"You can't seriously believe she's innocent, not after the hell she put you through. Come on, Abby, she caused you and Marco to split up."

"Did she? Or did I drive him away because I'm a control freak?"

"You've always been a control freak. It never bothered Marco before."

"Maybe he didn't say anything before. Maybe Libby merely brought it to a head."

"Or maybe Marco decided to let it seem like you broke up in order to fool Libby so he could find out what she was really up to."

"I wish I could believe that, Nik, but you didn't hear his voice or see his expression when I threatened to walk out. And at that point, I had such a head of steam going that there was no way I could back down. I knew I shouldn't give him an ultimatum-my dad always says to never use a threat that you aren't prepared to carry out-but the words just slipped out."

"But you were prepared to walk out, weren't you?"

"I really didn't believe it would come to that. I couldn't imagine Marco not trusting my instincts-or not giving Libby her money back. Boy, was I wrong. It really hurts, Nikki, to think that after I've helped solve five murder cases, he wouldn't have a little faith in me."

"Truthfully, Abby, I'd be more pissed off than hurt. And now Marco will be investigating another case for Libby. How will that ever work?"

"I'm pissed, too, Nik, and I'm not sure how it will work, although technically Marco will be investigating for Dave. Will it be possible for Marco to conduct an impartial investigation? And if Libby is indicted for murder, will she be able to get a fair trial?"

"I see what you mean, especially now that everyone in town is convinced she's evil."

"That's the crux of my dilemma, Nik, because I'm the one who convinced them."

"You know what I think?" Nikki stretched out her legs, leaned her head against the back of the sofa, and ran her fingers through her short, spiky blond hair, clearly beat after a long shift at the hospital. "I think we should get some rest and figure out what to do about it tomorrow."

Lying in the darkness of my bedroom, I tried to take Nikki's advice, but my conscience wasn't in a mood to cooperate.

Admit it. You know what you have to do if you want to see that justice is served, and you can stop pretending to sleep, because you're not fooling me. So do you want to get some rest tonight or do you want me to keep nagging?

Anything to stop that nagging. But if I was to see that justice was served, I'd have to investigate, and to do that, I had to come up with a plan, a place to start my investigation. I remembered the notes I'd made at Libby's interview and padded softly to the kitchen for my purse, nearly tripping over Simon, who assumed I'd awakened to feed him. I spooned out a dollop of cat food, then sat at the kitchen table with my sheet of yellow paper. Some of my notes were things Libby had said, and some were my own recollections: Delphi bought Libby a condo.

Libby left her condo at 7:35 a.m., met with client Sally Mitchum around 8 a.m., returned to town, was picked up in her yellow Corvette behind her shop.

Car parked in Libby's space as usual, but seat pushed back farther than normal. Tall person.

Oliver-5'10", Tilly at least 5'9".

Delphi had a set of Libby's car keys. Others who had access to keys at work: Oliver, Tilly.

Delphi supported Oliver, who lived above her garage and had access to her house.

Delphi fired Tilly and threatened deportation. Tilly vowed to get even with Delphi.

Delphi did Libby's bookkeeping.

Kayla sued Delphi for plastic surgery botch-up. Settlement a no-go. Delphi filed bankruptcy. Kayla's height? Access to car keys? Probably not.

Last time Libby saw Delphi-Sunday for dinner. Oliver playing war games.

Oliver is L.'s half brother. Delphi made him change name to Blume.

Delphi in a good mood Sunday evening, didn't appear worried or nervous.

Delphi found yellow Corvette that Libby wanted.

Libby claims to have no criminal record. Really.

As I read over the list, it was apparent how much influence Delphi had over Libby's and Oliver's lives. Too much control could cause a lot of resentment, which could be a motive for murder. But how much resentment would it take to push someone too far? Tilly and Kayla also had strong motives, but of the two, only Tilly had access to Libby's car keys. However, at such an early stage I couldn't rule anyone out.

My first step, I decided, was to use my lunch hour to pay a visit to Libby's customer Sally Mitchum, to see what she could tell me about Libby's behavior yesterday morning. From there I'd stop at the hardware store and the lock-and-key shop to ask if anyone had copied a Corvette key. I yawned, my eyelids growing heavier by the second.

"Are you happy now?" I asked my conscience, after I'd tucked myself back in bed.

I was asleep as soon as I hit the pillow.

First thing I did the next morning was to grab the newspaper from outside the door. The banner headline read, former model murdered, and beneath it were two photos-one a recent shot of Delphi coming out of the courthouse, and the other of a younger Delphi at the height of her modeling career. The front-page article was mainly about her career, with only sketchy information on the crime. The real story was on the inside, accompanied by a photo of Delphi standing with her arms around Oliver and Libby, taken at the grand opening of Blume's Art Shop.

