Throw in the Trowel (26 page)

“Why were you here?” I asked.

He shrugged ashamedly. “I've been coming here after the bar closes to guard it.”

“You've been sleeping here?” Abby asked, glancing at me to see if I got it.

“I wanted to make it up to Marco for screwing up so many times,” Rafe said. He wouldn't look at me.

Abby began to laugh and cry at the same time. “You're a hero, Rafe. You saved our lives.” She threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug. When she finished, she gave me a look that said,
Say something!

What was I supposed to say? You've come through at last?

I could tell by Abby's expression what she was thinking.
Rafe's trying, Marco. He looks up to you. He needs your encouragement. Don't be an ass.

That was another thing I loved about my wife. She kept me in line.

I held out my hand and Rafe shook it hesitantly. “Good job, man.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Abby beamed at me.
Perfect,
her eyes said.

Not quite. Instead of letting go of Rafe's hand, I pulled him to me and hugged him, then ruffled his hair. My little brother, the hero.

Abby

T
wo evenings later, Marco closed the bar for a private party to celebrate what we were calling
The Grand Reopening of the Basement Floor.
We weren't actually in the basement—that would have been some party—but everyone who was invited knew the significance: A new cement floor had been poured, and the hole where we'd almost been buried was gone.

It hadn't been easy to get it covered quickly. A new plumbing company had been called in and extra money had been paid to fix the bad pipes. Then Marco, Rafe, and I had stood on the side while a buddy of Reilly's mixed the cement and troweled it on.

Speaking of trowels, Doug wouldn't admit to the cops what he'd done with Rusty's garden trowel, but Marco and I were betting it had gone the way he'd wanted us to go—in the foundation of a building. At that moment, Doug, Henry, and Rusty were sitting in jail. They'd been charged with murder, accessory to murder, and attempted murder. They would sit in the county jail for months awaiting their court dates. Let them see how it felt to have someone decide whether they should live or die. But how tragic for Doug's wife and children.

Tara had recovered well and was taking credit for discovering the first piece of solid evidence that connected Doug to the murder. The prosecutor had been thrilled with her discovery. Tara sat beside me now in a booth, her skinny arm around me, her head on my shoulder. Seedy sat on my lap under the table, nervous because of the men present. Across from me were my mom and dad and Marco's mom, who was telling one of her long but humorous stories, making them laugh.

At the next booth, Jillian sat holding a wiggling, barking HRH Princess Moon Petal something-or-other, with Claymore beside her. By the way they kept snapping, “Princess, no! Princess, down! Princess, stop eating that napkin,” it was obvious that Francesca had not succeeded in training the terrier. Good news for Seedy.

Opposite them were my brother Jordan and sister-in-law Kathy, Tara's parents, who had just about had strokes when they'd learned what had happened in that garage attic. Tara was now grounded for a month from extracurricular activities. They would have grounded me, too, if they could have. Instead, I was banned from seeing Tara alone for two weeks.

Grace and Lottie sat on barstools across from the booths, turned to face us. They, too, were listening to Francesca's story, occasionally sharing a whisper and a laugh. Every so often they would smile at me and nod, as if to say,
You pulled off another one. We're so proud.

Parthenia had been invited but had declined to come. Marco and I had made a special trip to her studio to give her the news so she didn't have to read about it in the paper. Her reaction had been: “Pah! I knew there was a good reason why Kermit didn't show up that day. Did I not tell you it was Doug and Henry? But Rusty? This shocks me. You see why I don't trust men? You, I make an exception for, Marco. Now go. Leave me alone.
Yia sas
.”

My other brother, Jonathan, and sister-in-law Portia were here, too, as were Gert, Mary, and other staffers, who were seated at the bar enjoying their night off.

And where was my handsome husband right now? He and Rafe were circulating, making sure everyone had enough champagne, and keeping their eyes on the platters of hors d'oeuvres at the bar to ensure they remained well stocked.

My gaze followed Marco as he made his rounds. We'd come so close to death that for the first twenty-four hours after our release, I hadn't wanted to be separated from him. Our experience had made me realize that I should trust Marco's instincts the way I expected him to trust mine.

