Throw in the Trowel (20 page)

We started walking toward the exit. “What do you think she'll do with the picture?”

“Probably send it to her brother. If Tara's information is correct, then Doug has been in contact with her, and I would bet any money that their conversation was about Kermit. So if Rona is aware that there's an investigation, as soon as you started asking about Doug and Rusty, she was probably on alert. I wouldn't be surprised if we heard from Doug tomorrow.”

•   •   •

It didn't take until Monday for that to happen, but it wasn't Doug who called.

“Salvare,” Marco said, answering his phone later that afternoon as we took Seedy for a walk in his neighborhood. “Hey, Rusty. What's up?” He hit the
SPEAKER
button so I could listen.

“I hate to bother you, son, but I need a favor from you and your lovely bride.”

“What can we do for you?” Marco asked.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “I don't mean to interfere with your work, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't involve Lila's girls in your investigation. They was just little kids back then and didn't really understand what was going on when their papa ran off. Lila and Doug tried to shield them from the publicity, so all they knew was that their papa got so unhappy, he went away.”

“They're adults now, Rusty,” Marco said. “They must have heard the rumors.”

“Course they did, son. I'm not saying they don't know what their papa did. What I'm trying to tell you is that they don't have the particulars. You bring all your questions to me, and I'll do my best to answer them for you. I'll be completely open with you, just like I've been doing. But please don't bother the girls. They don't need to know the sordid details. It's bad enough they know their papa was a drunk. You hear what I'm saying?”

“I hear you, Rusty. We didn't mean any harm. Actually, your stepdaughter noticed Abby's new boots, and that's how the conversation started. So let me put your mind at ease. We won't bother Lila's girls with questions. We'll come to you or Doug or Henry.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd leave Doug out, too, Marco. Kermit's running off was hard on him. Between me and Henry, we should be able to answer your questions.”

“I can't guarantee that I won't need to talk to Doug again,” Marco said, “but I'll do my best. How about you answer a question for me, okay? Who phoned you to tell you that Abby talked to your stepdaughter?”

“Is that important?” Rusty asked.

“I'd like to see how open you really are, Rusty.”

There was a long pause, and then he said, “It was Doug.”

“Did he ask you to get in touch with me about it?” Marco asked.

“He said he thought I should know what was going on.”

“Thanks for your honesty, Rusty. I'll be in touch.” Marco ended the conversation. “Interesting, isn't it? After all these years, Rusty is still very protective of Lila's kids.”

“They're hardly kids now.”

“Exactly. Doug's a fifty-two-year-old man. Why didn't he call me if he had a complaint? Why is he turning to Rusty?”

“Because maybe that's what Doug always does when he needs help.”

“Good point. So why is Rusty still rushing to his and the girls' defense?”

“Once a parent, always a parent?”

“That's it, Abby. Rusty is still taking care of their problems as though he's the dad. It makes me wonder whether he did that in nineteen seventy-six, too.”

“Meaning that he took care of Kermit for them?”

“For himself, too. Look at all the motives. He was frustrated that his bar's basement wasn't getting fixed. He had to have been resentful that Kermit was abusive to his sweetheart. And he saw how much Kermit was hurting Doug and the girls, whom he seemed to have bonded with.

“So what better opportunity than to have Kermit working in his bar basement, with a dirt floor that was about to be cemented? As Rusty pointed out, the shovel was sitting right there.”

“And so was the trowel, apparently. What I don't understand is why Rusty would have had garden tools in his bar basement in the first place.”

“He may have had a rooftop garden. I've run across this before. It was part of a new green movement downtown during the seventies. I'll bet Lottie would remember.”

“Then are you eliminating the other suspects to focus on Rusty?” I asked.

“No, of course not. But from where I'm standing now, Rusty is at the top of the list.”

For Marco maybe, but I was still struggling with it. I had such fond childhood memories of Rusty.

With that to chew on, we headed over to Marco's sister's house to have a big, happy Italian feast. I hoped.

C
HAPTER NINETEEN

H
ow did one say
help
in Italian?

“Let's remember not to take Seedy with us next week,” my grouchy groom said as we drove home from his sister's house that evening.

“How about let's remember to say we're busy next Sunday?” I replied, also grouchy, holding the dog in question in my lap. The dinner hadn't gone well, but it wasn't all Seedy's fault. Part of it was that I had been out of sorts with Marco. “Seedy likes to bring us things. As you pointed out, she's honoring us.”

“Well, she has to stop honoring us, because bringing us feminine products from my sister's bathroom drawer, and dirty underwear from my nephew's hamper, and Mama's expensive Italian leather shoes isn't cutting it with anyone.”

“They're just
things
to Seedy, Marco.”

“Things or not, we have to train her not to do that.”

“She's not the only one who needs training,” I muttered, gazing out the window.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him give me a surprised glance. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that I'm tired and shouldn't be discussing touchy subjects like having Sunday dinner at a parent's house every week.”

