Still Life and Death

by Tracy Gardner

  She drove down Main Street, wanting to get a look at Libby’s shop before she turned the corner to park behind the building. Wide yellow police tape crisscrossed over the front door of Libby’s Blooms. A large black-and-red sign declared No Admittance.

  Poor Anthony and Rachel Kent. And who was taking care of all the plants? The store’s entire inventory would be useless without watering and care. Detective Jordan must be letting the two of them in for maintenance. Uncle Max was off work until further notice. Libby’s husband had told Max he’d be in touch if and when the shop reopened. The idea of Libby’s closing permanently hadn’t occurred to Savanna until she’d heard that. But everything being up in the air made sense. She didn’t think Anthony had any florist’s training, and Rachel was in nursing school.

  The door to the Studio A classroom in Priscilla’s Dance Academy was still closed when they arrived. The three studios in the dance school each had a gleaming, professional dance floor, an independent sound system, and a barre along a wall of mirrors. Mollie went into a changing room to put on her leotard and leggings, and Savanna chose a chair in the corner of the lobby near a table. She had the baby blanket she was knitting for Hannah in her lap by the time Mollie returned to her side. The lobby was filled with young children in tap shoes. Class should’ve started a minute or two ago.

  The rear entrance door swished open, and Mollie’s tap instructor, Marcus Valentine, entered, wearing dark sunglasses. “So sorry I’m late,” he addressed the group. “Are we ready? You know what today is, don’t you?”

  “Costume day!” A girl in short pigtails jumped up from the chair beside her dad.

  “Costume day,” Marcus confirmed, smiling at his students. “You’ll try them on right over your leotards, and you can wear them during class if you’d like, just for today. After that, they’ll stay safely in your closet until dress rehearsal. Moms and dads, I’ll be sending an email on how to assemble the headpiece. Follow me, tappers!”

  Over a dozen seven- to ten-year-olds clustered around Mr. Marcus. He was new to Miss Priscilla’s, having replaced the former tap instructor three months ago. Savanna had thought the former teacher would be a hard act to follow, but Marcus Valentine had filled her shoes seamlessly. The kids loved him. Mollie said he was “jokey, like Uncle Finn.” Marcus looked to be in his early twenties, and he carried himself like a dancer, spine perfectly straight, movements fluid. Tall and lithe, he dressed simply in black dance pants and tucked-in white T-shirt. His mass of dark hair was sometimes left loose, though today he wore a headband that kept it off his forehead.

  Miss Priscilla spoke loudly from the doorway of Studio C. “Mr. Marcus.” The words were sharp and clipped.

  “Good afternoon!” He turned toward her as he opened the classroom door, allowing the students in. “You’re looking exceptionally lovely today, Miss Priscilla.”

  “Your costume rack is in your studio, organized alphabetically. Each parent must sign that they’ve received the full ensemble. And take off those ridiculous sunglasses.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He removed the shades to reveal a large, vivid purple shiner around his left eye.

  The lobby fell suddenly quiet.

  “Put them back on.” Miss Priscilla’s voice dripped with irritation. “See me before you leave tonight.” She turned back to the rack of costumes she was sorting.

  Mr. Marcus stepped into Studio A, tossing a quick glance around the lobby full of parents. He donned the sunglasses, brought his shoulders up in a shrug, and shut the door.

  “Did you see that?” A hissed whisper from one mom to another filled the silence.

  “His eye looked awful!”

  “He must’ve been in a fight.”

  The small room buzzed with speculation.

  “With whom? Where? I didn’t hear about anything happening.”

  “I can’t believe he showed up like that! What will our kids think?”

  “He tried to be discreet, until—”

  “Shhh!”

  Many of these parents had taken dance with Miss Priscilla as children themselves. Most of them were intimidated by her. Savanna was frankly glad the woman across from her had been shushed. She really didn’t want Miss Priscilla to overhear, or think they were all talking about her, though they sort of were.