Was I sorry that we'd brought murderers to justice? No. But it would take me a while to sleep through the night without having bad dreams about being buried downstairs.

Marco slid in next to me. “How're you doing, Sunshine?”

“Good. Better now that you're here.”

“You know what we're going to do come Monday?” he asked, putting his arm around me. “Go house hunting. I don't care what kind of case pops up. I don't care how important, intriguing, or challenging it may be. We—that's you and me, lady—are going to concentrate on finding the perfect little house for the three of us.”

So sayeth the king. The queen did not respond, although the idea of hunting for a castle was appealing.

Seedy got up and stepped over to Marco's lap, facing him so he'd scratch her behind the ears. He obliged her, then leaned forward to see Tara. “Doing okay, kid?”

She nodded happily. “We make an awesome team, don't we?”

“Don't get any ideas,” Marco said with a scowl.

Tara's eyes twinkled impishly. “Ideas about what?”

“Marco,” I whispered, “remember who she takes after. But don't worry. I'm on top of it.”

“Why don't I feel better?” he asked.

“Aw, look at the newlyweds,” Lottie said. “Can't keep their hands off each other.”

Everyone laughed, and then Grace cleared her throat loudly, waiting until the voices quieted to say, “I believe a toast from Sir Walter Scott is in order. ‘To every lovely lady bright, what can I wish but faithful knight? To every faithful lover, too, what can I wish but lady true?' Abby, I believe you've found your gallant faithful knight. Marco, you've definitely found your lady true.”

“You're right on both counts, Grace,” I called. There was more applause as Marco and I kissed each other. It was like our wedding dinner all over again.

Marco put Seedy in my lap, then rose and held up his glass. “I'd like to propose a toast, too.” He turned toward Rafe, who was standing at the end of the bar. “To my brother.”

Rafe looked stunned.

“Thanks for being there for us, man.”

My husband, a man of few words. But it was enough for Rafe, who beamed as everyone applauded.

As if she knew what was happening, Seedy jumped down from the bench and hobbled over to Rafe, putting a paw on his pant leg and giving him a yip. He picked her up and cuddled her, and I was stunned to see her lick his chin. That made a whopping two males she wasn't afraid of. It figured, though. Both had that Salvare magic.

My dad spoke up next. “My toast is to Abby and Marco, of course. We are so relieved that you're both safe. A thank-you to Rafe, too, for your great work. But I'd also like to add one to Abby's mom, my beloved Mo, who received some very exciting news today.”

To clamors of “Tell us, Maureen,” and “Share!” Mom slid out of the booth and stood like a teacher in front of her class.

“Parthenia Pappas, whom you may know as the Duchess of Tenth Street, a highly acclaimed artist, saw photos of my latest work of art,
Madachshund and Child,
and has commissioned me to do a whole set of dogs for her. And the best part is that she wants to have a show for me at her studio.”

As everyone cheered, I glanced at Marco with raised eyebrows, as if to say,
Who knew?
At least I was off the hook.

“But,” Mom said, quieting everyone down, “I told her I wouldn't do it.”

Amid cries of “What?” and “Why not?” and Princess barking like the crazy dog she was, Mom clapped her hands teacher style to get our attention.

“Because,” she said, then turned to gaze tenderly at me, “I said I would have it at Bloomers instead. If anyone is going to benefit from my creative ability, it's going to be my precious daughter and my new son-in-law.”

Everyone clapped except Marco and me, who looked at each other in shock.

“Speech, Abs!” Jillian cried, and everyone joined in, while I sat there frozen.

“Abs,” Jillian hissed, “get up and say something.”

Marco squeezed my hand for support then got up to let me out of the booth. I slid out slowly, my mind searching desperately for the right words.
Thanks, I think?
just wasn't going to cut it. I glanced at my dad, my ally, and he gave me an encouraging nod.
You can do this, Abracadabra.

What could I say? That I was overjoyed? Could I pull off the lie?

Then I saw Rafe in my peripheral vision and remembered the look on his face after Marco had hugged him. His eyes had glistened with grateful tears, his chest had puffed up, he had smiled radiantly from ear to ear. He had finally felt accepted by his big brother. Yes, Rafe had screwed up many times, but he'd come through when we really needed him.

