CHAPTER NINE

Abby and I went out to the sales floor, where I saw a slender, middle-aged woman with a short light-brown bob smiling brightly at us. She was wearing a large canvas sunhat and a blue print shirt with beige pants and flats, looking very touristy.

“Mom, what are you doing in Sequoia?” Abby asked, giving her a hug.

“I should ask you the same, Abigail,” her mother told her. “I stopped by Bloomers on Monday, but you weren’t there. I had to hear it from Lottie that my daughter was out of town.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“You know, it’s funny, though, because I’ve been struggling to come up with a new art project for the flower shop. When Marco told me about Athena and the garden center, I had a brilliant flash of inspiration.” She turned toward me. “You must be Athena Spencer.” She stuck out her hand, and I shook it. “Maureen Knight,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You have such a wonderful business here,” she continued. “Exactly what I envisioned when I started my project, which reminds me, I brought you a gift. Wait right here, and I’ll run out to my van to get it.”

“Dear God,” Abby said when her mother had left. “I’m so sorry, Athena. My mom considers herself an artist. She usually makes these wacky creations and then brings them to Bloomers for me to sell. I can’t imagine what she’s made this time, so just be prepared.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I told her. “I’m kind of excited to see what she made.”

“I was excited, too”—Abby sighed—“the first time.”

In a few minutes, Abby’s mom came into the garden center carrying a large box. I helped her carry it into the conference room, where she began to unpack it. She pulled out what appeared to be a tall mushroom about four inches wide on a three-foot-high stem. The mushroom cap was painted in a bright neon pink covered with large white spots, and the stem was painted a shiny white. Maureen set it down on our long table and pulled out another, the cap of that one painted in neon orange with purple spots.

I watched with a sinking feeling as she laid them all out. The stems appeared to be made from thin dowel rods. The caps looked like she’d cut off the tops of plastic fluted wineglasses and turned the plastic cups upside down to paint them and glue them onto the white rods. Each mushroom was painted a different neon-bright color with contrasting spots. This went on until she had unpacked six of them.

“This should give you a good idea of the rest,” Maureen said with a big smile.

Abby’s eyebrows shot up. “The rest?”

“They’re very . . . pretty,” I said lamely. I glanced over at Abby, who had a pained look on her face.

“Thank you,” Maureen said proudly.

Delphi walked into the conference room and stopped short. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.” Her gaze landed on the mushrooms lying side by side on the table and instantly widened in surprise. She walked over to examine them, picking one up to look it over.

I held my breath. I never knew what was going to come out of my sister’s mouth.

“They’re gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Garden stakes. I love them!”

“Thank you,” Abby’s mom said. “I made them.”

“You made these?” Delphi asked, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Did you bring them for us to sell? Because I can totally sell them.”

“I did,” Maureen said. “They’re a gift for Athena for helping my daughter with her case.”

Delphi rose and turned to me. “We can display them at the base of the statue. People will see them as soon as they walk in the door.” She swung to Maureen. “Let me show you where they’ll go.”

As soon as Delphi and Maureen had left, Abby said, “You don’t need to display the garden stakes. My mom can be a little overwhelming at times.”

“If you think that’s overwhelming, you should meet my mother,” I said. “And besides, Delphi thinks they’ll sell. But please let me pay her for them.”

“Are you kidding? She’d be offended if you tried to pay her.”

Maureen returned by herself. “I love your sister,” she said. “She’s got such enthusiasm for her work. I’ll bet she’s a real treasure here at Spencer’s.”

“Yes,” I said. “A real treasure.”

“Mom, why don’t we let Athena get back to work? I’ll take you to this charming little coffee shop for a sandwich and some espresso.”

“No need for espresso,” Maureen replied. “Delphi is going to make us some authentic Greek coffee. She told us to wait here in the conference room.” Maureen opened her arms to give me a hug. “Thank you so much for your help on Jillian’s case. She’s so relieved to be home.”

“I’m glad that worked out for her,” I said. “And it’s been wonderful working with your daughter. I’m learning a lot from her.”

“That’s my Abigail. A born teacher, just like her mother.”

“If you’re hungry,” I told them, “there’s no need to wait for Delphi. I’ll tell her you had to leave.”

“It’s okay,” Abby said. “Greek coffee sounds really good. I’ll meet you at the Greene Street office later.”

I found Delphi in the kitchenette, where she was using a special coffeepot to make the coffee.

“Delphi,” I said sternly from the doorway.

“Yes?” she answered without turning around.

“Why is it necessary to give Abby’s mom a reading?”

