Throw in the Trowel (5 page)

Connor glanced at me for confirmation, skepticism written all over his face. As Marco has often told me, my face is an open book, but I managed to keep my expression neutral.

“How did the body come to light?” he asked me.

“Ask Marco. I wasn't here when it was uncovered,” I said, which was ninety-nine percent true.

Connor glanced across at Marco, who said, “Plumbing problem under the floor.”

“So you had the floor ripped up and uncovered the bones?”

Marco shrugged noncommittally.

“Can I see them?” Connor asked.

“Come on, MacKay, it's a crime scene,” Marco said. “You know you'll have to ask the detectives for permission.”

Connor clicked off the machine, clearly realizing he wasn't going to get any further. “I'll do that then.” He tucked his pen and notepad in his shirt pocket and stood up. “You two have a nice evening.” At the last second, he gave me a wink, almost as though he knew I had more information to share and he would be back to get it, and then he left.

“If MacKay shows up at Bloomers,” Marco said to me, “don't talk to him. I don't want anything in the newspapers until those bones are out of here.”

“You know, Marco,” I said, “it might not be such a bad thing if the story leaks. Someone out there with a missing relative might come forward and help solve the case.”

“They can come forward to the cops, not to us, Abby.”

Before I could protest, Marco reached across to take my hands in his. “Sweetheart, think this through. It's pretty clear we're dealing with a murder. So while you're hoping a relative of the missing person steps forward, I'm hoping the killer doesn't. That's why I want those bones gone as soon as possible, and why I don't want you investigating this on your own. Do you see my point?”

“We don't know how old those bones are, Marco. The killer might be long gone.”

“When it comes to your safety, babe, I'm not willing to chance it.”

“There's always the risk of danger in a murder investigation,” I argued, “so how is this case any different from others we've worked on?”

“We investigated those cases because people we cared about were in jeopardy. There's no reason for us to involve ourselves in this case, Abby.”

“Imagine the years of agony some poor wife or son or parents have gone through, Marco, when someone they loved didn't come home one day. Wouldn't you like to be the one to finally give them closure?”

“That's what the police are for. We can find something else to do together. I'm sure I'll be getting some routine cases that we can work on.”

Routine? Yuck. Routine meant sitting in a parked car for hours watching a doorway, or sitting at the computer looking for paper trails. In my book that equaled boredom
.
I sighed in frustration. “Then what can I do in the evenings to keep busy?”

“How about this?” Marco said, gazing into my eyes. “Stay here at the bar and be our hostess.”

Double yuck. “I'm not good with large groups of people for any length of time, Marco. I'd last about an hour here. You know I'm happiest when I'm arranging flowers or doing something with you, like, oh, I don't know . . . interviewing suspects.”

Marco tapped his fingertips on the tabletop, his brow furrowed. Then he turned his head as though listening for something and leaned sideways to look underneath the table. “Here's an investigation for you. Find Seedy.”

Wednesday

•   •   •

When Seedy and I arrived at Bloomers the next morning, I could hear Lottie in the workroom singing to a country-and-western song playing on the local radio station, and Grace running water at the back counter in the parlor, preparing beverages for the morning rush. Seedy sniffed the air, which was redolent with the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and just-baked scones from Grace's oven, and tugged on her leash. Did she have a sweet tooth?

“You're going to be a good girl today, right?” I asked the dog, who had eluded us for an hour the night before. It turned out Seedy didn't like crowds either. She'd managed to hobble up the back hallway undetected and slip into Marco's office, where we discovered her hiding under the desk. Our trip to the grocery store hadn't been a picnic, either. The next time we shopped, Seedy was staying home.

Before I could reach the curtain, Lottie came out carrying containers of roses for the shop's glass-fronted display case. “Morning, sweetie,” she said cheerfully, then took a closer look at me and shook her head. “That ol' mattress just isn't gonna cut it, Abby. You look plum worn out again.”

“That's because I am worn out. I talked to Marco about the mattress last night, and he said turning it over would solve the problem.”

“One can see at a glance that it didn't work,” Grace said, gliding like a stealth bomber from the parlor. “Just look at your sallow complexion.”

Nothing like making me
more
self-conscious about my appearance. It was bad enough that I was short, busty, and freckle-faced. Now I had bags and sallow skin. “Marco said we have to give the mattress time to reconfigure.”

Lottie snorted and Grace
tsk
ed. “And when you saw your reflection in the mirror this morning,” Grace asked, “did you tell him that an old, lumpy mattress was not going to reconfigure itself into a new, firm one?”

