“It’s a deal,” my aunt said in relief. “Just let me know when to send it over.”
As soon as I hung up, I sought out Grace and explained the situation. She called her beau, then came back to the workroom beaming.
“Richard would be delighted to take
The Bowler
. He said it would fit in perfectly at the bowling alley. He’ll even place a brass plaque on it to display the artist’s name and the donor. That should please your mum and your cousin.”
Two worries eliminated in less than an hour. The day was really looking up. I actually began to hum as I started pulling flowers for the first order. Because luck always ran in threes, I couldn’t wait to discover what my next lucky break would be.
Karl arrived bearing a variety of sandwiches—ham, turkey, and tender sliced beef, smothered with spicy mustard and melted Swiss cheese on fresh ciabatta bread. We ate in two shifts, Karl, Johnny, and I on the second, when Karl managed to spill mustard down the front of his blue shirt.
“Mom is going to kill me,” he said, trying to blot the spill with a paper napkin. “This is my Sunday dress shirt.”
“You’re toast, bro,” Johnny said, clearly enjoying his sibling’s suffering.
As I watched Karl’s feeble attempt to wash out the mustard, I had another inspiration. I pulled Marco’s Down the Hatch T-shirt from my purse, rinsed the coffee spots off the sleeve, and used a hair dryer to dry it. “Take off your shirt, and put this one on,” I told Karl, handing him the gray T-shirt. “I’ll run it down to the dry cleaner’s after work.”
Now I had a new reason to talk to Iris.
Shortly before three o’clock, Marco phoned to tell me his mother hadn’t needed surgery, and Rafe and Gina were taking her home. “I’m heading up to Chicago. I got another call from my buddy at O’Hare. It seems Hank Miller flew into Chicago this morning and, from what I was able to uncover, he booked a room at the O’Hare Hilton.”
“Why would Miller stay at the Hilton and not his house here in town?”
“That’s what I want to know, among other things. I’ll stop by Dave’s office afterward to see if he received those phone records yet.”
“Keep me posted. As soon as I close up the shop I’m going to Frey’s to see if Iris will talk to me. Are we still on for the speed-dating event tonight?”
“You bet. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
At five o’clock, with a light snow falling, I locked up the shop and drove to the dry cleaner’s, intending to go straight home afterward so I’d have time to eat before Marco arrived. The parking spaces in front of Frey’s were occupied, so I used the side driveway to get to the small lot in the rear. There was only one space free and it was beside a huge brown Dumpster being used for the second-floor renovations.
I pulled cautiously into the parking space, then, with Karl’s shirt in hand, I locked my Vette and started toward the driveway that ran along the side of the house. At the sight of a bicycle propped near the building’s back door, however, I stopped short. By the distant glow of a streetlight in the alley, the bike appeared to be blue, with rusty fenders, handlebars with faded tassels, and a black leather seat. I went over to the bike for a closer inspection. It certainly looked like the one I’d seen against Miller’s barn. But how could that be possible?
Puzzled, I went inside Frey’s and found five people in line, none of whom resembled the photo of Hank Miller or seemed damp or cold enough to have used the bike. Iris, with her bright spots of pink on her cheekbones and drab smock, was chatting with the first customer while writing up a ticket.
When my turn finally came, Iris greeted me with her usual, “Well, look who’s here. It’s the underground florist!” then went straight into a comedy routine. “Hey, Florist Gump, any big
plants
for the weekend? Seen your
stalkbroker
recently? You can tell me. My
tulips
are sealed.”
“Ha! Pretty funny, Iris.”
She shook her head, her misshapen mouth curving crookedly, as though she cracked herself up. “What have you got there?”
I placed the blue dress shirt on the counter. “A shirt with a nasty mustard stain.”
She stuck a paper marker near the stain, then handed me a ticket to fill out. As I wrote in my information, I said, “Are you going to the speed-dating event tonight?”
“No, ma’am. Not going to make that mistake again. Yourself?”
Okay, Abby, here goes nothing.
“Actually, yes. I’m helping investigate Jonas Treat’s murder, and I need to talk to Carmen Gold’s assistant.”