“The reading isn’t for Abby’s mom,” Delphi explained, looking at me over her shoulder. “You said I could give Abby a reading. You promised.”

“I promised not to talk her out of it.”

“Then keep your promise and let me do a reading.” Delphi filled both cups and waited for the grounds to settle.

“Please don’t scare them,” I pleaded. “Whatever you see, whatever visions you have, if they’re not happy ones, keep them to yourself.”

“That’s not ethical,” Delphi scolded.

She was worried about being ethical? I tried not to laugh. “Delphi, please. If you see anything important, come to me first.”

“Fine.” She picked up the cups. “But it’s still not right.”

I went back to the office and sat at my desk just as Nicholas came skipping into the room. “Mom, you’ve got to come see what I taught Oscar.”

“Can it wait a little bit?” I asked him.

“No, you have to come now. You’ll never believe it.”

I stood back up with a groan. Nicholas led me through the store and out the back door all the way to the shed in back, where Oscar was cleaning his face with his little paws.

“Look, Oscar,” Nicholas said, shaking the yellow rubber rattle. He tossed it into a row of low evergreen shrubs. “Oscar, fetch!”

Oscar rose on his hind legs and sniffed the air. Then he ran toward the row of shrubs, disappeared behind them, and returned a moment later carrying the rattle in his mouth. He dropped it at my son’s feet and looked up expectantly. Nicholas held out his palm, and Oscar ate the peanuts in it.

“Wow!” I said. “That’s impressive.”

“Oscar’s smart for a young raccoon,” Nicholas said, running his hand down Oscar’s furry back. “I should show him at the fair. We could have a booth in the small animal tent.”

“I think Oscar might be a little overwhelmed if we took him to the fair,” I said. “He might get spooked and try to run away.”

“You’re probably right,” Nicholas said, “and I don’t want to spend the whole evening in a tent. I want to go on rides! Do you think Thea Delphi can go with us? She’s fun.”

“I think Aunt Delphi has dance lessons this evening, but you can ask her.”

“Thanks, Mom. I can’t wait!” He gave me a kiss on the cheek, then skipped away with Oscar at his heels.

* * *

At two fifteen, I arrived at the detective agency to find Abby sitting in the reception area talking on her phone. She ended the call and smiled. “Either my husband misses me, or he’s just really bored at work.”

“Maybe it’s both,” I said. “How long are you able to stay in town?”

“I’m not leaving until Jillian is in the clear,” she said. “So, if Marco misses me, he’d better come visit. Shall we head over to the middle school?”

We walked down the inside staircase and out onto the sidewalk, where Abby paused. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive. I’ll take you for a ride in my Corvette.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

Abby pointed up Greene Street. “I’m parked around the corner.”

“Case normally drives,” I told her. “And he has the doors off his Jeep, so this will be a treat. It’s not fun going to an interview with windblown hair.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

We turned the corner and walked down Oak Street, where she stopped beside a vintage banana-yellow convertible with its top down, exposing a black interior.

She saw my surprise and said, “Don’t worry. I have lots of extra hair ties.”

“At least it has doors.” I opened the door and slid inside, admiring the classic interior. “My dad would love this car.”

Abby handed me a hair tie. “This little beauty was actually what brought Marco and me together. Just after I bought the ’Vette, it was involved in a hit-and-run, which Marco witnessed. That investigation led us to a murder case, which started our first investigation.”

“You should invite Marco to join us. I’d like to meet him.”

“I’m hoping he’ll be able to take a day off soon. We’ll see.”

Abby drove north on Greene Street, the wind sweeping through the convertible. Regardless, I found myself enjoying the ride. The middle school was only a few more blocks away, so we didn’t have much time for conversation, although one big question had been on my mind all afternoon.

“So,” I tried to say casually, “how was the Greek coffee Delphi made for you?”

“It was delicious,” Abby answered. “My mom and I both enjoyed it. Delphi is adorable. I wish I had a sister. I have two older brothers.”

“I’ll trade you,” I said. “Three sisters for two brothers.”

Abby laughed. “It’s a deal.”

I found myself breathing a whole lot easier knowing that Delphi hadn’t mentioned anything about her psychic visions to Abby. Come to think of it, Delphi hadn’t come back to the office to tell me about her reading, either. I hadn’t seen her the rest of the afternoon. Was she avoiding me? I quickly shook that thought from my head as we approached our destination. I would have to deal with Delphi later.

“There’s the school,” I said, pointing to the long, one-story building coming up on the right. “There’s a parking lot on the far side.”