“I don't want him to think I'm a nag,” I said sheepishly. “It's our first week of marriage.”

“Yes, it is,” Grace said. “And how you conduct yourself this week will set the tone for the future.”

“Don't start sugarcoating things for him, sweetie,” Lottie said. “You've gotta be straight with your man. You want him to be straight with you, don't you?”

“You're right,” I said. “I just felt awkward criticizing his mattress after I've already complained about the lack of toast, closet space, and bathroom storage.”

“But this concerns your health, Abby,” Lottie said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “We worry about you, you know.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

“You simply must put your foot down,” Grace said. “Tell him you refuse to sleep in his bed any longer.”

The curtain parted and there stood Marco's mother, a younger version of the famous actress Sophia Loren, glaring at Grace in outrage.

Really
bad timing on Grace's part.

I gave Lottie a look that said,
Why didn't you warn me that Francesca was in the shop?

Sorry
, Lottie mouthed.
Forgot
.

“What is this advice you're giving Abby?” Francesca demanded, her ire bringing out her Italian accent. “Telling her to refuse to sleep with my son?”

“Oh, Lordy,” Lottie said under her breath.

Classy from head to toe, Francesca was wearing a flowing coral silk blouse and black pants with black patent flats, her thick glossy dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders, gold hoops on her ears.

“You didn't let Grace finish,” I said, as Francesca put her arm around my back, clearly intending to shepherd me toward the curtain. She was a stately, voluptuous, tall woman. At five foot two, I didn't stand a chance.

“Bella, disregard everything Grace told you,” she said in my ear. “If you are having problems in the bedroom,
I
will help you. Leave the dog here and we'll step into the back for a conversation.”

Dear God. She wanted to have
the sex talk
with me.
That
made me dig in my heels. “It's Marco's mattress,” I said, turning to face her. “I'm not getting a good night's sleep because it sags in the middle.”

She raised one eyebrow, as though she didn't believe me.

“Honest,” I said. “Ask Lottie and Grace.”

“Mattress,” both women said at once, nodding vigorously.

Francesca looked at their earnest expressions and then back at mine. She cupped my face in both hands and stared into my eyes. “Then I will have a talk with my son about the importance of having a firm mattress. ‘Marco,' I will say, ‘how can you make babies with your wife—'”

“TMI!” Lottie cried, sticking her fingers in her ears as she darted out of the room.

“Francesca,” I said, placing my hands over hers and gently pulling them away from my face, “thank you, but that's not necessary. Marco and I will figure it out for ourselves.”

If the situation weren't already awkward, Marco decided to put in an appearance, too. The front door was locked, so we all looked around when he tapped on the glass. As I opened it, Seedy let out a happy yip and hobbled over to greet him.

“Hey, little girl,” he said, scratching her head. Then he glanced up to find his mother frowning at him, her arms folded beneath her breasts, and me trying to warn him with my eyes.

Clearly puzzled, he said, “What's going on?”

“It's nothing,” I said. “Just a little discussion we were having. What's up?”

“Nothing?”
Francesca exclaimed. “I wouldn't call problems in the bedroom
nothing.
”

At Marco's astonished expression, Grace went into action. “Francesca, while Abby and Marco sort this matter out privately, would you be a dear and give me your opinion about a new grind of coffee? I'm not sure how it will go over with the public.”

Francesca pointed her finger at Marco. “Listen to your wife. We will talk later.” Then she turned to follow Grace into the parlor.

“What was that about?” Marco asked me.

“Your mother overheard us discussing the mattress problem and thought it was about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Sex.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Glad I missed that discussion, but I thought we resolved the mattress problem.”

Lottie's advice popped into my head:
You've gotta be straight with your man.

“Marco, look at the bags under my eyes and tell me we don't have
a problem. I'm not getting a good night's sleep, and turning the mattress didn't help. We're going to have to buy a new one. Soon.”

He tilted up my chin and gazed into my eyes. “I'm sorry, babe. You didn't say anything this morning, so I thought you slept okay.”

“And I thought you'd notice how tired I looked.”

“No, I thought you looked beautiful.” He put his arms around me and drew me close. “Haven't you figured out by now that most guys are clueless?”

“But you've never been like most guys, Marco.”

“And now you know I am. You have to tell me these things, Abby. If you don't, you're doomed to eat oatmeal and sleep on a bad mattress. I've never been good at mind reading.”

