"It's weak."

"Weak is too weak a word for it. Flimsy as onionskin would be better. And the second piece of evidence, the flower, is-you won't believe this-flower petals that got caught in the treads of Charlotte's shoes."

"Petals?"

"Not just any petals. Anemone petals."

Marco glanced at me. "The flowers you never received?" "Exactly."

"How would a person get anemone petals mashed in her shoe treads in the winter?"

"The obvious answer is by stepping in them. I find flower petals stuck to the soles of my shoes all the time. But the only anemones you'd find in February in this part of the country would be the kind sold by a florist or grown in a hot-house. There are two florists in town, the florist in the grocery store's gift department-and me. I know the grocer carries only the standards-roses, daisies, mums, orchids, violets-nothing as unusual as anemones. So that leaves one big craft and hobby store on the highway that also wouldn't stock anemones, and two garden centers with greenhouses, one of which is at Tom's Green Thumb." I raised my eyebrows. "Pretty strong coincidence, don't you think?"

Marco smiled. "You are an amazing woman."

"Thank you."

"It'd be great if we could place both Charlotte and Harding at Tom's Green Thumb. But is Harding even involved in the greenhouse operation anymore? I thought he had to sell when he went to prison."

I pulled out my cell phone and called the shop. "Let's see if Grace can find out."

Grace was a master at sleuthing out that kind of detail. I explained the situation to her and asked her to check around for anemones and inquire discreetly about Harding's involvement in Tom's Green Thumb. "You don't need to call me back," I said. "We'll be there in ten minutes."

"By the way, dear," Grace said, "that salesman called again, the one who left the flashlight? He said he's leaving town tomorrow and is planning a small reception this evening at the New Chapel Inn and Suites. He would like you to RSVP. I put the note on your desk."

"Okay, thanks, Grace. I'll take care of it later." I slipped my phone into my purse and sat back with a satisfied sigh. We were finally moving forward.

"Tell me how you got Morgan to cooperate," Marco said.

"I fed him chicken soup."

He gave me a skeptical glance. "That's it? He ate the soup and then talked?"

"No, he ate it and then barfed."

"What?"

"Morgan was being stubborn. The only information he'd divulge was that there was still no suspect in the Hudge murder and that the weapon was made from something smooth, yet not metal or wood. So after he upchucked the soup and fell asleep in the bathroom, I rifled through his briefcase."

Marco let out a low whistle. "I can't believe you went into a deputy prosecutor's briefcase and read his files."

"You can't?"

He gave me a sidelong glance. The corner of his mouth curved up.

Could, too.

"No anemones at the craft store or grocery store," Grace reported as Marco and I shed our coats and settled at a back table in the parlor. "And Samuel's Garden Center is closed for three months, reopening in March." She paused to glance at us over her reading gla.s.ses. "However, I just got off the telephone with Robin Lennox, the acting floor manager at Tom's Green Thumb, and she said-"

"They have anemones in stock," I finished, giving Marco a high five.

"In fact," Grace continued, "Robin received the shipment a few weeks back-around the end of January-even though she hadn't ordered any. She believed it to be a delivery error, although neither her supplier nor the delivery company would admit to it."

"Did Robin say anything about Harding's involvement?" Marco asked Grace.

"According to Robin, Mr. Harding is no longer officially involved in the company, yet she admitted that he keeps his fingers in the business through his lady friend, Honey, who owns controlling shares."

"How convenient," I said.

"Robin indicated she hadn't seen Mr. Harding personally since his release from jail," Grace said, "but as she was leaving one evening, she saw his black sedan parked behind the greenhouse."

"Did Robin mention when that was?" Marco asked.

"She did not. Shall I call her back, do you think?" Grace asked.

At that moment, four women came into the parlor and took seats at a table in front of the bay window, so Grace added, "After I see to my customers?"

"Thanks," Marco said, "but this warrants a trip to Tom's Green Thumb to talk to Robin in person. I'll head over there this afternoon."