  The older woman next to Savanna—Callie’s grandmother, Savanna recalled—leaned over to her and spoke quietly. “Do you know anything about Mr. Marcus?”

  She shook her head. “Only that Mollie loves his class. He seems like a nice guy.”

  “Someone didn’t think so,” the grandmother said. “He ought to be more careful, having to work around kids. That sets a bad example.”

  Savanna looked at her. She wasn’t exactly wrong, but... “Well, we don’t know what happened. For all we know, he might’ve taken a nasty fall in the tub or something. And he did try to keep it covered. It looked a day or two old; there was some yellow around the purple. Maybe he hoped it’d be mostly gone by the time he got to work today?”

  The older woman nodded. “Yes, you’re probably right.” She frowned, her gaze moving to a dad in a yellow polo shirt a few seats down. “Tim, your little guy takes the optional Saturday classes sometimes, doesn’t he?”

  The man looked up from his newspaper. “What’s that, Mrs. Holloway?”

  “Your Zachary, he takes the Saturday classes sometimes, right? Was he in class this weekend?”

  Tim nodded. “Sure. He hopes to get into the competition troupe, so he’s been putting in extra time. But he only did jazz this past weekend. Tap was cancelled. Not sure why. Maybe Mr. Marcus was recovering from whatever happened to his eye.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t cancel all the classes, with the awful incident next door,” Mrs. Holloway mused. “The police were just leaving Libby’s when I came for my noon yoga class.”

  That began a brand-new round of speculation in the lobby about who had murdered Libby Kent. All the theories were outlandish. Savanna couldn’t think of any reason someone would kill Libby. The shooting had to have been personal for the culprit to have gone all the way up to the rooftop greenhouse to find her. Savanna made a mental note to stop by and ask Detective Jordan if he’d officially cleared Uncle Max yet; maybe she could glean a little info about the case while she was there.

  The door to Studio A opened. The dancers who had ballet next stayed, filing into Studio B after changing their shoes. Miss Priscilla’s husband, Dylan Blake, came through the lobby, carrying two large boxes stacked on one another. In his late forties, and of medium height, he was younger than Miss Priscilla by a handful of years, and an inch or so shorter. Sandy-blond hair, dimples, and a mustache that somehow managed to look debonair rather than dated complemented his outgoing demeanor, a pleasant contrast to Miss Priscilla’s more reserved attitude. He often partnered with her in her ballroom dance and swing classes in addition to directing some of the theater numbers the school performed at the annual spring recital.

  Dylan greeted the parents and caregivers, glancing down and taking care not to trip over anyone’s feet in the small space. A cloud of cologne followed him, assaulting Savanna’s nostrils with a powerful evergreen-and-musk combination; she unconsciously turned and looked away, brushing the backs of her fingers momentarily against her nose. Wow. She’d noticed that about him before, but had forgotten how strong the scent was.

  “I know,” Mrs. Holloway whispered. “Miss Priscilla needs to take away his cologne bottle.”

  Savanna stifled a laugh. “Shh,” she said, staring after him. He didn’t seem to have heard. The poor man probably had no idea how he smelled.

  “The rest of the recital props came. Where should I put them?” He set the boxes down on the semi-circular reception desk. The sleeves of Dylan’s work shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscled forearms.

  The receptionist looked up at him, then turned on
her swivel chair to defer to Miss Priscilla, who was sorting the ballet costumes for her Studio B class.

  “Put them in the office for now. We’ll have to make room upstairs.” Miss Priscilla crossed to the front door between two of the studios and poked her head out. “What in the—” She marched back over to the reception desk. “Why is the police tape still up?”

  Dylan came out of Miss Priscilla’s office. “Well, I’d say because they’re still investigating over there.”

  “I’ve got to start my class. I thought you were going over to the station to make them get rid of that mess. It’s an eyesore for our school!” Her voice grew louder and higher toward the end. She stared at her husband, eyes wide and hands now on her narrow hips.