“Then I guess it's my fault for assuming.”

“Let's just say it was a learning experience for both of us and let it go at that. How about we go mattress shopping after we grab dinner at the bar this evening?”

I gave him a fierce squeeze. He had totally redeemed himself. “Sounds like a plan, Salvare. So why are you here? Not that I mind.”

As though he'd just remembered he had a purpose, he handed me the newspaper tucked under his arm. “I wanted you to see this.”

I took the paper from him. “As long as we're sharing things, Marco, I have to say, I miss reading the morning paper at breakfast.”

“I'll get it changed.”

How easy was that? I unfolded the paper to see a banner headline across the top in large, bold letters:
UNIDENTIFIED BONES BARED IN BAR BASEMENT
. A photograph of Down the Hatch accompanied the article below it, written by none other than Connor MacKay.

In a startling discovery, local Down the Hatch bar owner Marco Salvare unearthed a human skeleton while having work done in his basement. “We tore up the floor to fix a plumbing problem and found the bones,” Salvare said.

I glanced at Marco. “You didn't say that.”

“I know. Read on.”

According to former Down the Hatch owner Rusty Miller, who now owns Blazing Saddles Saddlery, the floor was intact for all thirty years that he operated the bar. “The bones must have been down there for a long time, predating me,” Miller said. Miller sold the bar to Salvare early last year.

Salvare, a well-known private investigator who has assisted the local PD on solving a number of murder investigations, declined to comment on whether he and his wife, florist Abby Knight, owner of Bloomers Flower Shop, would get involved. When asked to comment, Salvare would only say, “It's in the detectives' hands.”

But is it? According to police spokesman Danny Bianco, detectives are working around the clock to find the men responsible for the armed robbery of three local banks. Bianco was unable to estimate when their investigation into the mysterious bones would begin.

Whose body lies in the old bar's basement? Was it a case of murder? No one is talking, not the police or Salvare, leading this reporter to believe that the basement was the scene of a grisly crime. Will Salvare be content leaving his plumbing issues unresolved while waiting on detectives to solve the case, or will he and his wife take matters into their own hands?

If I were a betting man, I'd place my money on the Salvares.

I folded the paper and handed it back. By the grim look on Marco's face, I knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted to ring Connor MacKay's neck.

C
HAPTER FIVE

I
led my fuming husband into the workroom and had him sit at a stool while I put together an arrangement of yellow roses for a birthday bouquet. “I know you're upset, Marco, but the discovery of a buried body is big news in a small town. Connor wasn't being malicious. He was just doing what reporters always do.”

“I was hoping he'd wait until he had more facts.”

“Nope, he'll drag this story out for as long as he can. And frankly, now that it's out in the open, maybe we should investigate. Everyone in town will be expecting it.”

“Including the murderer, thanks to MacKay.” He tossed the paper in the trash can in disgust. “Even if we were going to investigate, Abby, which I'm opposed to, our hands would be tied until the coroner can date the bones. For all we know, that skeleton could have been down there for ninety years.”

“In which case the killer would be dead,” I said. “No danger to us then. And so what if the bones are ancient? There are ways to investigate old bones.”

“Yes, for forensic scientists who have access to DNA analysis, not small town PIs who've never worked on a cold case before.”

“There are always dental records that could be checked. You're giving up before you've even started, Marco. Where's your sense of justice? Where's your spirit of adventure?”

He took the snippers out of my hand and pulled me onto his lap. “Being married to you is all the adventure I need,” he said, trying to get cuddly.

“But just think about how relieved some family will be to finally learn what happened to their grandpa or great uncle. Won't it feel great to help them?”

Marco grunted, still unconvinced, so I kept talking. “Besides, you don't want that gaping hole in your basement floor for who knows how long, do you?”

With a sigh, he set me on the floor and stood up. “I've got to get back to the bar for a delivery.”

“Is that a yes?”

Marco shook his head slowly, as though he couldn't figure out what to do with me. Finally he said, “If the bones have been down there long enough to satisfy me that the killer is dead, I'll agree to investigate.”

“Judging by Rusty Miller's statement, I'd say that's a safe bet.”

“Rusty's a terrific guy, Sunshine, but his memory isn't as sharp as it used to be. I'll need more than that to be convinced.” He lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Good enough?”

Good but not great. But I nodded anyway and got a kiss as thanks.