Abby turned down the side street and into the parking lot, pulling into one of the visitor spaces. She turned off the motor and looked at me. “Let’s do this.”

“Should I take notes?” I asked.

“Sure, but don’t hesitate to ask questions,” Abby said. “You’re good at thinking on your feet. I like that.”

I removed the hair tie and got out of the ’Vette, patting my purse to make sure I’d remembered the iPad. We walked into the school through the front doors and stopped at the office to tell the secretary why we were there. She wrote down our names and then used an intercom to call Hope.

“I have an Abby Knight Salvare and an Athena Spencer here to see you. They say they’re private detectives working on the Blackburn case.”

“I’ll be right down,” came the reply.

In a few minutes, an attractive woman with short, silky, blond hair strode into the room. Looking to be in her late thirties, she wore a short-sleeved light-blue blouse with brown slacks and white sneakers. It was an odd outfit. I couldn’t help but think back to Jillian’s description of Hope as a fashion disaster. If this was any indication, Jillian had been spot-on.

“Hope Louvain,” she said, extending her hand.

“Abby Salvare,” Abby said as she shook it. “This is Athena Spencer.”

“Spencer . . . Spencer,” Hope said. “From Spencer’s Garden Center?”

“That’s my family’s business,” I said.

“Oh, wait! You’re the Goddess of Greene Street?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“And you’re investigating Carly’s murder?”

“We both are,” I told her.

“Now it makes sense,” she said. “Come with me.”

As we proceeded down a long hallway, I tried my best to make small talk. “How’s summer school going?”

“It’s fine. I enjoy it. I work with kids who have a hard time with chemistry during the normal school year. These poor kids need the extra attention.”

As it turned out, Hope Louvain did not just make small talk—she talked.

“Especially the Bernards’ youngest boy,” she continued. “You should have seen his report on the periodic table. What a disaster. I mean, who doesn’t know that the chemical formula for water is H2O? I think it’s a learning disability, honestly, but Mrs. Bernard won’t admit it.”

She led us into her classroom, where I saw walls filled with colorful chemistry posters and inspirational artwork, and even a section filled with teacher awards. She motioned for us to sit in a pair of wooden chairs at a round table near her desk. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Please, have a seat.”

“We appreciate your meeting with us on such short notice,” I said.

“It’s not a problem,” Hope answered. “To be honest, I’m fairly certain the police are wrong to accuse Jillian Osborne. I’d like to see the real killer put behind bars.”

I pulled out the iPad and opened a new Word file. “I’m going to take notes, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Hope said. She had fair skin and a pretty smile with bright white teeth. She scooted the chair out from her desk to face us, leaned back, and crossed one leg over the other.

“To start with,” Abby said, “set the stage for me. What time did you arrive on Thursday?”

“Around six thirty.”

“Whom did you see backstage when you got there?”

“Let’s see.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Fran . . . Eleni . . . Jillian . . . I think that’s all.”

I entered the names and looked up to see Hope watching me type. I adjusted the iPad slightly so Hope couldn’t see.

She smiled pleasantly and continued. “Oh, and I saw Charles Sloan pop backstage to see his wife, too.”

“How long was he backstage?” Abby asked.

“Just a few minutes,” Hope replied. “Not long enough to poison Carly, if that’s why you’re asking.”

“Okay,” Abby said hesitantly. “Moving on. Did you see a security guard?”

Her thinly plucked eyebrows rose in interest. “You mean Charles’s security guard?” Hope leaned in closer to ask, “Have you talked to Eleni yet? Has she told you why they hired a security guard?”

I waited a moment to see if Hope was going to continue, but she paused, as well, waiting for our answer. I looked at Abby, who seemed confused herself.

“We can’t give out that information,” Abby finally replied. “How do you know the security guard is working for the mayor?”

Hope waved her hand. “Oh, everyone knows. And don’t believe a word Eleni told you about him. Charles isn’t in any danger. It’s all for show. He just wants to look like a big deal while the fair is in town, so he hires some muscled goon to follow him around in a suit. How pathetic is that? Like anybody really cares what the mayor of a rinky-dink town is doing.”

Abby gave me a quick glance, as though she found Hope’s statement odd. I typed a note with the same sentiment.

Abby tried to keep the conversation moving forward. “Did you see the security guard backstage?”

“I saw him before the show started,” Hope answered. “He wasn’t doing much. Then again, it was all for show.”

“Was he near Carly’s dressing room?” I asked, trying to help Abby keep Hope focused.

