are
inviting my in-laws, right?”

“No, Jillian. It's just our immediate families, plus Lottie, Grace, and Nikki. I've already explained why, so I'm not going to repeat myself.”

“How about your wedding dress?”

“Ordered. As is the cake that we'll be eating at Adagios.”

“So there's nothing left to do.”

“Nothing.” That I wanted her to know about.

“What about my bridesmaid dress? Now that I'm pregnant, what if it doesn't fit?”

“You're not even showing yet, and don't you dare say you want to wear that ball under it.”

At that, Jillian burst into tears and sat down at the table, laying her head on her arms.

“What's wrong?” I asked in alarm. “What did I say?”

“I feel so useless.” She sobbed. “You don't need me, Claymore doesn't need me, and the baby doesn't need me. I'm blue and sleepy and grumpy and I don't know what else.”

I tucked a tissue in her hand. “Come on, Jillian, you know it's just hormones kicking in. Doesn't Dr. Baybee talk about hormones in his book?”

“I don't know. I only got through the first chapter.”

“Then go home and read more. I'll bet the doctor will clear it all up for you. Besides, don't you have clients to outfit?”

“No,” she wailed, and laid her head down again. “I'm between clients.”

I heard the bell over the door jingle, and then Marco's mother called out, “Good morning, everyone. What a
bellissimo
day, eh?”

Just the visitor I needed, another person not happy with the size of our wedding.

A
moment later, the curtain parted and Francesca Salvare swept into the room, taking in my miserable cousin in one glance. “
Bella
, Abby,” she said, and kissed both my cheeks. Turning to Jillian, she said, “What is it,
bella
? Don't say you are no longer a bridesmaid.” Then to me she said, “You
are
keeping your bridesmaids in this tiny wedding ceremony, yes?”

“I'm keeping my bridesmaids. Jillian is having a hormone surge.”

Francesca Salvare, Marco's mother, was an energetic fiftysomething woman who could have been Sophia Loren's child. She had luxurious waves of dark brown hair, big brown eyes, an olive complexion, a sensuous mouth, and an hourglass shape. Most often she wore outfits in black, but today she had on a pale blue silk blouse with black slacks and sleek black flats, with jewelry to complement them.

Francesca had lived in New Chapel years back, when Marco and his five siblings were growing up, then had moved to Ohio after her husband passed away. Now she was staying with her daughter, Gina, Marco's younger sister, who had two very young children. Francesca was supposedly there to help Gina raise them, but I suspected her real reason for staying in New Chapel was to oversee our wedding.

“What is it then, Jillian?” Francesca cooed, draping one arm around Jillian's bowed shoulders. “Why are you so sad?”

Jillian merely shrugged, so I said, “She feels useless. She's in that early pregnancy stage where nothing much is going on except morning sickness.”

“But I
am
rehearsing,” Jillian announced, and rose from her chair to show off her baby bulge.

“Rehearsing?” Francesca repeated, giving me an incredulous glance. “For a big stomach? You need to rehearse for this?”

While Jillian explained Dr. Baybee's theory, I took the opportunity to slip into one of the big coolers to pull stems for the anniversary arrangement. I wanted to get all the orders done since I'd be gone over the lunch hour and I never knew how many would be waiting when I returned.

For the arrangement, I decided on a low-profile, oval-shaped light brown basket filled with gently muted blossoms, so I chose soft green and soft peach roses, white gladioli, sprigs of rosemary, a sprinkling of waxflowers, jasmine vine, and lily grass. The subdued hues and feathery foliage would capture both the romantic and sentimental feeling of the anniversary celebration.

I came out with my arms loaded and spread everything on the counter. My cousin and Marco's mom were gone, thankfully, so I was able to create to my heart's content. When Grace came in later with a cup of green tea for me, she informed me that Francesca had taken Jillian into the parlor for a talk and from there they had left to go shopping.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I started on the next order, and by the time lunch came around, I had cleaned off the spindle, confirmed my reservation at Adagio, and taken the time to organize my desk. I hoped there would be more orders waiting when I got back.

At noon, Marco picked me up and we headed to the animal shelter on New Chapel's southern boundary. Marco was unusually silent during the ride, and during my pauses in the conversation, he said nothing.

