"Everything about Libby and Oliver is odd," I said. "And that reminds me, I never got a return phone call from Roshni Shah. Maybe she didn't get my message."

"Is she the young woman who wrote the letter to Libby?" Grace asked.

"Yep, the one with the angry writing. She might have no connection to what's going on here, but I think it's worth pursuing."

"Would you like me to follow up on the wig by calling costume shops in the area?"

"That would be a big help. Thanks, Grace. Oh, and would you do one more favor? See if any of the pet shops in town have sold a big brown scaly snake recently, and if so, to whom."

I finished the arrangement, stowed it in the cooler, then sat at my desk to make the call. This time, a young woman picked up the phone. "Roshni Shah?" I said.

"Yes. Who's this?"

After I explained who I was and my purpose for phoning her, she said angrily, "What is it with you people? I'm trying to cut Betsy out of my life, and you keep pulling me back in."

"Okay, wait. You lost me. Is Betsy Elizabeth Blume?"

"Yes. She was my roommate at U. Pitt. last year. We shared an apartment off campus. And what a nightmare that was."

Boy, could I empathize. Once a pest, always a pest, no matter what anyone said. "Has someone else contacted you?"

"A detective from New Chapel-Lisa Wells I think her name was. And a private investigator, too, with an Italian-sounding name."

"Marco Salvare? Did you talk to him?"

"No way. I wouldn't even talk to the detective until I got confirmation from the police that she was for real. I don't trust Betsy and I don't want anything more to do with her. So I'm sorry, but please don't bother me anymore."

"Roshni, wait. Don't hang up. I understand where you're coming from. I used to babysit Lib-er, Betsy, and I'd like to cut her out of my life, too."

"So let's both cut her out starting now. Good-bye."

"Please hear me out first, and if you still don't want to talk, I'll respect your decision."

I heard her sigh. Then she said reluctantly, "Fine. I'll give you five minutes."

Five minutes to describe the hell my life had become with Libby in it. Ready, set, go.

"Okay, first of all, Betsy is calling herself Libby now. Notice how it sounds like Abby? Now let me tell you what she's done since she came back from school, starting with when she decided she was going to intern at my flower shop." I continued with the story, squeezing in as much as I could in my allotted time, reaching the point of my false arrest.

"I know I'm out of time," I said, "so I'll just end it by saying that now I'm trying to find Delphi Blume's killer, whether it's Betsy or not, because I feel like I prejudiced the whole town against her and that's not acceptable to me. Everyone deserves justice, even pests. That's why I was hoping to get some information on Betsy's behavior while she was at school. So could I just ask you a couple questions, and if you don't want to answer them, that's fine? If you want to check me out online, I'll give you my Web site address."

I gave her the URL, then waited while she checked. Clearly, Roshni wasn't taking any chances. "Can we make this short?" she asked, coming back on the line. "I really have to be somewhere."

"Absolutely."

"Go ahead, then."

"Would you explain why you want to cut Betsy out of your life?"

"I'll make it real simple. Betsy Blume is a stalker."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

*ibby was a stalker? Wow. Was it a coincidence that she was now claiming to be the one being stalked-or was she cleverly turning the tables? "Did Lib-er, Betsy stalk you while you were roommates?" I asked Roshni.

"She didn't stalk me. She stalked her art professor's husband, Nolan Grant. He had to get a restraining order to stop her."

Libby had lied to Dave! She'd totally denied having any legal problems.

"Can you believe that Betsy is still hounding me to send her news and pics of Mr. Grant?" Roshni asked. "I mean, okay, so she's wild about the guy. He isn't interested. Grow up! I told her point-blank that I didn't have time for her ridiculous fantasy life and I wasn't about to get into trouble by helping her live it out, but she doesn't get it."

"What was her fantasy life?"

"That she was going to marry Nolan Grant, adopt the Grants' twins, and teach art at the college, as if Professor Grant was simply going to disappear. It was like Betsy thought she could just take over the poor woman's life. Is that insane or what?"

Insane-and familiar. "Would you tell me how it started?"

Roshni heaved a sigh, as though she didn't even like to think about it. "During our senior year, Professor Grant would hire Betsy occasionally to babysit her twins, until she found out that Betsy had developed a big crush on her husband and had even tried to seduce him. Needless to say, Betsy wasn't hired again, but that didn't stop her. She dyed her hair dark brown and had it styled just like Professor Grant's. Then she started dressing like her, and even bought a brand-new Mercedes because Professor Grant drives one-an old one, but still."