Then I caught sight of the old leather key chain lying on my desk beside my
Florists' Review
magazines. I had stuck the strip in my purse and had discovered it only this morning. But I didn't want Marco to remember that I still had it, because I didn't want it put somewhere safe. I wanted to research it myself and surprise him with my sleuthing skills. So I did the first thing that came into my mind. I threw my arms around him to keep him from turning in that direction.

“You are the greatest husband in the world,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to back him toward the curtain. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“I appreciate that,” he said slowly. “What's going on?”

No fool he.

Lottie poked her head through the curtain. “Heads up, kids. Jillian is here.”

Marco instantly unwrapped my arms and headed for the back door. “See you at supper, Sunshine. Bye, Lottie.”

The yin and yang of life. One problem ended. One about to begin.

“Lottie,” I said in a whisper, “do me a favor and keep Francesca busy. I can't deal with her and Jillian at the same time.”

“Not a problem, sweetie. The parlor is full of customers and Francesca is as happy as a clam serving them. And in about fifteen minutes, Gracie is gonna watch the shop while I make deliveries. That'll keep Francesca occupied in the parlor.”

“Great. Thanks.” I took a steadying breath and prepared myself for the craziness that was my cousin.

Jillian Ophelia Knight Osborne and I were the only two girls on my dad's side of the family, which had made us as close as sisters, especially since we'd had to join forces to combat our villainous brothers. Jillian was younger than me by a year, taller than me by a head, thinner than me by—well, that wasn't important—and wealthier than me by both her parents' money and her new husband's.

Whereas my dad had been a policeman and my mom a kindergarten teacher, Jillian's father was a stockbroker in Chicago making much more than both my parents combined. Jillian's husband, Claymore, the younger brother to the scamp who had dumped me, was a CPA with a highly successful firm in town.

Educated at Harvard, Jillian was now a wardrobe consultant, operating her business out of their roomy three-bedroom apartment in the building where I used to live. Jillian was also newly pregnant and had spent the last several weeks rehearsing for her impending waist expansion, first by strapping a specially designed and weighted ball to her middle, and then by toting around a five pound sack of potatoes wrapped in a baby blanket. The potato experiment had lasted until the surrogate had begun to rot. At that point, I'd left for my honeymoon.

“Hello, hello, you old married woman,” Jillian called cheerfully, a stroller preceding her through the curtain, with a small pink bundle strapped into the seat. Beneath the table, Seedy started growling.

She gave me a warm hug, which was fairly unusual for Jillian. She hated to crease her ultrafashionable clothing, which today consisted of a mango silk chiffon bomber jacket over a lacy white tank top with superskinny faded jeans. Her leather purse, which she wore cross-body style, was also mango colored. Her unusual side-zipped booties looked like they had been splashed with silver, gold, orange, and turquoise paint.

“Welcome back, Abs. New Chapel wasn't the same without you.”

“Thanks, Jill, but please don't tell me you're doing the potato thing again.”

She didn't deny it. Instead, she tossed back her long, copper-hued hair and leaned in to inspect me—it was her mission in life to improve my appearance. With a frown, she said, “You can get rid of that puffiness under your eyes with cold tea bags, you know.”

“Thanks for the tip. What brings you to Bloomers?”

“Your honeymoon photos. After the way you gushed about Key West on the phone yesterday, I couldn't wait to see them.”

“Don't say that if you don't mean it, because I have a gazillion pictures.” I snapped my fingers under the table. “Seedy, stop growling.”

She dropped the growls and started barking instead, prompting a small black-and-white doggy face to poke through the fuzzy pink blanket in the stroller. I heard a yip
from Seedy, as though to say to me,
Now do you get it?

Jillian beamed like a proud new parent as she lifted her new pet, a Boston terrier, from the stroller and cradled her like a baby. As was typical with that breed, the dog's black-and-white markings made it look like it was wearing a tuxedo. What was not typical was the lacy pink onesie it sported.

Jillian had spotted the young terrier when I'd taken her and Claymore to the animal shelter to meet Seedy. I had hoped to convince them to adopt Seedy, but the dog's poor physical appearance and ragged condition had turned them off.

“Say hi to your aunt Abby, Princess,” Jillian cooed, waving the dog's paw at me.

“I refuse to be an aunt to a dog, Jillian. And seriously,
Princess
? Isn't that your nickname?”

“No,” she said, sniffing as though insulted.

Was, too. Her dad had always called her Princess.

“Actually I'm still trying to decide between Princess Sunflower Petal and Marquesa de la Casa Osborne.”