“Marco, is something wrong? You haven't uttered more than a few words since I got into the car.”

“I'm just thinking about business. Nothing to worry about, Sunshine. Let's plan our strategy for the shelter.”

“We've got about forty minutes to work with. Should we divide up?”

“I'm guessing there aren't more than a handful of people working, and I'd be very surprised if Bev Powers's sister is there, considering the state the family must be in, so I think we'll be able to get them all. We'll keep it to a preliminary questioning of the staff, alibis mainly, and I want to get the layout of the crime scene.”

“Okay. But just so you know, it's all right if we run over a bit. I finished all my orders this morning, and Lottie's not taking a lunch break today. She's on a new diet, so she's skips lunch every other day.” I took my sunglasses off and polished them with the hem of my shirt. “I haven't been able to finish orders in one morning in quite a while. I hope it doesn't mean I'm having a downturn in business.”

“Hmm,” was all Marco said, his mind clearly on that mysterious business matter again. Should I pester him until he told me or drop the subject and pretend I hadn't noticed?

Since I'd used the word
pester
, I'd obviously answered my own question. I held my glasses up to the light to make sure I'd gotten off all the smudges. If what was on Marco's mind was important to the two of us, he'd tell me eventually . . . I hoped.

•   •   •

The PAR Animal Shelter was a long, low-slung, yellow brick building that had once been an elementary school. It had sat unused for years until PAR had raised enough money to lease it, and now they relied on an annual fund drive to keep it running.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of a chain-link fence through a tall hedge at the back of the building. “The exercise pen must be behind the shrubs,” I said, pointing it out to Marco.

“Let's check it out,” he said.

We walked around the building until we reached a row of boxwoods that shielded the nine-feet-tall cyclone fencing on two sides, making it nearly invisible from the street. The pen was attached to the rear of the building, where a series of small doors cut into the brick wall led to the dog cages, just like the big cat house at the zoo.

“See this?” Marco asked, pointing to a latch about four feet off the ground at one end of the pen. “This end should swing open like a giant gate, but someone put a padlock on it.”

We walked around to the front and entered the building on the right side, finding ourselves in a small, shabby reception area. Behind a wooden counter with peeling green paint on it, two women in kelly green T-shirts sat talking. Neither one looked up at our entrance.

“Excuse me,” I said to get their attention.

Both turned their heads. Neither seemed surprised to see us there. “Can I help you?” one of the women asked in a toneless voice. If she wanted to help us, she certainly didn't demonstrate it.

“I'm Marco Salvare,” Marco said, showing them his PI badge, “and this is my assistant, Abby Knight. We're investigating Beverly Powers's death. Would you have a few minutes to talk to us?”

The women looked at each other; then one of them said, “We need to check with Stacy.”

“She's in today?” I asked.

“She just got here,” the woman said, picking up a phone from its base.

I raised my eyebrows at Marco. Stacy was certainly dedicated to her job.

“There are two detectives here who want to talk to us,” the woman said into the phone. “What should we do?”

Marco didn't bother to correct her about the detective label.

She put the phone back and said in her flat voice, “Stacy will be right up. You can talk to her about your investigation.”

While we waited, I took the opportunity to look around. The room had three chairs in it, old green vinyl models that were cracked and brittle, with a square table in the corner, on which sat a faded blue ceramic lamp and a stack of magazines that looked like they'd been there for years. Animal posters, yellowed and curling with age, filled the dingy walls and paint flaked from the low ceilings.

“Are you clenching your jaw?” Marco asked quietly.

“I have the strongest urge to bring in a Dumpster and empty this room out,” I whispered.

“May I help you?” said a voice behind us.

I turned to see a woman with short bouffant blond hair, heavy black eye makeup, dark red lipstick, a white lab coat, tight jeans, and silver sandals coming toward us. A tiny golden brown puppy was tucked in the crook of her left arm.

“Stacy Shaw?” Marco asked.

“Yes,” she said.

He showed her his ID. “Marco Salvare. I'm a private investigator, and this is my assistant and fiancée, Abby Knight. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your sister.”

