To Catch a Leaf (23 page)

“F
orgive me?” Lottie whispered, as Marco's mom headed back to the workroom.

Being in a state of shock, all I could do was nod.

“Good, 'cause there's more. Your mom will be here at four o'clock.”

The nightmare had only just begun. And there went my dinner with Marco, too.

I dumped pieces of a clay pot into the trash can behind the counter. “It's a good thing I gave Miss Sea 3PO a makeover this morning. Mom would have been crushed to see the damage Simon caused. I don't suppose we were lucky enough to sell any sea glasses.”

“Did you look in the window?” Lottie asked.

I glanced at the bay, but there was no manikin in it. “Oh, Lottie, please don't tell me Simon destroyed Mom's head again.”

“It's about the only thing Simon didn't destroy. A group of college girls was passing by the window at lunchtime and spotted the display. They bought the entire lot to give away at some kind of sorority function. They thought the glasses were janky, whatever that means.”

“That's great news. No more sea glasses! Why are you making a face?”

“Think about it, sweetie. Won't that encourage your mom to make more?”

Way to rain on my parade, Lottie.

 

To my relief, Francesca Salvare was a genuine asset that afternoon. She pitched in to help prepare the stems, place wet foam in the containers, and clean up after us as Lottie and I put together one arrangement after another. She even brought in appetizers that she'd whipped up that morning, made with only the freshest ingredients, she'd reminded us. She stayed until five, when she sailed off to cook supper for her daughter's family, still looking as fresh as when she'd arrived. I, on the other hand, looked as wilted as a two-week-old rose.

My thirteen-year-old niece Tara and her friend Dana came in at three thirty and quickly mastered the art of bow-making, as well as tagging all the arrangements with signature cards. Then my mom arrived at four to take care of customers in the shop, leaving Grace to tend to the parlor. We were quite a team.

However, as Lottie had predicted, when Mom learned that her sea glasses had sold out, she instantly made plans to produce more. And what were the odds that another sorority would happen by and want all of them?

At five, just as we closed up shop for the day and turned our focus to making arrangements, Lottie's seventeen-year-old quadruplets showed up. We put Jimmy and Joey in charge of cleaning the floor, while Johnny and Karl began delivering arrangements to Happy Dreams Funeral Parlor.

At six o'clock, I had four large pizzas brought in, and everyone stopped to eat. Marco took a break from the bar to come down and join us, and then it did seem like a party, especially when Francesca returned with platters of cannoli. When had she found time to make them?

The only person not in a partying mood was Grace. Instead of joining us, she busied herself cleaning out the coffee machines in the parlor.

“Aren't you going to eat?” I asked.

“I'm not much in the mood actually. But thank you for inquiring.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

She paused in her cleaning. “There is one thing. Would you mind telling me what you learned from your visit to Connie's house?”

“I'm sorry. I should have filled you in sooner.”

“It's fine, dear. We haven't had a minute to breathe, have we? Did it go well, then?”

“We were able to interview most of the people on the estate, starting with Guy Luce. He was packing up to move out because he doesn't know if he'll be asked to stay on.”

“Because of the cost?” Grace asked.

“That's what Marco thinks.”

“Is Mrs. Dunbar's job in jeopardy as well?”

“She hasn't been let go yet, and she's really hoping it doesn't happen.”

“The poor old thing probably doesn't have much in the way of retirement funds.”

“But here's the big news, Grace. While we were talking to Mrs. Dunbar, the art appraiser announced that a number of the Newports' valuable paintings had been removed from the house and replaced with forged copies. If we can tie that in with the murder, there is no possible way the police can believe you're involved.”

I waited for a look of relief. Instead, Grace merely sighed as she put the espresso machine back together. “I hope you're right, dear. My nerves are in a terrible state.”

“Grace, please don't worry. Marco is a smart guy, and I'm not so bad at this myself.”

She said nothing, only gazed at the countertop forlornly. This was so unlike Grace that all I could do was give her a hug. She hung on tightly for several moments, then, sniffling, said, “Dave called this afternoon, Abby, and I'm afraid the news is rather discouraging. It seems the detectives interviewed Mr. Duval, the estate lawyer. Apparently when Connie went to see him to have her will changed, she told him it was at my suggestion.”

“There's nothing wrong with advising a friend to see a lawyer, Grace.”

“Unfortunately, that's not all Connie said. She told Mr. Duval that I had advised her to cut her family out of the will and put the bulk of her estate in a trust fund for Charity—to be administered by me.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Why would Connie make up such a ludicrous story?”

“Ever since Dave's phone call, I've gone over and over my last conversation with Connie. Other than offering some helpful quotations, I would never presume to tell her what to do with her money.”

“Do you recall the quotes?”

Grace sat down across from me and folded her hands on the table. Normally, this was a gesture of her serene state, but now I could see that she was pressing her fingers so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white. “The first was by George Eliot. ‘One must be poor to know the luxury of giving.' This was after Connie had complained about her children's selfishness. The other was”—she sat back suddenly—“oh, dear! I think I see the problem.”

“What was the other quote, Grace?”

“It was from Oliver Wendell Holmes. ‘Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.'”

Oh, dear, was right. Those two pieces of advice had undoubtedly been misconstrued by the distraught dowager, and, unfortunately, could now be used by detectives looking to make a stronger case against their number-one suspect. It could be the last piece of damaging information the chief prosecutor would need to indict Grace.

I was really worried now, but I didn't want Grace to know that. “They're just quotes, Grace. I'm sure Dave can clear it up.”