Hadn't my mom always been there when I needed her? Well, most of the time anyway. Now I wanted her face to light up like Rafe's had. I knew this would be a moment that would be etched in her mind forever.

“Mom, I'm so excited for you—and proud, too—and honored that you chose Bloomers for your show. And I promise that we'll make it the best damn show this town has ever seen.”

Applause filled the room. Everyone was smiling. Marco gave me a nod that said,
Way to go, Sunshine.
Dad gave me a thumbs-up.

I'd done it! A memory forever etched not just in Mom's mind, but in the minds of everyone here.

My mom cleared her throat, no doubt husky with tears, and turned toward me. But instead of smiling radiantly and holding out her arms for a hug, she pursed her lips.

“
Darn
, Abigail.”

“What?” I asked.

“The best
darn
show.” She leaned toward Francesca and said in a loud whisper, “I don't allow my children to curse in my presence.”

M
onday mornings are the bane of most people's existence. I, however, view them as curtains going up on a brand-new play. So when I opened the yellow frame door with its charming beveled glass center and stepped inside my personal theater—that being Bloomers Flower Shop, located in the heart of New Chapel, Indiana's cozy town square—I couldn't wait to find out what the opening scene was going to be.

I entered Bloomers stage right and feasted my eyes on the scenery—a plethora of flowers in various arrangements, a veritable artist's palette of tones, tints, shades, and hues that covered the color spectrum. And then there were the sounds—telephone ringing, bell over the door jingling, and my assistants, Lottie and Grace, coming to greet me with their cheery voices.

“Abby, sweetie,” Lottie said, her head of short brassy curls shaking a warning, “we've got a bad situation. Nine orders came in for funeral arrangements, and there's not a single lily in the cooler. I don't know what happened. I thought I ordered them on Thursday, but apparently I forgot. I put in a call to our main supplier, but the truck won't be here until later today.”

“Abby, dear,” Grace said in her lovely English cadence. “I'm sorry to add to your woes, but disaster has struck the coffee-and-tea parlor. The espresso machine gave up the ghost, and the clotted cream has curdled well beyond the pale. Also, the chap is here to install the security door in the rear of the shop but says the hinges are so rusty on the old one, it'll take him twice as long and require that the door stand open for a length of time. He charges hourly, by the way.”

Not exactly the cheerful sounds I'd expected.

“Your cousin Jillian called,” Lottie said, reading from a pink memo. “She said to tell you she'll be here tomorrow afternoon to something or other.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she mumbled so I wouldn't be able to understand her. I asked her to spell it and she said—and I quote—
I. T.
And then she snickered and hung up.”

“And your mum is in the back,” Grace added. “I believe at the moment she's supervising the door installation.”

Cue the curtain guy and dim the lights. I want a refund on my ticket.

•   •   •

As every good thespian knows, the show must go on, and so must the floral business, for many reasons, the most important of which is to pay the bills. Besides, what could be so awful that it would take away from the joy of my upcoming marriage to the man of my dreams? Another of my mom's horrific art projects that she expected me to sell at Bloomers? More of Jillian's harping about my ad hoc wedding plans? Not a chance. Nothing could mar my complete and utter happiness.

“Why is Mom here so early?” I asked.

“We'll let her go into it, shall we?” Grace suggested, getting a nod of agreement from Lottie.

Grace, a diminutive sixtysomething-year-old, was wearing a pale gray skirt and a baby blue sweater set with silver earrings and a pearl necklace, all of which set off her short, stylish gray hair. Lottie, in contrast, a big-boned fortysomething Kentuckian, had on her traditional white stretch jeans with a bright pink T-shirt and deep pink Keds. Her choice of color, she claimed, ensured she was always “in the pink,” which, as the mother of teenage quadruplet sons, wasn't an easy feat.

“Did Mom bring another art project?” I asked, hoping to mentally prepare myself.

“That's why she's here,” Lottie said. “Go talk to her. She's upset.”

I walked through the shop, stepped through the purple curtain into my workroom, and breathed in my nirvana. Although the space was windowless, the colorful blossoms and heady fragrances made the area a veritable tropical garden. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counters along two walls. A large slate-covered worktable occupied the middle of the room; two big walk-in coolers took up one side, and a desk holding my computer equipment and telephone filled the other side. Beneath the table were sacks of potting soil, green foam, and a plastic-lined trash can.

