Part 30 (1/2)

”It's weak.”

”Weak is too weak a word for it. Flimsy as onionskin would be better. And the second piece of evidence, the flower, is-you won't believe this-flower petals that got caught in the treads of Charlotte's shoes.”

”Petals?”

”Not just any petals. Anemone petals.”

Marco glanced at me. ”The flowers you never received?” ”Exactly.”

”How would a person get anemone petals mashed in her shoe treads in the winter?”

”The obvious answer is by stepping in them. I find flower petals stuck to the soles of my shoes all the time. But the only anemones you'd find in February in this part of the country would be the kind sold by a florist or grown in a hot-house. There are two florists in town, the florist in the grocery store's gift department-and me. I know the grocer carries only the standards-roses, daisies, mums, orchids, violets-nothing as unusual as anemones. So that leaves one big craft and hobby store on the highway that also wouldn't stock anemones, and two garden centers with greenhouses, one of which is at Tom's Green Thumb.” I raised my eyebrows. ”Pretty strong coincidence, don't you think?”

Marco smiled. ”You are an amazing woman.”

”Thank you.”

”It'd be great if we could place both Charlotte and Harding at Tom's Green Thumb. But is Harding even involved in the greenhouse operation anymore? I thought he had to sell when he went to prison.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called the shop. ”Let's see if Grace can find out.”

Grace was a master at sleuthing out that kind of detail. I explained the situation to her and asked her to check around for anemones and inquire discreetly about Harding's involvement in Tom's Green Thumb. ”You don't need to call me back,” I said. ”We'll be there in ten minutes.”

”By the way, dear,” Grace said, ”that salesman called again, the one who left the flashlight? He said he's leaving town tomorrow and is planning a small reception this evening at the New Chapel Inn and Suites. He would like you to RSVP. I put the note on your desk.”

”Okay, thanks, Grace. I'll take care of it later.” I slipped my phone into my purse and sat back with a satisfied sigh. We were finally moving forward.

”Tell me how you got Morgan to cooperate,” Marco said.

”I fed him chicken soup.”

He gave me a skeptical glance. ”That's it? He ate the soup and then talked?”

”No, he ate it and then barfed.”

”What?”

”Morgan was being stubborn. The only information he'd divulge was that there was still no suspect in the Hudge murder and that the weapon was made from something smooth, yet not metal or wood. So after he upchucked the soup and fell asleep in the bathroom, I rifled through his briefcase.”

Marco let out a low whistle. ”I can't believe you went into a deputy prosecutor's briefcase and read his files.”

”You can't?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. The corner of his mouth curved up.

Could, too.

”No anemones at the craft store or grocery store,” Grace reported as Marco and I shed our coats and settled at a back table in the parlor. ”And Samuel's Garden Center is closed for three months, reopening in March.” She paused to glance at us over her reading gla.s.ses. ”However, I just got off the telephone with Robin Lennox, the acting floor manager at Tom's Green Thumb, and she said-”

”They have anemones in stock,” I finished, giving Marco a high five.

”In fact,” Grace continued, ”Robin received the s.h.i.+pment a few weeks back-around the end of January-even though she hadn't ordered any. She believed it to be a delivery error, although neither her supplier nor the delivery company would admit to it.”

”Did Robin say anything about Harding's involvement?” Marco asked Grace.

”According to Robin, Mr. Harding is no longer officially involved in the company, yet she admitted that he keeps his fingers in the business through his lady friend, Honey, who owns controlling shares.”

”How convenient,” I said.

”Robin indicated she hadn't seen Mr. Harding personally since his release from jail,” Grace said, ”but as she was leaving one evening, she saw his black sedan parked behind the greenhouse.”

”Did Robin mention when that was?” Marco asked.

”She did not. Shall I call her back, do you think?” Grace asked.

At that moment, four women came into the parlor and took seats at a table in front of the bay window, so Grace added, ”After I see to my customers?”

”Thanks,” Marco said, ”but this warrants a trip to Tom's Green Thumb to talk to Robin in person. I'll head over there this afternoon.”

”I almost forgot,” Grace said. ”Your sister-in-law Portia dropped these by.” She put a stack of magazines in front of me. I read the spines: Elegant Bride; Modern Bride; World Bride; You and Your Wedding; Occasion Weddings; Wedding Cakes; Wedding Bells . . .

I pushed them aside and laid my head on my arms. ”Make them stop!”

Marco's cell phone chirped, so he got up to take the call. A moment later I heard Lottie say, ”This will make it all better, sweetie.”

I raised my head as she placed a pizza box on the table, along with a stack of napkins and paper plates. She lifted the lid, revealing a big, cheesy pie loaded with sausage, mushrooms, black olives, and green peppers. I leaned over to inhale. Yum!

”Lunch is on me today. Dig in.” She took a slice for herself and bustled away.

I was about to place a wedge of pizza on a paper plate when a small hand reached around me and grabbed it.

I turned to see Tara stuff the pointed end in her mouth. ”Surprise,” she mumbled through the gooey bite.

”What are you doing here? You should be in school.”

”In-service teachers' meetings this afternoon,” she announced, taking a seat. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the magazines. ”Are you shopping for your wedding gown?”

”No. Does your mom know you're here? Because she'd probably rather not have you hanging out with me right now.”

Tara pulled a magazine from the stack and began to turn the pages with her greasy fingers. ”Nope. But it's okay. I saw Unky Hunky in the back. Where did you get these magazines?”

I ignored her Marco reference. ”Your aunt Portia left them.”

”Cool. Now we can find you a dress.”

”Don't bother. I've decided to wear jeans.”

”Yeah, right.” Snickering, she turned the page. ”No way.” She turned another page. ”Ug-o!” As she flipped through the magazine, I heard, ”They can't be serious.” ”Oh. My. G.o.d.” ”Is this a joke?” And finally, ”Awesome! This is more like it.”

Tara turned the magazine so I could see it. ”This gown is totally you, Aunt Abby.”