According to the article, Libby was being considered a person of interest, which, as anyone who watches television knows, means that she was the main suspect. The article mentioned that several other persons were being questioned, but didn't list any names. The focal point was that a daughter was being questioned in her famous mother's death. Thank heaven my arrest wasn't mentioned.

At least Connor MacKay stayed true to his word and wrote a great expose on the plight of the women in jail, which made me hope that the people with the power to fix the problem had been embarrassed into doing so.

My cell phone rang just as I was heading out to work. I checked the caller ID and saw that it was Bloomers. "Sweetie," Lottie said, "we have a predicament. I've got a good client on the other line who wants to know if we can do a floral centerpiece for her party tonight."

"That doesn't sound like a predicament, Lottie."

"Except that she wants the flowers to be made out of fruit and veggies. Now, you know I'm strictly a traditional gal, so if you want to try it, I'll tell her so, otherwise-"

"I'll do it." No way was I going to turn down business, especially for a good client.

"Think you'll have it ready before closing time?"

"Even better, tell her I'll deliver it around noon. I've got to run an errand then anyway. I'll stop at the market and pick up the supplies now."

Food made to look like flowers. Hmm. Well, I always loved a challenge. I dug through the kitchen junk drawer for Nikki's flower-shaped cookie cutter and melon baller, threw them in a paper bag, and flew out the door, making up a grocery list as I headed for the market.

When I arrived at Bloomers an hour later, I had two bagsful of fixings. With Lottie's help, I cut poblano peppers into the shape of dark green leaves, then rimmed a glass bowl with them. Using the cookie cutter, Lottie cut pineapple slices into daisylike flowers that I then topped with blueberries to make the centers. Pale green honeydew melon slices shaped with a serrated blade became the daisy's leaves. Small strawberries strung on raffia became bleeding heart vine, and grapes became the centers of orange-peel flower petals. I misted the fruit with a light lemon-juice spray to keep it from turning brown, then wrapped it in clear cellophane and tucked it into the cooler. A multiuse centerpiece-colorful and edible.

Grace came in to admire it. Then Lottie got out the camera to take a picture of it. "Great work, sweetie. I could never have come up with that."

There was another reason why I loved being a florist. None of my law professors had ever had such praise for my work. "Is that the best you can do?" and "What were you thinking?" were the usual remarks.

"So," Lottie said as I began to arrange a bouquet of chocolate cosmos, dahlias, and cockscomb, "have you and Marco decided to investigate Delphi's murder?"

"Why?" I asked cautiously, knowing neither of my assistants liked me to get involved in criminal matters. Plus they didn't know about my breakup with Marco, and I wanted to leave it that way.

Grace said, "We're a bit apprehensive about how easily Libby deceived us, and we're afraid she might be clever enough to outwit the police, too, and turn the spotlight back on you."

"So if you do decide to look into it," Lottie said, "we'd be glad to help."

They were encouraging me to get involved? That was a first. "Thanks. I appreciate the offer. And since you asked, would one of you go to the Recorder's Office and find out whose name is on the title for Libby's condo?"

"We're on it," Lottie said.

I wrapped the bouquet in floral paper, slipped on my heavy corduroy jacket, picked up the fruit-flower arrangement, and headed out to make my deliveries. Maybe I wouldn't miss Marco's help at all.

Stowing the fruit arrangement in the foam carrier in Lottie's station wagon, I made the delivery to a delighted client, then headed out to Sally Mitchum's house in a newly developed subdivision on the outskirts of town. After a fifteen-minute ride, I located her sprawling brick two-story house, and with the bouquet in hand, I rang the bell.

A slender, white-haired woman in her sixties came to the door. She had on a navy running suit, white sneakers, and a sweatband around her forehead, as though she'd just come back from a run. "Libby," she exclaimed in surprise. "Good heaven, I just read about-oh! I beg your pardon. You're not Libby Blume."

"It's a common mistake. I'm Abby Knight. I own Bloomers Flower Shop."

"Of course. I've been to your shop. You really do look like Libby, you know. I'm Sally Mitchum, by the way. Are those flowers for me?"

I handed her the bouquet. "They're a gift from Bloomers-well, from me."

"They're beautiful," Sally said, peeling back the paper. "What did I do to deserve them?"

"I'm hoping that you'll answer a few questions about your appointment with Libby yesterday morning."

"I've already spoken with a detective. That should be enough."

"Except that I want to make sure Libby gets fair treatment, because right now it's looking a little dicey for her. The cops seem to be focusing on Libby as their prime suspect when I know there are other persons of interest out there."

Sally studied me with shrewd eyes. "Are you saying she's innocent, then?"