  The man turned and took in the group of parents in the lobby, most of them watching the exchange, before focusing on his wife. He stormed past her out the front door. “Fine!”

  Miss Priscilla slammed Studio C’s door behind her, leaving silence in her wake. The receptionist at the desk ducked her head and scooted her chair closer to her computer screen, obviously avoiding acknowledging the argument or the parents watching.

  Savanna looked down at her knitting needles, not wanting to be part of the low rumblings moving through the lobby now. Usually, when Miss Priscilla’s husband came through the studio while Savanna was waiting for Mollie, he didn’t converse much at all with his wife. Miss Priscilla was always all business, and Blake was more likely to stop and exchange pleasantries with parents or staff. Savanna was sure he was upset he’d been yelled at in front of customers. The police tape looked like just what it was: a device warning people away from the flower shop during the investigation. Savanna doubted it was hurting the dance school’s business.

  Sheesh. She hoped Miss Priscilla had calmed down enough to deal with her ten and under ballet class. The thought made her so uncomfortable that she set her knitting down. “Going to ask Kate about a class,” she told Mrs. Holloway. “Will you mind my things, please?”

  “Of course. I’ll be here.” Callie’s grandmother was working on a sudoku puzzle.

  Savanna casually strolled down Main Street from the dance school toward Kate’s Yoga, stopping to peek through the window into Studio B. The curtains were closed, as Miss Priscilla maintained privacy for the children’s classes, only opening them for the adult sessions. But when Savanna stooped low and caught a glimpse between the curtains, she saw Priscilla walking down the line of dancers at the barre, smiling and nodding as she appraised their form. All right, so at least she’d been able to turn off her anger at her husband and be calm for her class.

  Savanna reached Kate’s and read the store hours on the door for good measure, then walked back toward the dance school. Passing Libby’s and the crime scene tape, she shivered briefly. It was hard to believe Libby was gone, hard to believe the way it had happened, and that poor Uncle Max had had the misfortune to encounter that scene. She hated that her sister had the constant view of her late friend’s closed-down shop through the front window of Fancy Tails. She paused at the building access door. The plain door in the red brick storefront sat between Libby’s Blooms’ Main Street entrance and Priscilla’s Dance Academy’s front entrance. She’d seen it and walked by it so many times, she’d never given a thought to its existence. Just through the beveled glass window above the doorknob, she could see the stairway that went from Libby’s shop up to the second-floor storage space and then to the roof. Small, simple black lettering on the glass bore the words Owners / Occupants Only. Without thinking, Savanna tried the handle. It was locked. Well, of course it was.

  After handing off Mollie to her grandma Jean at Priscilla’s, Savanna crossed to Fancy Tails. The little bell over the door jingled as she entered. Sydney was at the appointment desk on the computer, and her assistant, Willow, stood behind the treat counter on the other side of the shop.

  “Hey, Willow! Syd. Got a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I’m going to stop by and talk to Detective Jordan and wondered if you want to come.”

  Sydney dropped the pen she was holding and grabbed her purse. “You just saved me from having to fabricate an excuse to see him. This is perfect timing; we have a little lull. Next grooming appointment isn’t until...” She leaned over and checked the schedule. “Oh good, not for another half hour.”

  Sydney left Willow in charge and walked with Savanna over to the Carson Village complex just beyond Skylar’s law office. They passed Dylan Blake as he was leaving the police station.

  He looked exasperated. “I tried telling her the crime scene tape stays up until they’re finished with whatever they need to do there. They must think I’m an idiot for asking.”

  “I don’t think it’s an issue,” Savanna reassured him. “People love your dance school.”

  “Thank you.” He turned his attention to his phone, probably texting Miss Priscilla what he’d been told. Savanna didn’t really see what the woman was upset about. With or without the visual reminder, all of Carson was aware Libby Kent had been murdered this weekend.