“How about just Petal? That's pretty.”

“Petal,” she said, trying it out. She held the dog to face her. “Hello, Petal.” Then she shrugged. “I'll still need something longer when I show her.”

“You're going to take her to a dog show?”

“That's generally where people show dogs, Abs. Duh.” The terrier wiggled to get free, so Jillian put her over her shoulder as though she were a baby that needed burping. “Where are your photos?”

I pulled out my cell phone and began to scroll through the camera roll. “Here's the hotel where we stayed. It's right on the Gulf of Mexico. And right next to it is Mallory Square, where sunset is celebrated every night.”

“Princess, please stop that,” Jillian said, shifting the dog back to the crook of her arm. “You're ruining Mommy's jacket. Sorry, Abs. Go on.”

“These are photos we took from the parasail. You can see across two islands from that height. I hope you and Claymore get a chance to go parasailing, Jill. What a great experience.”

“You know I have a fear of heights, Abs. Princess, would you stop wiggling?”

“I'm no dog expert, Jillian, but I think she wants down. Seedy has some toys she might like.”

Jillian put the canine on the floor, but instead of checking out Seedy's toys, Princess began to run around the table as fast as her little legs would carry her, with her pink tongue hanging out, clearly overjoyed by her freedom. Jillian watched for a moment, then, with a sharp sigh, said, “I've got an appointment with Gustav tomorrow morning so we can start training her.”

“And Gustav would be?”

“Just the best dog trainer in the entire state. He's Russian, and you know what great trainers they are.”

Naturally. Osbornes never settled for anything that was less than the best. For instance, me.

As the terrier whizzed past for the umpteenth go round, Jillian said, “There's a tricounty dog show in two weeks, but Gustav doesn't think Princess will be ready in time. I tried to tell him that she's really smart and learns fast, but I guess he'll just have to see for himself. Okay, now where were we?”

“Here's a photo of Mallory Square, where the sunset celebration happens. You wouldn't believe what a circus it is there, Jillian. I mean an actual circus, with acrobats and sword-swallowers and tightrope walkers and food vendors—”

Seedy began barking. I turned to see her standing in front of the kitchen doorway staring at something inside. She looked back at me, then back at the doorway, and barked again.

“Seedy, stop it,” I commanded. The dog quieted, but sat on her haunches facing the kitchen.

“Anyway,” I said, “here's us dancing to Cuban music at El Meson de—”

“What's that noise?” Jillian asked, looking around.

A distinct crunching sound came from the kitchen.

“No!” Jillian cried, her hands to her face. She dashed across the room and through the doorway faster than I'd seen her run in a decade. “Princess,
no
!” she screeched.

She appeared moments later carrying her dog over one arm. “Abs, Princess is on a strict diet now to prepare her to be a show dog. You're going to have to put Seedy's food dish up when we come to visit.”

I bit my tongue, and we continued with my photos, while her terrier returned to circling the table, barking now to express her enthusiasm. My nerves fraying rapidly, I was on the verge of grabbing her, when she jumped onto my desk chair and looked around at us. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Isn't that cute?” Jillian asked, as Princess pawed the keyboard on my desk. “I taught her to tap the keys so it looks like she's using the computer. Everyone on Facebook loves the photos of her.”

Clearly bored with the computer, Princess put her front paws on my desk and rose up to sniff around my desktop.

“Wait until you see
the
professional photos I had taken of her,” Jillian said proudly.

Oh, joy.

As though she'd completely forgotten about my pictures, Jillian began to dig through her enormous orange-and-blue designer diaper bag. Meanwhile, Princess leaped off the chair and scooted under the table, prompting Seedy to begin growling again.

I glanced at the wall clock and decided I'd had enough. “We'll have to make it another time, Jill. I have a lot of orders to fill.”

“Okay,” she said, producing a small, leather-covered photo album. “Let me show you just one.”

“I really have to get busy.”

“See this one?” Jillian asked, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on the photo. “See how regally Princess stands for such a young, untrained dog? Doesn't she just look like a champion?”

Both dogs were growling now and Jillian didn't even seem to notice. As she turned to another page, Seedy came to the edge of the table and barked up at me, as though to say,
Get this mutt out of here!

“What's wrong, Seedy? Are you frazzled?” I asked, hoping Jillian would pick up on her distress.

Seedy barked again then ducked back under and began to growl.

“I think someone's jealous,” Jillian said, closing the album, “because someone else is playing with her toys. Come here, Princess.”