Beyond the workroom were a tiny galley kitchen and an even tinier bathroom. At the very back was the exit onto the alley, guarded by a big, rusty iron door that had needed to be replaced since probably sometime around 1970. That was where I found my mother, watching a man from the door store struggling with the hinge pins.

“Abigail!” Mom called, brightening. She stepped around the installer and came toward me, drawing me into a motherly hug, the kind she ended by leaning back to inspect me. “Did you have breakfast today? You look pale.”

By pale, she meant my freckles were showing more than usual. Along with being a mere five feet two inches tall and having fiery red hair, I was also blessed—or cursed, depending upon my mood—with freckles, part of my Irish heritage. Erin Go Braugh.

“Lottie makes breakfast for us on Mondays, so I haven't eaten yet,” I said. “Why aren't you in school? What's up?”

“I skipped the in-service meeting this morning. Can we sit down?”

Uh-oh. That was a bad sign.

My mother, Maureen “Mad Mo” Knight, had been a kindergarten teacher for almost twenty years and always said that after working with five-year-olds for that long, nothing could ruffle her feathers. Her caramel brown hair was always in a neat chin-length bob, her big brown eyes were a sea of cocoa calm, and her peaches-and-cream complexion glowed with good health. The worry lines in her forehead, however, were new.

I led her back into the workroom and pulled out two wooden stools just as Grace bustled in with cups of coffee and a plate of blueberry scones.

“Here you go, loveys. Lottie will be making breakfast in a bit, Abby, and I'll be off to pick up a new espresso machine. I should be back before ten, but just in case, be sure to keep your eye on the clock.”

“Thanks, Grace.” I took a sip of coffee and sighed with pleasure. “Delicious, as always. Do I taste a hint of cinnamon?”

She gave me a coy smile and glided out of the room. Grace never divulged her gourmet coffee recipes.

“Okay, Mom, tell me what's going on.”

“I'm frozen, Abigail. I have artist's block, and that has never happened to me before. You know I'm usually brimming with ideas for a new project, but this time I haven't been able to come up with a single one that's worth anything. Not one! I sat in front of my pottery wheel for two hours on Saturday and stared at a lump of wet clay. The only idea that came to me was to make a clock in the shape of a giant tick, with tick hands.”

“I'm not getting the reference.”

“You know, a tick 'n' clock? As in a ticking clock?”

The light finally went on in my attic. “Now I get it.”

“But not until I explained it. I'm telling you, Abigail, artist's block is terrible.”

Not as terrible as actually making a tick 'n' clock.

Mom prided herself on her creativity. The kind of art she made was subject to change weekly because she was continually moving from one medium to the next, first trying clay, then plaster, followed by vinyl, feathers, beads, mirrored tiles, knitting yarn, felt, and finally back to clay. Mom completed a new piece each weekend, then brought it to my shop on Monday after school so we could put it out with our other gift items . . . if we dared. And because she truly believed she was helping us draw in customers, I never had the heart to discourage her.

“What can I do to help?” I asked, sipping the coffee.

“I was hoping you'd ask. I'd like you to find out what's going on in our local chapter of PAR. There's a rumor spreading among the members that the board of directors is considering changing the policy of their animal shelter from no-kill to kill.”

“That's horrible, Mom. They're supposed to protect animal rights.”

“Tell me about it,” Mom said. “I can't stand the thought of homeless animals being put down. This could ruin PAR's reputation, not to mention all the good work our organization has done for this community.”

PAR, which stood for Protecting Animal Rights, was a statewide organization with a large chapter that drew members from New Chapel and the surrounding towns. A few months back, I had helped PAR lead a protest against a proposed dairy farm factory. The megacompany behind it had a reputation for pumping its herds with bovine hormones to make the cows produce more milk. Unfortunately, it caused men who drank their milk to grow breasts. With my help, PAR had stopped the dairy factory in its tracks.