“Not when I saw him,” Hope said. “I saw him on the first night, too, in the back hallway for a while. Then he was standing in the crowd during the show.” She cocked her head, suddenly realizing where our line of questioning was headed. “But if you’re wondering whether it’s possible that he poisoned Carly, he had plenty of opportunity to do so.”

I typed in more notes. It was becoming clear that Hope was truly worthy of her awards. She was smart, and clever, although a bit too chatty for my liking. I kept that in mind as Abby continued.

“Did you have any interaction with Carly during the first night of the fashion show?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Hope replied. “It was so busy there was no time for interaction.”

“What about the second night?” Abby pushed.

Hope glanced up as though she were thinking. “I don’t recall any,” she finally answered.

Which was the exact opposite of what we’d been told by Eleni. She’d told us that Carly and Hope had been threatening each other. I wrote a note about it and underlined the words Someone is lying.

Abby glanced at my notes and continued. “Had you ever met Jillian before the fashion show?”

“No, but Carly told me all about her. She said Jillian had always been jealous of her, and she didn’t want her at the show.”

“When did Carly tell you this?” Abby asked.

Hope started to speak, then paused as though she’d caught herself. I could practically see the wheels in her head spinning. She finally said, “This would’ve been on the first night.”

“So, you did talk to Carly before the show,” Abby said.

“On the first night, yes,” Hope answered. “When I said that I didn’t interact with Carly, I meant on the second night. But the first night we talked quite a bit.”

I noted Hope had quickly changed her story.

“I understand you knew about the friction between Jillian and Carly,” Abby said.

“Yes,” Hope answered. “I heard it from Carly.”

Abby gave her a skeptical look. “Carly told you about it herself?”

Hope looked down at her blue polished fingernails. “Actually, I overheard Carly telling Fran.”

“Then you didn’t talk to Carly about Jillian,” Abby said. “Correct? You overheard her talking to Fran, and then you reported that information to the police.”

Hope’s face immediately flushed with color. “You don’t have to be snippy.”

“Well,” Abby said, “you’re giving me several different versions of the same story.”

“The police asked me what I knew, so I told them what I’d heard. That’s all you need to know.”

I typed in Hope’s answer and looked over at Abby. I could tell by the tensing of her jaw that she wasn’t happy, but she didn’t push the subject.

“How did you know Carly Blackburn?” Abby asked.

“We were both in the same philanthropic organization,” Hope said.

“Had you worked on committees together?” Abby asked, as I typed.

“A few times.”

“Were you and Carly friends?” Abby prodded.

“Um.” Hope shifted as though she were uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t say best friends.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! You know who else I saw backstage? Carly’s ex-husband, Donald Blackburn. He was trying to disguise himself in a hat and glasses, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. I knew he was there to win Carly back. He was carrying a fancy bunch of tulips.”

Abby gave her another skeptical look. “Tulips? At this time of year?”

“Roses, whatever,” Hope said. “He was carrying a big bouquet, the kind that desperately screams take me back.”

That answered the question of our mystery man.

“But then I saw those same flowers in the trash can at the back of the stage,” Hope continued. “You can draw your own conclusions.”

Abby waited until I was done typing, then asked, “What was your conclusion?”

“You know, now that I think about it, maybe he didn’t want her back. Maybe he wanted her dead. Maybe the flowers were an excuse to get backstage and poison her.”

“What time did you see Donald?” I asked.

“Right before the show started,” Hope answered.

I typed in her comment about Donald being the killer, but also added that she’d changed subjects when questioned about her relationship with the murder victim.

“What about Fran?” Abby asked. “Did she have any connection to Carly?”

“Poor Fran,” Hope said, her lower lip turning down in sympathy. “Her little boutique is about to go bust. I’ve heard the fashion show was her last chance to bring in some business. People just don’t like her styles, I guess. I like the clothes, but personally, I wouldn’t wear them. With that said, I don’t think she deserves to go out of business.” Hope sat back and waved one hand. “But that’s life in a small town. It’s hard owning a business. That’s why our mayor is so popular. He’s standing up for the little guy, the shop owners.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Abby said.

“You know Carly worked for the mayor on his campaign, right?” Hope said, as though she hadn’t heard Abby. “Carly was his campaign manager. I’m sure that’s why she was asked to model for the show.”

Abby and I exchanged glances, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: Eleni was right about Hope. She was definitely a gossip. “That’s still not an answer,” Abby said. “Did Carly have any connection to Fran? Did they serve on any committees together? Belong to the same clubs?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Hope said. “It’s my opinion that Carly was only in the show because of the mayor. She worked very closely with him, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Abby said. “Are you accusing the mayor of having an affair with Carly?”