“We don't have to go every week.”

“You've got that right. We don't. And they shouldn't expect us to, either. My mom was hurt when she found out that we were going to your sister's for dinner, and your mom has already scheduled us for next week.”

“We can go on another day.”

“I don't care if we see your family on a Sunday, Marco. Sundays
are
family days. My point is that we need to make it clear that we are going to
alternate
Sundays. I don't want to start a war over something that should be a pleasant get-together.”

Marco mulled it over as he parked the car. He turned off the engine and sat there for a moment. “You're right, babe. I shouldn't have agreed to next Sunday without discussing it with you first. I'll talk to Mama and you talk to your parents.” He turned my chin so he could see me. “Don't look so solemn, Abby. We'll work it out.”

His gaze was so full of love that I felt my anxiety melting. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Did you think I wouldn't?”

“You seemed to be enjoying your family so much that I felt guilty saying anything.”

“Abby, if you're not happy, I'm not happy. I could tell you were tense, but I thought it was because of Seedy's behavior, because she was making me tense. If you want to hire that fancy dog trainer for Seedy, we should be able to swing a few lessons. Why don't you call Jillian and get the guy's phone number? Let's nip this in the bud before it becomes a habit. And that goes for you, too. When something's bothering you, speak up, sweetheart. Don't keep things bottled up. That just causes tension, and that's not good for either one of us.”

“So when I see a problem developing, you want me to tell you about it.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“What if it offends you?”

“Abby, come on. Give me some credit here. You're not going to offend me.”

“Okay, then how about cutting your toenails over a newspaper instead of on the carpet?”

Marco was silent for a moment; then he said slowly, “All right. If that bothers you, I'll cut them over a newspaper.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me a skeptical glance. “Anything else?”

“I'm thinking. How about if I get back to you on that?”

Marco opened his door. “Let's get out of here, Seedy, before she hires a trainer for me.”

Monday

•   •   •

The day started out as every other Monday did, with Lottie's scrambled egg and toast breakfast and cups of Grace's special blend of coffee. We sat in the parlor eating and discussing the weekend's events before moving on to business. Seedy sat beneath my chair munching contentedly on a dog biscuit.

“Look how well adjusted she is,” Grace said, smiling at Seedy.

“She has a few habits that we need to break,” I said, and explained what a nuisance she'd been at the Salvares'. It hadn't helped that Marco's nephew was an active little boy who spent most of the time chasing Seedy around the house until he was plunked into his booster seat for dinner.

“Don't be surprised if Jillian stops by,” I told Lottie. “I called her last night to get the name of her dog trainer but my call went to her voice mail.”

“There's something to look forward to,” Lottie said.

“It's art day, too,” I reminded them. “Mom will be in after school with her latest project.”

“Good morning, everyone,” Francesca sang out, stepping into the parlor.

And it was a Francesca day. I took a deep breath and turned to smile at her.

“What a
fantastico
day, no?” she asked. “The sun is out, there are orders on the spindle, and, oh, look, there is our little imp Seedy under the chair. I should guard my shoes, eh,
bella
?”

Lottie and Grace laughed nervously.

“I apologize for Seedy's behavior,” I said. “I'm going to hire a trainer for her.”

“A trainer?” Francesca raised her eyebrows, her gaze on Lottie and Grace, as though to say,
What kind of crazy idea is that?
“Don't waste your money,
bella
. I know how to train dogs. Give her to me for a day and I will shape her up in no time.”

The last thing sensitive little Seedy needed was a drill instructor. “I'll think about it.”

There was a rapid knocking on the door and then I heard Jillian call through the glass, “Abby? Are you in there?”

Francesca let her in, and in a moment Jillian came into the parlor pushing her baby stroller. A pink bundle was strapped to the seat. “Sorry I didn't get your call until this morning, Abs. Princess got out yesterday and we couldn't find her for hours.”

Seedy immediately got up and went to investigate the stroller, but this time no little terrier face appeared at her sniffing. Seedy backed away as though she'd smelled something bad.

“We finally found her in a neighbor's backyard eating food left out for a feral cat,” Jillian said. “Dr. Hammertoes was very upset.”

“Dr.
Hammertoes
?” I asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe it's Hammerstein. He's Princess's psychiatrist.”

Grace gave a tiny gasp, while Lottie clamped her lips to keep from laughing, and Francesca folded her arms under her breasts, looking dubious. “There is such a thing?”

“Of course,” Jillian said. “If people can have psychiatrists, why can't animals? Anyway, after Johann quit on us—which I totally blame on you, Abby Knight—we had to call someone.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Time-out. Why are you blaming me?”

“Because Johann was fine when we left him in your care Friday night, and the next morning he called and quit. Two plus two equals four, Abs. Do the math.”