"I almost forgot," Grace said. "Your sister-in-law Portia dropped these by." She put a stack of magazines in front of me. I read the spines: Elegant Bride; Modern Bride; World Bride; You and Your Wedding; Occasion Weddings; Wedding Cakes; Wedding Bells . . .

I pushed them aside and laid my head on my arms. "Make them stop!"

Marco's cell phone chirped, so he got up to take the call. A moment later I heard Lottie say, "This will make it all better, sweetie."

I raised my head as she placed a pizza box on the table, along with a stack of napkins and paper plates. She lifted the lid, revealing a big, cheesy pie loaded with sausage, mushrooms, black olives, and green peppers. I leaned over to inhale. Yum!

"Lunch is on me today. Dig in." She took a slice for herself and bustled away.

I was about to place a wedge of pizza on a paper plate when a small hand reached around me and grabbed it.

I turned to see Tara stuff the pointed end in her mouth. "Surprise," she mumbled through the gooey bite.

"What are you doing here? You should be in school."

"In-service teachers' meetings this afternoon," she announced, taking a seat. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the magazines. "Are you shopping for your wedding gown?"

"No. Does your mom know you're here? Because she'd probably rather not have you hanging out with me right now."

Tara pulled a magazine from the stack and began to turn the pages with her greasy fingers. "Nope. But it's okay. I saw Unky Hunky in the back. Where did you get these magazines?"

I ignored her Marco reference. "Your aunt Portia left them."

"Cool. Now we can find you a dress."

"Don't bother. I've decided to wear jeans."

"Yeah, right." Snickering, she turned the page. "No way." She turned another page. "Ug-o!" As she flipped through the magazine, I heard, "They can't be serious." "Oh. My. G.o.d." "Is this a joke?" And finally, "Awesome! This is more like it."

Tara turned the magazine so I could see it. "This gown is totally you, Aunt Abby."

I glanced at it as I took a big bite of pizza. "Sure it is, if I were a foot taller and weighed less than you."

Tara stuck her tongue out at me, then turned more pages until she found another that met her standards. "Okay, you can't say this one isn't you."

"That one isn't me."

By the time Marco returned, I'd downed one and a half slices and Tara had gone through two magazines. "Have some pizza," I said. "Lottie ordered it for us."

"That was nice of her," Marco said, taking a seat across from me. "Hey, Tara, what's up?"

"What do you think of this gown?" she asked, swiveling the magazine in his direction.

"Don't answer," I said. "It's a trick question."

"No, it's not," Tara said. "Don't you think Aunt Abby would look awesome in this?"

Marco helped himself to the pizza. "If I say yes, will I get into trouble?"

"Who was on the phone?" I asked.

"I got two calls," he said. "The first was from Rafe. He's got the afternoon shift today, so, besides needing a ride to work, he wanted me to know he won't be there to meet Mama at the apartment. I'll have to meet her."

"Wait. Your mother's coming in this afternoon? You told me she was coming tomorrow."

"That's because Rafe told me she was coming tomorrow. He said his brain froze the moment he heard her voice and everything she said after that was garbled. She's coming in around three thirty, so I told him to take my car to work. With everything else going on, I don't have time to drive him out to Maraville. I'll just use the Vette."

Nice of him to ask. At least that meant Rafe couldn't borrow it.

"Can I go with you?" Tara asked, batting her pale eyelashes at him.

"Sorry, Short Stuff. I've got too much to do. Some other time, okay?"

"Here's what you can do for me," I said to Tara. "Take the magazines to the workroom and tear out pictures of gowns that would look good on me. That's me, Tara, not your aunt Portia, or Jillian, or Miley Cyrus, or Hannah Montana."

"Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana are the same person, Aunt Abby."

"I knew that."

Rolling her eyes, Tara stood up and started to reach for the magazines, then paused. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Yes." I picked up the stack and held them out. "Here you go."