  Detective Jordan came down the hallway of the Carson Village Police Station. “Sydney, Savanna. What can I do for you?”

  Svanna said, “I was just thinking—”

  He put a hand up. “On second thought, let’s talk in my office.” He smiled, a rare enough sight that it still surprised her. Nick Jordan was a serious person, especially on the job. Before she’d gotten to know him, Savanna had assumed he was always cranky. She’d finally said something about it to him in a moment of frustration last year. She had to give him credit; since then he’d seemed to be making a conscious effort to come off a little less gruff. Sometimes. He held the door open for them. “Have a seat. You were thinking?”

  She debated whether she should mention noticing Anthony Kent’s car parked on Main Street Saturday, and the oddity of him coming in the front entrance at Libby’s. Even in her head, it sounded ridiculous. The man could park his car anywhere he pleased. She pushed it to the back of her mind. “We wondered if anyone’s been in to take care of the plants.”

  “Oh. That’s it?” The detective rested his elbows on the desk. “You mean you don’t have Libby’s murder solved already?”

  Savanna smiled. “Funny.” He knew her well; probably why he’d ushered her into his office rather than chatting in the vestibule. “I don’t. I really did want to make sure someone’s been able to take care of the plants. My uncle said Libby was working on something important in the greenhouse. And aside from that, I think a lot of the shop’s inventory is live plants that need care.”

  “You’re right. We’ve had an officer accompany the daughter in twice a day—not sure why watering plants is a twice-a-day job, but I suppose I don’t know much about plants.”

  “I think Rachel must know at least a little,” Sydney said. “She fills in for Libby now and then when she’s sick. Or when she used to—I mean—” Sydney’s voice cracked. She frowned, unable to finish the thought.

  Savanna spoke. “Detective, Libby was a good friend, especially to Sydney. This has been hard on everyone. Including our uncle. Have you cleared him yet?”

  “Working on it. We have to verify his alibi. That should happen tomorrow, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “I don’t understand. He and our mom had an early breakfast together Saturday at the diner. That should be easy to verify.”

  He nodded, noncommittal and poker-faced.

  “You can’t tell us what the holdup is,” Sydney said, frustration in her tone. “We get it. But Nick. You know he didn’t do it, right? It’s ridiculous that you even have to rule him out.”

  Detective Jordan’s expression changed nearly imperceptibly. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “He can’t say he knows Max is innocent,” Savanna said, glancing at Sydney. “I get that too. P
rocedure and all that.” She placed her hands on the armrests of her chair to stand. “But so you know, Detective, Max Watson isn’t capable of hurting a fly. I mean, maybe a fly. If it was on one of his plants. He was just the unlucky person who found Libby. He was pretty shaken up. My family would like him eliminated as a suspect as soon as possible.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful at this time. And believe me, I’m aware your family is upset. Max’s husband was here first thing this morning to talk to me.”

  “Oh,” Sydney said, exchanging glances with Savanna. “Did that, uh, go all right?”

  “I assured him I hope to have it resolved by Tuesday.”

  Savanna suspected Nick Jordan could handle Uncle Freddie, and vice versa. Both men presented an air of calm authority.

  “So what are you doing to catch Libby’s killer?” Sydney leaned earnestly forward in her chair. “Can you tell us that, at least? There’s got to be something you can use to figure it out. Do you have any idea how Libby’s husband and daughter are feeling right now?”

  “I—” Jordan began, but Sydney cut him off.

  “I’ll tell you. Mad. Sad. Horrified. Hopeless. Cheated out of all the years they thought they still had left with her. Robbed of the plans they’d made. Empty. Angry.” Her voice had risen as she’d ticked off each sentiment, and her words were clipped and furious by the time she stopped. Her cheeks were flushed bright red, her jaw clenching and unclenching. She’d listed everything she herself was struggling with.

  Savanna reached over and slid her hand into her sister’s, covering it with her other one. “You’re right.”