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Authors: Kate Collins
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only sketchy details.”
“I keep telling you, Maureen, it’s too early for more news,” my father said. “But why would you listen to me? I was only on the force for twenty years.”
“I believe you, Jeff,” my mom assured him, patting his knee. “I merely wanted to know if it was true that Pryce’s grandmother found the body, since the Osbornes are being so tight-lipped about it. I’ve been telling everyone that it couldn’t possibly be so, because Abby was keeping an eye on the woman and would never have let her wander outside alone in the dark.” She turned her gaze on me and smiled proudly.
Rather than burst her bubble I changed the subject. “Haven’t they cleared you to leave yet?” I asked my dad. Being a former cop, he usually got preferential treatment.
“They cleared us. Ask your mother why we’re still here.”
“We’re here,” she said tolerantly, “because I was waiting for a good time to give Jillian and Claymore their wedding sculpture.” She looked around and spotted the newlyweds. “They don’t seem to be busy now.”
I had to think fast. At Bloomers my mom’s sculptures could affront only a small number of people. Here she had hundreds to offend. The mood in the room was already tense; I didn’t want to see it turn ugly.
“With so much going on right now, Mom, it would probably be best to wait until later to give them your gift—like when they return from their honeymoon.”
She fixed me with the look mothers have perfected—the one that says, I spent twenty-seven hours in labor with you, and now you cut my heart out? “What are you trying to say, Abigail?”
“I’m trying to say”—What was I trying to say? Better yet, what was I thinking ?—“that given the circumstances, I doubt Jillian would be able to fully appreciate all the effort you put into your sculpture. I mean, look at her over there, pacing and fretting, her mouth going a mile a minute. If she were wound up any tighter her brain would squeak.”
At that moment Jillian spotted me and came barreling over, her arms flapping in exasperation against the full skirt of her beaded gown, a photographer on her heels. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. We’re supposed to be on our way to Chicago right now. Right now !”
I saw the photographer aim his lens at my boobs, so I bent my knees to bring my face into focus. “Heads up, lowlife. I’m wearing heels that will break the bones of your insteps.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “The cops took my film.”
At my steely look, the man shrugged and moved on.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Jillian said, scowling at a cop standing a few yards away. “They can’t possibly think Claymore or I killed Jack. The whole room can vouch for our whereabouts.”
“Jillian,” I said, “show a little respect. A man is dead.”
“I understand a man is dead,” Jillian ground out, “but this is my wedding night. I’m supposed to be on my way to Hawaii, not stuck here in Stalag Thirteen.”
“I’ll see if I can do something about it, Jillian,” my dad said and wheeled toward the door guards, my mother right behind.
“Thank you, Uncle Jeff,” Jillian called. She shot another sullen look at the cops nearby, then turned with a sharp sigh. “This is totally ridiculous. If you were in charge of this investigation, Abby, would you make me stay?”
“Not on your life. I’d be glad to get rid of you.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Let you leave? Because I don’t have the authority.”
“No, silly. I mean why don’t you investigate? You’re a natural snoop.”
“Two reasons. First, if Reilly found out, he’d lock me in the county jail and swallow the key. Second, I do have a flower shop to run.”
“You always say that.” She flounced down into the folding chair my mother had deserted, skirts billowing around her. No charm school had ever held Jillian for more than two days. “I’m bored stiff. Tell me what you’d
“I keep telling you, Maureen, it’s too early for more news,” my father said. “But why would you listen to me? I was only on the force for twenty years.”
“I believe you, Jeff,” my mom assured him, patting his knee. “I merely wanted to know if it was true that Pryce’s grandmother found the body, since the Osbornes are being so tight-lipped about it. I’ve been telling everyone that it couldn’t possibly be so, because Abby was keeping an eye on the woman and would never have let her wander outside alone in the dark.” She turned her gaze on me and smiled proudly.
Rather than burst her bubble I changed the subject. “Haven’t they cleared you to leave yet?” I asked my dad. Being a former cop, he usually got preferential treatment.
“They cleared us. Ask your mother why we’re still here.”
“We’re here,” she said tolerantly, “because I was waiting for a good time to give Jillian and Claymore their wedding sculpture.” She looked around and spotted the newlyweds. “They don’t seem to be busy now.”
I had to think fast. At Bloomers my mom’s sculptures could affront only a small number of people. Here she had hundreds to offend. The mood in the room was already tense; I didn’t want to see it turn ugly.
“With so much going on right now, Mom, it would probably be best to wait until later to give them your gift—like when they return from their honeymoon.”
She fixed me with the look mothers have perfected—the one that says, I spent twenty-seven hours in labor with you, and now you cut my heart out? “What are you trying to say, Abigail?”
“I’m trying to say”—What was I trying to say? Better yet, what was I thinking ?—“that given the circumstances, I doubt Jillian would be able to fully appreciate all the effort you put into your sculpture. I mean, look at her over there, pacing and fretting, her mouth going a mile a minute. If she were wound up any tighter her brain would squeak.”
At that moment Jillian spotted me and came barreling over, her arms flapping in exasperation against the full skirt of her beaded gown, a photographer on her heels. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. We’re supposed to be on our way to Chicago right now. Right now !”
I saw the photographer aim his lens at my boobs, so I bent my knees to bring my face into focus. “Heads up, lowlife. I’m wearing heels that will break the bones of your insteps.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “The cops took my film.”
At my steely look, the man shrugged and moved on.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Jillian said, scowling at a cop standing a few yards away. “They can’t possibly think Claymore or I killed Jack. The whole room can vouch for our whereabouts.”
“Jillian,” I said, “show a little respect. A man is dead.”
“I understand a man is dead,” Jillian ground out, “but this is my wedding night. I’m supposed to be on my way to Hawaii, not stuck here in Stalag Thirteen.”
“I’ll see if I can do something about it, Jillian,” my dad said and wheeled toward the door guards, my mother right behind.
“Thank you, Uncle Jeff,” Jillian called. She shot another sullen look at the cops nearby, then turned with a sharp sigh. “This is totally ridiculous. If you were in charge of this investigation, Abby, would you make me stay?”
“Not on your life. I’d be glad to get rid of you.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Let you leave? Because I don’t have the authority.”
“No, silly. I mean why don’t you investigate? You’re a natural snoop.”
“Two reasons. First, if Reilly found out, he’d lock me in the county jail and swallow the key. Second, I do have a flower shop to run.”
“You always say that.” She flounced down into the folding chair my mother had deserted, skirts billowing around her. No charm school had ever held Jillian for more than two days. “I’m bored stiff. Tell me what you’d
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