Even more familiar.

"Things got really feisty after that. Betsy started following Mr. Grant everywhere, showing up wherever he went-she even brought a picnic basket to his office so they could have lunch together-as though she really was his wife. He warned her to stay away, and so did the professor, but they finally had to get a restraining order. Betsy almost didn't graduate because of her conduct, but her mom flew in at the last minute to talk to the dean, then whisked Betsy away immediately after graduation.

"I thought Betsy had finally given up on her fantasy, but she'd barely been home a day when she started calling me, asking me to give Mr. Grant messages from her, and wanting me to take photos of him with my cell phone and send them to her. I told her no way, but she wouldn't drop it. I finally stopped taking her phone calls and wrote her a letter telling her if she didn't leave me alone, I'd file a restraining order, too."

"I can understand why you don't want anything more to do with Betsy," I told her. "By the way, just out of curiosity, what is the professor's first name?"

"Well, it's Patricia, but everyone calls her Patsy."

Patsy and Betsy. Abby and Libby. Creepy. "When you first met Betsy, what was she calling herself?"

"Elizabeth."

"Did she change it to Betsy after she started working for Professor Grant?"

"That would be about right."

"How many letters have you sent to Betsy since she's been home?"

"Just one."

"Have you called or e-mailed her?"

"I e-mailed her several times to tell her to stop bugging me, but no phone calls. I don't ever want to hear her voice again."

"Has she tried to phone you?"

"Not for about a week."

"Did Betsy ever mention that she was being stalked?"

Roshni laughed. "Is that what she's claiming now? Trust me, once people at school got to know her, they kept their distance. She was bossy, snobbish, and very immature."

"Did she have any boyfriends?"

"She dated, but like I said, once her personality came out, the guys shied away."

"Thanks, Roshni. You've been very helpful."

"Do me a favor, Abby. Next time you see Betsy, tell her I moved to Australia and left no forwarding address."

I hung up and made notes about the call. So Elizabeth "Betsy" "Libby" Blume had taken over someone else's identity, too. Very interesting. I wondered if Marco had uncovered that tidbit yet. If he had, then he'd probably figured out that Libby had made up the stalker story. Perhaps that was why he said he was about to wrap up the case. In any event, I'd have to let Dave know about the restraining order.

I thought back to the day Libby showed up at Bloomers, fully expecting me to welcome her with open arms. After what I'd just heard, I was betting that Delphi had promised Libby a job with me as an incentive to stay in New Chapel, where Delphi could keep an eye on her. When I wouldn't take Libby on as my intern, Delphi had probably panicked, fearing Libby would head back to Pittsburgh, and then when Delphi couldn't bully me into changing my mind, she must have dangled the art-shop idea in front of Libby, like a carrot to a horse.

I was also betting that Libby had been more than glad to accept that offer. What a great way to get even with me for rejecting her. Set up a shop as close to mine as possible, then proceed to take over other elements of my life, including my boyfriend. It was almost a duplicate of what she'd done to Professor Grant.

Yet, as infuriating and odd as Libby's behavior was, I still didn't see a connection to Delphi's murder. Delphi had come to Libby's rescue at least twice, which would tend to make most people grateful, not murderous. Then again, Libby wasn't like most people. But she certainly was a puzzle. How could one very bright, exceptionally attractive young woman manage to annoy so many?

I checked my watch. Yikes. I had only an hour left before I had to see Kayla. I still had a stack of funeral orders to do and two assistants hovering at the table behind me, waiting to hear the newest revelation about Libby. I turned with a smile. "Okay, ladies, I'll give you the scoop while we work."

Kayla Olin was slumped in a small upholstered chair in a semiprivate room of the mental-health facility staring forlornly out the window. The room was painted in soft, soothing pastel colors and smelled strongly of laundry detergent and disinfectant. Luckily, she didn't have a roommate, which gave us some privacy.

"Kayla?" I called softly from the doorway. "Hi, I'm Abby Knight."

When she didn't respond, her doctor, a kind, older woman, said, "Kayla, this is the young lady I mentioned earlier who wanted to come by. You said you'd talk to her."