Hope’s mouth curved up in a secretive smile. “Well, I’m not actually accusing anyone of anything. I’m just saying they worked closely together, and knowing the mayor’s history—and how Carly liked to flirt—it wouldn’t have been long before the sparks started to fly.”

I paused with my fingers on the keypad. “The mayor’s history?”

“Oh, you don’t know about the mayor?” Hope leaned in, glancing over at the doorway to be sure we were alone. “Well, get this. I heard the mayor was caught having an affair a few years back with a female employee. I won’t give any names—because I’m not like that—although I do know the woman. Poor thing. She was gutted when he dumped her.”

“How did the affair end?” I asked.

“Somehow word got out and spread around town like wildfire. And just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“it was over. And yet, for some reason, the news never made it to the paper. But then, I’m sure the mayor and his team made it go away.”

“Did Eleni know about her husband’s infidelity?” Abby asked.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Hope replied. “I’m surprised Eleni stayed with him. It wasn’t the first time Charles had been caught with another woman. Even before he was the mayor, when he was an attorney, he would be seen having dinner with women other than his wife.”

I was highly skeptical of Hope’s story. In a small town like Sequoia, it would’ve been suicide for Charles Sloan to be seen out to dinner with another woman. And surely that news would have made it to the paper.

“Did you tell Eleni that her husband was having an affair with Carly?” Abby asked.

Hope smiled enigmatically. “Let’s just say news spreads fast around here.”

“So, you’re saying you didn’t tell Eleni,” Abby probed.

“My lips are sealed.”

I highly doubted that. “Do you have any proof the mayor was seeing Carly?” I asked.

“You know, Athena,” Hope said, “with some men you don’t need proof.”

Obviously, she didn’t have proof. Hope’s credibility was sinking quickly, and her cloying smile was bothering me. It made me wonder what sort of gossip she would spread about Abby and me as soon as we left.

I was about to ask Abby if she’d gotten all the information she needed when she took a sudden shift in her line of questioning.

“Do you know anything about Carly’s broken windshield?” Abby asked.

Hope’s smile instantly dissolved. “No,” she said curtly.

“Are you saying you had nothing to do with it?” Abby asked again.

“I know nothing of which you speak,” she answered smugly. “And I suggest you change the subject.”

“One more question before we change subjects,” I said. “If I speak with one of my friends on the police force, will I hear a different story?”

“Ask away, Athena. I have friends on the force, too.” She smiled coyly, obviously thinking she was untouchable because of her husband.

“Let’s change subjects, then,” Abby said.

“Yes.” Hope raised one eyebrow. “Let’s.”

Abby leaned in. “Tell me about your son. I understand he got into some trouble.”

Hope’s lips thinned. She sat forward and put both feet on the ground. “What about my son?”

“He was expelled from middle school,” Abby pushed.

“Excuse me?” Hope said. “What does that have to do with Carly’s death?”

“Shall I lay it out for you?” Abby asked calmly.

Hope’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Oh, really?” Abby responded.

“You don’t want to get on my bad side,” Hope told her.

“That sounds like a threat to me,” Abby said. “Some might even call it bullying. Interesting. Isn’t that why your son was expelled from school?”

Hope slammed her palm against the top of her desk. “Don’t you dare go there.”

I sat back in my chair, suddenly concerned for our safety, but Abby leaned in closer and continued. “Carly was responsible for getting your son expelled, wasn’t she? And then you confronted her and took a tire iron to her car’s windshield.”

“Stop it,” Hope said bluntly.

“But that wasn’t enough,” Abby prodded. “You were seeking revenge. So you got to the fashion show early, dropped some poison into Carly’s water bottle . . .”

“Stop right there!” Hope demanded. “Don’t you dare accuse me of murder. This thing between Carly and me”—she took a breath to calm herself—“my son wasn’t the problem. That Blackburn boy, he’s the real troublemaker. And with a cheating, lying mother like Carly, the poor boy never stood a chance.” Hope stuck her finger in Abby’s face. “And if you keep asking questions about my son, you’ll be hearing from my husband. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

Abby kept her eyes locked on Hope, whose finger was still directed at Abby’s face. I couldn’t get a read on Abby’s expression, but her cheeks flushed red, and her nostrils flared. I sat farther back in my chair, suddenly feeling like I was sitting next to a pressure cooker.

Abby’s fingers curled into her palms, and with steel in her voice, she said, “I’d like you to take your finger away from my face.”

Hope didn’t move. It was a showdown.