With a frown, she asked sharply, “Who are you working for?”

“My mother is the one who found your sister,” I said. “We want to be sure she's not labeled a suspect, so I guess you can say we're working for her.”

“Your mom is Maureen Knight?”

Stacy had a way of snapping out her words that was slightly unnerving.

“That's right,” I said.

“This won't take long. I promise,” Marco said. “Just some routine questions for you and your staff. I hope it's not an inconvenient time. I understand you just got here.”

Stacy hesitated for only a second. When Marco spoke with a slight upturn of his sexy mouth and a downturn of his soulful eyes, hardly a woman in the world could say no. “I suppose so,” she said, “as long as you understand that I'll be leaving soon.”

“We'll keep it brief,” he replied in his husky voice, causing Stacy to smile at him in spite of herself. Marco was not above using his charm to get what he wanted.

“How many employees are here right now?” I asked.

“Four. Two are in back with the animals,” Stacy said.

“We'd like to start with you, if you don't mind,” Marco said.

Stacy straightened her shoulders and gave him a confident smile. “I'll take you to my office. Peggy, would you take Seedling in the back for his vitamins?” She handed the puppy to one of the women, then walked smartly up a short hallway.

•   •   •

In contrast to the reception area, Stacy's office was a cozy retreat. While still not decorated with expensive furniture, it was obvious she'd taken pains to make it comfortable. She had a cherrywood desk and chair and two chairs with wooden backs and upholstered seats that looked like they'd come from a dining room set.

Against one wall stood two bookcases filled with books about animal care, several framed photos of Stacy with two large dogs that looked like shepherd-collie mixes, and a collection of cat and dog sculptures of all sizes. Next to her desk was a small empty cage with a bowl and a furry blanket inside. It appeared to have been recently used. I wondered if it was for the puppy she'd called Seedling.

“Have a seat,” she said, slipping off the lab coat to reveal a tight coral blouse underneath.

“We appreciate your seeing us at this difficult time,” Marco said, taking out his small notebook and a pen, which he handed to me. “Please accept our condolences.”

Stacy attempted to look appropriately aggrieved, but she didn't do a very good job of it. “Thank you. I'm still in shock. I hope you understand that I don't want to discuss the details of”—she sniffled and gazed at us with sad eyes—“you know.”

“We'll be as tactful as possible,” Marco said. “Frankly, we didn't expect to find you in today. Your devotion to your job is impressive.”

“Actually, I needed to get my mind off”—she sniffled again—“you know.”

“I'll get right to the questions so we can stick to our promise,” Marco said. “I understand that you left at five o'clock yesterday while your sister was still here.”

“That's right. Bev arrived about ten minutes before I left. She said she had some administrative work to do. That was the last time I saw her alive.” Stacy pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed the corners of her eyes, which looked dry to me.

“Who was here when you left?” Marco asked.

“
Her
mom,” she said, pointing to me, as though I should feel guilty about it. “Also my two employees, Brian and Carol, and the two women at the reception counter, sisters Sharon and Peggy, who left right after I did. In fact, I was in my car when they came out. I spoke with Brian and Carol today, and they said they left about five minutes later. Maureen Knight was the only one here with my sister when she . . .” Stacy let the sentence fade, as though she couldn't bring herself to say
died
.

“Do you know if anyone can corroborate their stories?” I asked.

“All my employees have spouses. I'm assuming they can give you the corroboration you need,” Stacy said.

“And what about you?” Marco asked.

“Unfortunately, I don't have a significant other,” Stacy replied, gazing straight at Marco as though she wanted to be sure he got the
available
message. “I've been divorced for thirteen years now.”

Time for me to jump in. I scratched my nose so she'd get a gander at my engagement ring. “Did you go straight home?”

“I drove out to the mall in Maraville,” Stacy said. “I was hoping to find a jacket to wear to the meeting. I feel it's always important to be properly dressed for business. It lets people know who's in charge.” She ended her little spiel by sweeping her gaze over my khaki-colored short-sleeved shirt, which I had always liked until that very moment. I glanced over at Marco, who had on a neat button-down white shirt. Naturally, he looked very professional. I sank lower in my chair.