She gazed at me briefly, but it was long enough to see the look of fear in her eyes. She knew I was putting on a good front. “I'm sure you're right, love. Run along and have your pizza before it gets cold.” Then she went back to the counter and began polishing the stainless-steel coffeemaker.

When I got back to the workroom, Marco was nowhere to be found, so I checked the galley kitchen at the back of the shop and saw him washing his hands. I slipped up behind him and put my arms around his waist, needing the reassurance of his solid body.

He turned with a smile. “Hey, here's my fireball. Where did you disappear to?” Seeing the expression on my face, he said, “What happened?”

I gave him a rundown on Grace's situation, then said, “I tried to be encouraging, Marco, but frankly, I don't feel like we're even close to finding the killer.”

Marco put his arms around me and pulled me close, rubbing my back. “It'll be okay, Abby. We'll figure it out.”

I breathed in his clean scent and hugged him tighter. “I hope so, Marco.”

“Ah, here you are,” Francesca said, coming into the kitchen. And with a kitchen that size, it was now officially crowded.

I turned to see her holding a large binder in her arms. “I brought the book of sample invitations from the printer,” she said. “As soon as we finish with the flowers, we can sit down, have a glass of wine, and pick out your shower invitations.”

“I have to get back to the bar, Ma,” Marco said. “We'll do it another time.”

“Marco, you work too much,” Francesca said. “Go on, then. Abby and I will pick out the invitation ourselves. Yes, bella?”

Rats. The workroom
was
my happy place.

“Ma,” Marco said, “Abby has a long evening ahead. Let it rest, okay?” He lifted my chin and smiled into my eyes. “I'll see you later.”

I gave him a grateful smile. “If you insist.”

Glass shattered somewhere in the shop. Muttering something about the devil in the white fur coat, Lottie grabbed a broom and ran off to find Simon.

“Why is there a cat here?” Francesca asked.

“It's a long story,” I said. “In a nutshell, I'm taking care of a cat with a broken leg at my apartment, and Simon doesn't get along with other animals, so I brought him here.”

“Come down from there!” I heard Lottie say. “I know you broke that vase. Don't give me that innocent look.”

Francesca shook her head. “This will never do.”

“I don't have a choice,” I said. “Grace and Lottie can't take him, and my mom—”

“I have a pet,” Mom chimed in.

“A llama in the garage,” I said.

“Taz doesn't live in the garage,” Mom said to Francesca with an embarrassed laugh. “He has his own heated living space
attached
to the garage. And as I told my daughter, I've cared for many house pets over the years. I'm over that.”

I gave Francesca a shrug. “As I said, I have no choice.”

“There are always choices, bella,” Francesca told me. “I will take the little cat with the broken leg, and you can take Simon back to his home where he belongs.”

I blinked several times, trying to figure out what to do.

“Is that okay with you, Abby?” Marco asked, as though to say,
Do you want my mom more involved in your life?

On the other hand, would taking care of an injured cat keep his mom out of my hair?

I threw my arms around his mother and gave her a big hug. “Yes! Oh, yes.”

 

After putting in a fourteen-hour day on Wednesday, I would have loved to sleep in the next morning, but a shop owner has certain responsibilities. And with at least thirty-five more funeral arrangements waiting to be done, I even managed to drag myself out of bed an hour earlier—grumpy, yes, according to Marco—but still eager to get started.

Marco had shown up at my door bright and early to pick up Tabitha and take her back to his sister Gina's house, where his mother was staying. Gina had a lower-level guest suite that gave Francesca all the privacy she needed. My fear was that it would also encourage her to stay in New Chapel. While I really liked Marco's mom, dealing with my strong-willed mother was difficult enough. Dealing with two such mothers would be a real headache.

I couldn't very well complain, though. Both my mom and Francesca had been a huge help in getting the arrangements done, and today Nikki had volunteered to help, then cart Simon home before her three o'clock shift at the hospital.

Meanwhile, Tabitha had learned to manage fairly well with her leg in a cast. She'd even filled out a bit, and according to Nikki, was still refusing all but the best cat food. Amazing how picky a homeless cat could be. But with her calm disposition, sweet little meow, and clean fur coat, I knew someone would want to give her a home eventually. Who knew? Maybe Francesca would fall in love with her and decide to take her back to Ohio. Soon.

“You'd better read this,” Marco said, unrolling the newspaper as I sat down to coffee and toast slathered in peanut butter and honey. He slid the front section across the table.

The headline read: Missing Cat Worth Millions.

I scanned the article below the fold with growing horror. It began with the news that the vast Newport fortune had been left to Constance Newport's cat, and that a one-thousand-dollar reward was being offered for her safe return. The cat was described as a gold-and-white domestic shorthair wearing a bright pink collar. Again, I paused to wonder at the coincidence of my finding a golden tabby. Still, the time line was all wrong.

“Get to the part yet about Grace?” Marco asked.

“Just getting to it . . . Oh, great. She's named as the cat's guardian. Where could the reporter have gotten that information?”

“Someone from the family must have leaked it. I'm certain it didn't come from the estate attorney.”

“It doesn't make sense. Why would the Newports want the whole town to know that the cat got their inheritance?”

“Jealousy, vindictiveness—who knows?”

My cell phone rang and I jumped up to get it. “Hey, Lottie. What's up?”

“Did you see the article about the missing cat on the front page of the newspaper this morning?”

“I was just reading it.”

“Well, brace yourself, sweetie. I don't know if you got to the part yet about Grace working at Bloomers, but it says that anyone who finds the missing cat should bring it to the shop so she can identify it. The same news has been on the local radio station all morning, and guess what? I just got to Bloomers, and at least twenty people are waiting outside the door.

“Don't tell me they all have cats with them.”

“Bingo.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN