Acts of Violets by Kate Collins Page B

hell happened here? I quickly said, “Good news! Mom brought in her new feather art.”
    Lottie blinked a few times to clear her vision. “Well,” she said, planting her hands on her hips as she swiveled to take it all in. “Well, well, well.” I knew what she was thinking: How soon can we get these down to the basement?
    The poetry society ladies began to stream in, one after the other, exclaiming in delight, “Oh, what lovely hats!”
    My mother beamed in delight. She’d finally found her market.
     
    Half an hour later, twelve newly bedecked poetesses were seated in the parlor, sipping hot beverages and sharing their odes, happy as, well, larks, although anyone passing by Bloomers who happened to glance through the big bay window into the coffee parlor would have thought more in terms of escapees from a tropical bird sanctuary. Now, if only we could find customers who’d take the frames and fans off our hands.
    With feather particles still settling, my mother went home to start a new project, while Lottie stationed herself at the cash register and I stood in the workroom at the big table, a floral knife in one hand and a handful of daisies in the other, formulating my questions for Ed and Eudora Mazella. By four thirty, business had slowed so much that Lottie and Grace were able to join me so I could fill them in on Marco’s request for help and my fear that I would fail him.
    “That’s why that little wrinkle on her forehead is back,” Lottie said to Grace.
    “Of course you’ll be able to help Marco,” Grace assured me. “You’re quite a clever girl, really, and you have influential friends in town.”
    “Like that cutie-pie in the prosecutor’s office.” Lottie wiggled her eyebrows.
    Greg Morgan. Ugh. I’d rather have a mole removed. “The problem with Morgan is that he may be working on the murder case, and even if he isn’t, there’s no way he’d agree to help the defense team.”
    “What about Sgt. Reilly?” Grace suggested.
    “He’s on the other side, too. Besides, Marco doesn’t want me to bother him.”
    Lottie made a clucking sound. “Since when did you listen to Marco? Baby, you gotta stop using law school logic and start using what God gave you.”
    I glanced down at my chest.
    “Not your boobs.” Lottie tapped her forehead. “Common sense. Figure out what it will take to get those fellas on your team and go after them.”
    She had a good point, so I took my wrinkled forehead to the parlor for one last cup of coffee and some serious scheming.
     
    At five o’clock we closed the shop and the three of us headed our separate ways, Lottie to her big, loud brood of teenaged boys, Grace to her cozy little house filled with fine English antiques and Elvis memorabilia, and me back to Ryson’s neighborhood. The wind had picked up, bringing a damp chill with it, so I slipped on the denim jacket I kept in the trunk.
    I parked in front of Ryson’s house and walked toward the Mazellas’ tidy, white-frame two-story. A black tow truck was parked in the driveway that ran along the side of the house, and inside the open one-car garage in the rear I could see huge tools hanging from giant hooks on the back wall. I walked up the sidewalk to the front porch and rapped on the door.
    My knock was answered by a tough-looking, thick-bodied, middle-aged man wearing an undershirt and blue Dockers that fit below his large belly. He stepped out onto the porch and scowled at me. “No solicitin’,” he said in a gravelly voice, stabbing a lit cigar toward a hand-lettered sign tacked onto the door frame.
    “No problem there. I’m not a solicitor. Are you Ed Mazella?”
    He gave me a wary glance, scratching the back of his thigh. “Yeah, why? Who are you? Are you from the newspaper?”
    “My name is Abby Knight and I’m investigating the death of your neighbor Dennis Ryson.”
    He took his cigar out of his mouth and peered at me with squinting eyes. “Who you workin’ for?”
    “I work for