“You just
did
the math, Jill, and Johann was not fine when you left him. He had a migraine caused by—”

“Let's not play the blame game,” Jillian said. “Getting back to my story, we called the psychiatrist's hotline yesterday morning and got in on an emergency basis. He did an assessment and put Princess on doggy tranquilizers immediately, but we knew by evening that they weren't strong enough, so when I called this morning, he said to double the dose.” She pulled back a corner of the blanket, revealing Princess's face. Seedy backed out of the room.

“Jillian, this dog looks strung out,” Lottie said, crouching in front of the stroller. “Poor little thing. She can hardly focus her eyes.”

“The doctor said it was the only way to calm her down,” Jillian said, looking hurt.

“What rot,” Grace said. “Dogs have been trained for centuries without resorting to brain-altering chemicals. You must not subject this poor creature to drugs any longer, Jillian.”

“Then how do I control her?”

“Give Princess to me for a day, Jillian,” Francesca said. “I will teach her how to behave.”

“Do you have dog-training experience?” Jillian asked.

“I raised six
bambini
alone,” Francesca said with a lift of her chin. “Dog, child, it doesn't matter. You simply must let them know who's in command. You'll see.”

“Okay,” Jillian said, pressing her hands together excitedly. “When can I bring her over?”

“I will come to
your
apartment. I finish here at noon and will stop at the store to buy ingredients for my pasta sauce. You'll get a well-trained dog and the best spaghetti in town.”

“I can't wait,” Jillian said, and threw her arms around my mother-in-law. “Francesca, you're a dream.”

Seedy chose that moment to drop a packaged tampon at my feet.

“That little devil,” Lottie said, scooping it up. “She got that out of my purse.”

Francesca turned to me and lifted one eyebrow.

•   •   •

“Guess who showed up at the bar at nine o'clock,” Marco said, as we headed to the Duchess's studio on Tenth Street. “Reilly and a forensic team. They've been working in the basement all morning. Reilly said he'd keep me informed of their progress.”

“That's great, Marco. Finally, some movement! And I have news, too. Your mom is going to train Princess for Jillian.”

“What?”

“I'm not kidding. Jillian stopped by this morning with Princess, who now has her own psychiatrist. The poor dog was in such a drug-induced fog, she couldn't even get out of the stroller. It was pathetic.”

“That's bordering on abuse, Abby.”

“I am in complete agreement. Anyway, your mom told Jillian she could train Princess, and Jillian accepted. Francesca is on her way to Jillian's apartment as we speak.” I took a breath, then added, “Your mom wants to train Seedy, too.”

“Let's see what kind of results she gets with Princess first.”

Which meant he would consider it. Damn. But in the spirit of cooperation, I said, “So if she gets good results, then I guess we'll let her work with Seedy.”

“No guesswork, Sunshine. You have to be happy with the decision or we don't do it.”

I smiled at him. This marriage thing wasn't as hard as I'd feared.

As Marco pulled into a parking spot down the street from Parthenia's art studio, I said, “Do you want me to do the questioning again?”

“Let's play it by ear and see what kind of mood she's in. You have the photo, right?”

“The photo and our little marvel. If you have the notepad, then we're set.”

We walked toward the studio just as a man burst out the front door and hurried across the street. Parthenia came out behind him wearing another colorful, belted caftan and brandishing a glossy black-and-white clock. “Do not ever cross my doorstep again!” she shouted. “Do you hear me? Ever again! Peasant! Geniuses do not bargain!”

She turned and caught sight of us, then made a show of checking her watch, as though to say we were late. At that moment Seedy lifted her leg and let loose a stream of urine on the rear tire of the black-and-white bicycle standing in the bike rack.

Muttering something in Greek, the Duchess spun about and marched into her shop.

“Yeah,” Marco said, “I think I'll let you do the questioning.”

•   •   •

I was surprised by the amount of work Parthenia had already done on Seedy's sculpture. The clay form was about fifteen inches tall and showed Seedy sitting on her haunches, one leg missing, and her tall ears perked forward, her head tilted. All that was needed were the finer details.

“It looks wonderful so far,” I said as I placed Seedy on the table.

“A work in progress,” she said casually. She glanced around at Marco, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You may approach if you like.”

“Thanks. I'm fine here,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” She studied Seedy for a moment, then began to sculpt the face with a tool that had a small blade on the end. “This will not take long. Just try to keep the dog still, please.”

“Okay,” I said, petting Seedy. “But I do have a few more questions for you.”

She paused to glower at me. “More questions about Kermit?”

“Some new information has come to light that I thought you might want to comment on.”

“Your mother is annoying me,” the Duchess said to Seedy. “Tell her to make it fast.”

“I will, I promise,” I said, then pulled the list we'd made out that morning from my pocket. “Have you ever heard the name Pete Morgan?”

“No.”

I glanced over at Marco. He had taken out his notepad and pen and was writing. “When you settled in the artists' colony,” I said, “were you aware of anyone following you?”

“No.”