Yikes. I'd have to sidestep that question. "My only concern is that the cops investigate all persons of interest."

"I see. Are you related to Libby?"

"No."

"Amazing resemblance. Is she a friend?"

I shook my head, so Sally said, "Then why do you care?"

"Because I believe every person is entitled to equal treatment under the law."

Sally raised an eyebrow. I didn't think she was buying it. "Then do you do this for everyone, or just for people who look like you?"

She had me there. "Whether Libby looks like me or not has nothing to do with . . . well, it does have something to do with my investigation, but... see, I used to babysit her and..." How could I sum up my reasons when they were so entangled with my emotions? "Look, I just want to make sure Libby gets a fair shake. So can I ask you a few questions? Please?"

"I have to say, Abby, you've certainly got me intrigued." She pointed to two wicker chairs on her front porch. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."

I perched on the edge of a bright tropical-print cushion and waited. In a few moments Sally returned, wearing a warm fleece jacket over her running suit and carrying two orange mugs filled with steaming hot cocoa. She handed me a mug, then turned her chair to face mine. "Now tell me your story. Tell me why you hate injustice."

I blinked at her in surprise. "I don't have a story."

She leaned forward to look me in the eye. "I think you do. A lot of people hate injustice, but not everyone does something about it. So why do you?"

I shrugged. "My dad was a cop. I guess it runs in the family."

"Then why didn't you become a cop?"

"Me? They couldn't pay me enough to put my life on the line every day. Actually, they don't pay enough for anyone to do it. My dad was shot while chasing down a drug dealer and now he's paralyzed. He'll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life. And here's the irony. The dealer who went to prison is already out." I could feel angry tears welling up, so I changed topics.

"Anyway, I feel responsible for Libby's predicament because I raised a stink about how she made herself over to look like me. I prejudiced people's opinions against her and now they assume her purpose was to pin the murder on me. So I need to make sure she isn't falsely accused because of what I've said."

"That's very admirable." Sally patted my hand. "See? You did have a story. Now drink your cocoa and I'll tell you my story."

So I did, and learned that Sally was a psychologist whose daughter got hooked on heroin at the age of sixteen. The girl was arrested and put into lockup, where she died from a drug overdose. Because of that, Sally had become a victims' rights advocate.

Nikki firmly believes there are no such things as coincidences, and I was beginning to think she was right. So I told Sally my other story, the one about the women who'd been held much too long in lockup-including the sixteen-yearold girl who should never have been put there in the first place-and how I'd managed to get Connor MacKay to do a piece for the newspaper on their situation.

"I saw the article," Sally said, her keen gaze on me, "and I admire your courage, Abby. I was particularly moved by the plight of that young girl-Maria, I think her name was. We women need to help one another, you know? So I'm going to help you. You see that house across the road? The one with the big iron gates at the front? A member of the House of Representatives lives there. I've campaigned heavily for him in the past and he owes me a few favors, so I'll walk over there this evening and see what he can do about this injustice."

"That would be terrific, Mrs. Mitchum. Thank you! Will you let me know what he says?"

"You bet I will. Now, I believe you had some questions about Libby?"

"Yes," I said eagerly, digging in my purse for my notepad, "like what time she showed up yesterday morning and how she appeared-calm, nervous, whatever."

"Libby arrived around ten minutes after eight o'clock, stylishly dressed, her hair clean and shiny-just like yours, actually. She seemed flustered, but said she'd been held up by a slow freight train on the way and hated being late for an appointment, which could have accounted for her upset. She brought over several art prints so I could try them out here at home. She left around eight forty-five so she'd be back in time to open her shop."

I made a note of it, wondering why Libby felt she had to open the shop when she believed her mother and/or Oliver would be there.

Sally checked her watch. "We're going to have to wrap this up so I can get to my office. I have clients to see."

"Sure. I just need to verify that Libby was driving a yellow Corvette."

"No, Libby came in a van with Blume's Art Shop written on the side."

CHAPTER NINE.

*ibby wasn't driving the Corvette? But that meant that she hadn't been coming from Sally's house, as she'd claimed, when the police picked her up in her Vette. Why had she lied?

I knew Sally needed to go, so I thanked her for being so helpful, and she reiterated her promise to call me after she'd talked to the congressman.

As I drove up the country road pondering the new information, the railroad-crossing signals ahead started flashing and then the gates went down. I was betting it was the same crossing where Libby had gotten stuck. I counted the engines as they chugged past-three of them, which meant I was in for a long wait. No sense letting the time go to waste. I pulled out my phone and checked in with Grace to see what she'd learned at the Recorder's Office.

"The title to the condominium is in Delphi's name," Grace said. "She paid for it outright. There's no mortgage."

"Did Delphi quitclaim the deed to Libby?"