At the mention of Jonas’s name, a small shock went through Iris. Then she glanced over her shoulder, as though concerned someone might be listening, leaned her hands on the counter, and said in a hushed, angry voice, “I know Carmen. That bitch killed Jonas. Don’t you think so?”
Her vehemence stunned me. “I can’t really divulge any information.”
Iris nodded knowingly. “I understand. But that’s all right, because I know she did it. She set a trap for him.”
“Seriously?”
Iris glanced around again, then whispered, “She sent Jonas a personal invitation to the last speed-dating event.”
“Are you sure? I thought people had to sign up for it. I know I did.”
With a perfectly straight face, Iris said, “Jonas
showed
it to me.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. He often took me into his confidence.”
Sure he did. “Jonas must have been surprised Carmen sent him an invitation.”
“Surprised—and very,
very
displeased. He told me he couldn’t abide Carmen. He thought she was pushy and arrogant and rude. That’s why he wanted me there—to show her the kind of woman he really liked, someone who had depth and character and could make him laugh. But that wily Carmen sensed what we were up to and kept us apart all evening.”
“No kidding! That must have infuriated Jonas.”
“Indeed it did infuriate him. Indeed it did. He read her the riot act, that’s for sure.”
“Wow. I was right there and didn’t even notice! When did he confront her?”
“Right after the dating session ended, just before the mixer. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Carmen left shortly afterward, and then
bam!
” Iris hit her fist against the counter, making me jump. “Jonas’s beautiful Ferrari was hit. You know what I’m thinking, right? That Carmen is the hit-and-run driver as well as the murderer.”
“Really!”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Carmen wanted revenge against Jonas for choosing me over her.” Iris lifted her eyebrows, clearly expecting me to be impressed.
“I see. But if she smashed his car for revenge, why would she need to kill him?”
Iris blinked rapidly, clearly not expecting that question.
A customer came in, so Iris tore off the ticket, handed me the stub, and clipped the rest onto the shirt. “This will be ready Tuesday morning. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime. And don’t forget your newspaper.”
I walked back to my car, mulling over what Iris clearly wanted me to believe: that Jonas had taken her into his confidence, and had chosen her over Carmen, prompting Carmen’s vengeful acts of hit-and-run and then murder. Did Iris believe that herself?
As I approached my car, I again noticed the bike. Were there really two old-fashioned blue bicycles around? Since my curiosity did not like to be denied, I went back inside to ask Iris about it.
She had just finished ringing up the customer and glanced at me in surprise when I stepped up to the counter. “Did you forget something?”
“I was wondering whose blue bicycle is parked around back.”
“Mine.”
Hers? Now I was really confused.
“Why do you ask?”
Yikes.
She’d caught me off guard. “It, um, reminded me of my brother’s bike. He sold it years ago, and I always wondered what happened to it.” That sounded plausible. “Isn’t it kind of cold to use a bike in the winter?”
“I bundle up, but I don’t ride it much, only if Mother has the car when I need to be somewhere. With these ridiculous gas prices, I save lots of money, I’ll tell you that.”
“I believe you. If gas prices climb any higher, I might have to get one for myself.”
I thanked Iris and left, stopping for a newspaper to make her happy. I made the trek around the house to the parking lot, then couldn’t resist taking another look at the bicycle. Rusty fenders, balloon tires, handlebars with dirty white rubber grips, streamers—was it the same bike I’d seen propped up against the barn or not?
I checked my watch and decided I had enough time to squeeze in a quick stop at the Miller homestead. On the way, I phoned Marco, but got his voice mail, so I left a message telling him what I’d learned from Iris, where I was headed, and why. Shortly before I turned onto Rollercoaster Road, he returned the call.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“About two minutes away from Miller’s house. Where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic on the Borman Expressway. You shouldn’t go there alone in the dark, Abby. We can check for the bike in the morning.”
I pulled into the driveway. “Too late. I’m already here. I’ll just take a quick look and hop right back in my car.”
Marco sighed in exasperation. “Do you have a flashlight with you?”
“No, but I should be able to tell if the bike is there or not.”