Kayla turned, staring at me with empty eyes. She had beautiful, long, silky auburn hair and big violet eyes framed by thick black lashes. But there her beauty ended. Her long, thin nose had such a sharp point at the tip that she could have burst balloons with it. Her lips were huge and lumpy, as though someone had tried to stuff them with tapioca, and her chin jutted forward unnaturally. She was truly a tragic sight.

"Come in," she said in a lifeless voice, turning back toward the window. She was wearing a blue print shirt and jeans with soft slippers on her feet.

I glanced at the doctor, who gave me an approving nod. Before she brought me to Kayla's room, I'd spoken with the doctor, asking for her professional opinion as to whether she thought Kayla was angry enough at Delphi to murder her. The doctor wouldn't give me a definite answer, but indicated that she didn't think Kayla was a danger to anyone but herself. Kayla had been admitted to the hospital's psych ward after attempting to commit suicide by overdosing on pills, which she'd done after learning that Delphi's bankruptcy was final. Kayla had been moved to Starke-Porter a week later, but because of her depression, had continued to be on a suicide watch.

The doctor pointed to another chair next to the empty bed. "You can use that. Kayla doesn't have a roommate right now."

I scooted the chair closer to Kayla, trying to find something chatty to say to break the ice, but everything I came up with sounded lame. I finally decided to simply explain why I was there. "So, Kayla, let me start by telling you a little bit about myself-"

"Just tell me what you want from me," she said in a weary, defeated voice.

Okay, so I'd cut to the chase. "I know what happened to you, Kayla, with your plastic surgery and all, and I think you got a raw deal."

"You know what Delphi did to me?"

"Yep. The surgery, the trial, the judgment, and the bankruptcy." I decided not to mention her suicide attempt.

Her deformed lips twisted into a scornful smile. "So are you writing an article about how I got screwed by the famous belly babe who promised to make me a huge modeling success?"

"I'm not a reporter, just a florist who's interested in your case. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions about it."

"Go away." She turned back to the window.

I couldn't blame her for refusing to talk to me. What did I have to offer? If I were sitting in her chair, what would I want to hear?

"Look, I may be just a florist, but I'm really good at solving problems. Maybe I can help you solve yours."

She glanced at me in disbelief. "My problem? Are you referring to my face?"

"Well, that depends....Would it offend you?"

She scoffed. "Like anything could offend me more than looking in the mirror."

"Would you consider having more plastic surgery?"

"Do you really think any health-insurance company would cover the cost? Believe me, I tried, but they consider it elective surgery, a cosmetic procedure. I'm lucky that my mom has decent health insurance or I wouldn't be here to get help for my depression."

"Would you at least talk to a plastic surgeon?"

"What good will that do?"

I crossed my fingers behind my back. I was going out on a very big limb to get Kayla to talk to me, and I hoped it worked. "My brothers are doctors, and they have doctor friends that they trade favors with. You know how lawyers do pro bono work? Well, what if I ask my brothers to see if one of their friends, someone who's a plastic surgeon, would do surgery pro bono for you?"

Her lifeless gaze suddenly sharpened. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. My brothers are good guys. If they can help you, they will." Especially if I reminded them of some big favors I'd done for them. Then it would be payback time.

Tears filled her violet eyes as she said angrily, "Don't tell me this if you don't mean it, because I don't want to get my hopes up for nothing. I mean, look at this disaster of a nose. I don't think there's any way it can ever look normal."

"Just wait and see what the surgeon says, okay? And if he believes he can help you, then I'd like you to answer some questions for me. Is that a deal?"

She nodded, wiping tears off her face.

"Super. I'm going to page my brothers right now and get the ball rolling. I'll let you know as soon as I hear back. How does that sound?"

She nodded again, sniffling, then suddenly lurched toward me and gave me a hug, sobbing on my shoulder. I patted her back, relieved to notice that I wasn't getting any bad vibes from her, which I would if she was the killer. Or maybe I just didn't want her to be.

I left Kayla and went to the lobby to call the hospital across the street, hoping one of my brothers was doing rounds. When neither one answered his page, I called Jordan's cell phone.

"Hey, Sis. What's up?"

"Jordan, I have a huge favor to ask. But first, remember last year when you forgot to send Kathy an anniversary gift, and I rushed over there with a big, beautiful bouquet of her favorite, deep pink 'Duc de Guiche' roses and said they were from you?"

"What do you need?" he asked with a sigh.