"Fine. I'll do it. What do I get in return?"

I reached under the table and squeezed Marco's knee so he'd play along. "Should we tell Tara now or wait until she finishes?"

"Tell her now," Marco said. "No, make her wait."

Tara narrowed her eyes at me, but she clearly was afraid to call my bluff. She took the magazines and left the room.

Marco reached for another slice of pizza. "What are you going to give her?"

"I'll have to think of something. Who was the second caller?"

"Mr. Oke, the Hawaiian antiques dealer. He asked me to take a photograph of the brooch and e-mail it to him. He wanted to know how I happened to contact him, so I explained how you found it in your flower shipment. I knew he wasn't quite buying my story, so I told him to get in touch with Reilly if he wanted to check out my credentials.

"That apparently did the trick because then Mr. Oke explained that a brooch matching that description had been stolen from a museum's display of antique Hawaiian royal jewelry on January twenty-fourth. He said if your brooch is the one in question, he'll have to notify the FBI."

"Holy cow, Marco. We've been treating that brooch as a piece of costume jewelry."

"It might be costume jewelry. We don't know yet if your brooch is the same one that was stolen, but I'll admit the timing is interesting."

"On the other hand," I said, "isn't it kind of far-fetched to think a thief would ship a valuable Hawaiian brooch to New Chapel?"

"Not all that far-fetched. Mr. Oke said there are collectors all over the world who pay exorbitant amounts of money for rare pieces, stolen or not. The collectors go through a middleman who connects them with the art or jewelry they'd like to add to their collections. Some of these middlemen are the actual thieves. They can be notoriously wealthy and are often extremely dangerous. The FBI is working on a case like that in Chicago right now, looking for a man known as the Flame."

"Art collectors actually buy stolen merchandise?"

"Are you kidding? Museums buy stolen merchandise. There's a big black market for art and antiquities. But do you understand what this means? If the brooch you found is actually this priceless Hawaiian jewelry, and it came in a shipment that was supposed to go to Tom's Green Thumb, then someone at Tom's is in on the theft."

"How realistic is it to imagine Harding could engineer the theft of a Hawaiian brooch?"

"He might have met someone in prison who told him about the scheme. A lot of that goes on behind bars. If Harding knew he was going to be released for treatment, he could have arranged to be the middleman, or he could have volunteered Honey for that job."

"Let's imagine that the brooch came to Bloomers instead of going to Tom's Green Thumb. Then someone on the other end had to slip it in the box and send it to him, right?"

"You got it. Which tells me the thief would be employed by your supplier, or be the supplier himself."

"I can't imagine Mr. Mikala being the thief. Lottie has been ordering from him for a long time and has never had a problem. And yes, I know you can't judge a person's moral character by that. So what do we do now?"

"The first step is to take detailed photos of the brooch and e-mail them to Mr. Oke so he can verify its authenticity. I wouldn't be surprised if the FBI showed up asking to see it, either."

"My mom still has the brooch. We'll have to stop by there after work."

Marco wiped his hands. "Okay, let's do this. I need to go down to the bar and finish some bookkeeping and cut checks for the crew. After that, I'll run out to Tom's Green Thumb and see what else Robin can tell me-like how Charlotte might have gotten anemone petals stuck in her shoe. Then I'll head over to my apartment to wait for my mom. In the meantime, you call your mom and let her know we'll be by after five o'clock."

"That's my part? Make a phone call?"

"Your part is to stay here where it's safe." Marco glanced around to see if the other customers were watching, then leaned down to give me a lingering kiss. "Tonight we'll go out for a nice meal at Adagio's and finally have that discussion. How does that sound?"

Better than dining at the country club with the wedding hunters. "It sounds perfect, except for one thing. Your mother will be here. Are you going to leave her at your apartment alone on her first night in town?"

"Oh. Right. Well, we'll just have to find time to be alone together after dinner."

"What about your PI case?"

Marco thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "We'll make it work somehow."