“Then keep me on the line.”
“I can do that. Did you find Hank Miller?”
“No, damn it. I struck out again. The hotel manager told me Miller made his reservations yesterday but hasn’t checked in yet. I slipped the guy a twenty to alert me when Miller shows up.”
I got out of the car and started toward the back of the house. My boots crunched loudly on the gravel, so I hopped onto the frozen grass. “It’s creepy here,” I whispered into the phone. “It’s so dark and still.”
“I really don’t like your being there alone, Abby.”
“Didn’t your friend at O’Hare tell you Miller’s plane got in this morning?”
“Correct.”
“You’d think he would have checked in by now,” I mused, “unless he drove back to New Chapel instead.”
“Which is why I’d rather you weren’t on his property,” Marco said in exasperation.
“I’m being extremely cautious, Marco,” I said quietly. “Don’t worry. Remember, I learned from the master. So let’s try to reason out why Miller would make hotel reservations if he were coming back here.”
“Here’s a reason—to establish an alibi. Now, would you please get back in the Vette and go home?”
“I’m almost at the barn. Okay, I can see the wrought-iron bench now and—” I stopped. “Marco, the bike’s not here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“
I
don’t see it anywhere,” I said quietly, making my way around the house.
“Forget the bike, Abby. Just get out of there. I don’t have a good feeling about your being there.”
Neither did I. My scalp was prickling, as though an unseen presence watched me. I glanced at the shuttered windows of the house, half expecting to see a ghostly visage peering out. “I’m heading for my car right now. But I’m still puzzled by the bike. If it was Iris’s we saw this morning, what was it doing here?”
“There could be more than one blue bicycle in town, Abby.”
“Two old-fashioned blue bikes with rusty fenders and handlebar grips with streamers? And both connected to two of our suspects? That’s too freakish, Marco.”
“Maybe a Realtor came by to stow the bike out of sight before showing the house to prospective buyers.”
In the background I heard horns honking.
“Concentrate on driving, Marco. We can talk on our way to the Wild Boar.”
Back at the apartment, I found Nikki under a blanket on the sofa watching a rerun of
The Cosby Show
, with Simon asleep on her stomach. Nikki had always had a slender face, but now it appeared hollow-cheeked, almost gaunt. I could tell the stress was eating her up.
Hearing me come in, Simon lifted his head, then leaped off the sofa and galloped toward me, meowing his urgency to be fed.
“I gave him food an hour ago,” Nikki called.
I scratched Simon behind the ears. “Sorry, buddy. You were ratted out. Nikki, have you eaten yet?”
“Nothing sounds good. Tell me what happened today.”
“Come to the kitchen and I’ll give you the rundown while I make supper for us.”
Over a hastily thrown-together supper of black-bean-and-cheese burritos, I gave Nikki the information we’d gathered that day. “We’re closing in, Nikki. I can feel it in my gut. I really think that by tomorrow, we’ll know who the killer is.”
She rested her chin on her fist. “And if you don’t, you’ll come visit me in jail?”
“Have a little faith, Nik. We’re both due for some good luck.”
Marco arrived ten minutes early, just as I was dabbing on peach-colored lip gloss. Luckily, I didn’t have to fuss with my hair. Along with my black boots, dressy black slacks, a yellow sweater, and my peacoat, I’d decided to tuck my red locks under a rolled-brim wool hat, hoping to remain incognito at the speed-dating event. People tended to notice me because of my hair color, and I certainly didn’t want to draw Carmen’s attention tonight.
“Sorry if I rushed you,” Marco said, as he escorted me across the parking lot of my apartment building. “I thought we’d swing by Miller’s property and have a fresh look around before we head to the Wild Boar.”
“To see if the blue bike is back?”
“Ideally, to find out who owns it. I was thinking about what you told me earlier—how Iris fixated on Jonas and about the coincidence with the bicycles—so, on my way to pick you up, I stopped at Frey’s.”
“Wasn’t I right? The bikes are identical, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know. The bike was gone. At the same time, the hotel manager hasn’t heard from Miller, and that makes me uneasy.”