Because my mom had grown up on a farm and loved animals, she'd been happy to step into my role at PAR when I got too busy helping Marco, my hunky husband-to-be, with his private investigation business. She'd led a few protest movements and had seemed delighted to be working with a charitable organization that could make such a difference in animal rights.

“Have you heard why the board would want to change the policy?” I asked.

“No, and I don't even know for certain whether the rumor is true. But if so, your father says it has to be about money. I know it's more expensive to run a no-kill shelter, but if this change happens, I can guarantee that our members will be outraged and our chapter may fold. Who'll raise funds to support the animal shelter then? It's in enough financial trouble as it is. Who'll protect the rights of all the innocent creatures that live within our boundaries? What if another megafarm wants to plant roots in New Chapel?

“Abigail, this situation is distracting me to such a degree that I can't create. And when I can't create, I get harried. And when I get harried, your father gets flustered and cranky and we argue all the time. And that distracts me even more. Do you understand why I need you to investigate?”

“I'm not sure how to go about investigating a nonprofit organization, Mom. Marco is the private eye.”

“I was hoping he'd help, too. The reason I wanted to come by Bloomers on this particular morning is that the monthly PAR meeting is tonight. The meeting starts at seven o'clock and lasts about an hour . . . or longer if they're arguing, which they seem to be doing a lot of these days.

“There's a social gathering afterward, which would be the perfect opportunity for you to talk with the board members, especially our chairwoman, Dayton Blaine, as well as Bev Powers, our executive director. But you know who they are. I don't need to explain them.”

Everyone in New Chapel knew who Dayton Blaine was. Her family owned Blaine Manufacturing, a company started by her great-grandfather, which gave her a lot of clout in town. Bev Powers was a town councilwoman who was in the newspapers constantly because she was always suing someone.

“Please say you'll help, honey. I need to know the animals will be safely taken care of so I can get back my creative edge.”

How could I refuse when she looked at me with those large, imploring eyes? “Will that take away the worry line between your eyebrows?”

“I'm afraid that's going to be a fixture until I see you and Marco happily married.”

Seeing
us married wasn't something Marco and I had planned to have happen. Dealing with my mom and Marco's mom, not to mention my fashion-plate cousin, Jillian, all of whom had decided how our wedding should proceed, had pushed Marco and me to the point of planning an elopement. This was especially true after our parents had gotten together and chosen a wedding destination cruise to Cozumel for the entire bridal party and guests, with our tickets as their wedding gift. Our honeymoon, as they saw it, would take place on the return trip. Imagine a honeymoon with an entire family present—make that our
crazy
families present. I was still having nightmares.

Fortunately, I had talked to my father in time to stage an intervention, and the cruise tickets were never purchased. Whew. We had compromised by planning an intimate wedding for immediate family only, followed by a private honeymoon, followed by a gigantic reception for all the relatives and friends who would be left out of the wedding ceremony.

“Mom, you don't need to worry about the wedding. My dress is ordered, invitations sent out, flowers chosen, and reservations made for the wedding dinner. That's the beauty of having such a small affair. Two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, and thirty people are super easy to plan for.”

“I hope you won't regret having such a small ceremony, honey, but I am abundantly happy that you aren't eloping. It would have broken my heart if I couldn't see you and Marco exchange vows. You might be an adult, but you'll always be my little girl.”

The fear of breaking hearts was the main reason why we'd changed our minds about eloping. Our moms and my dad would have been crushed, and we just couldn't do that to them.

Back to the subject at hand. “I'll talk to Marco during my lunch hour and see if he's free to go with me to the meeting. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Thanks for asking, but on Mondays at five o'clock I volunteer at the animal shelter, and sometimes I'm there two hours, so I'll just meet you instead.”

“It sounds like a plan, Mom.”

“I'll feel so much better with you and Marco looking into this,” Mom said, giving me a hug.

“We'll do our best to find out what's going on.”

On the minus side, what we would do with that knowledge was beyond me. Every case Marco and I had worked on since we'd teamed up more than a year ago had centered around a murder investigation. But being creative was important to my mom and she was important to me, so we'd figure it out.

On the plus side, with my wedding coming up soon, it was a
huge
relief to be working on an
investigation that had absolutely nothing—nada, zero, zip—to do with murder.