She shook her head. “I am citizen. I was born in country.”
Chapter 22
I wasn’t sure how you tactfully asked a U.S.-born citizen how it was that she knew so little English. But I didn’t need to.
“I grew up in Bulgaria. Gary helped that. He was very good to me and Mother. That’s why I am so sad to think he is dead . . .”
“Gary saw to it that you grew up in Bulgaria?” Liv asked. “How did that happen?”
“Is long story,” she said. “My mother, she was young. So young. And not married. She could not stay with parents, and my father, he was . . . as you call, rat.” She smiled in triumph at her word choice. “People tell her, go to America. Work and have baby there. So she goes . . .”
“The adoption mill,” Liv said. “The one luring Balkan girls to the U.S. to have their babies. Did your mother know Gary from the story?”
Nevena nodded. “You’ve seen story? Mother was so proud of what she did. They tell her no one would believe her. That she has to leave baby and go home, but Mother, she doesn’t listen. She talks to Gary.”
“She was the whistle-blower,” I said.
Nevena knit her eyebrows in puzzlement.
“To blow the whistle means to turn them in to the police,” I said. “She must have testified against them.”
Nevena nodded. “She blow whistle many times in court. Many threats against her, but bad men go to jail. Then we go back to Bulgaria. The government does not help, like here. It was still hard for us, but better to be together. She work in dress shop. I helped.”
“So why all the calls to immigration?” I asked.
“Since I am American citizen, I can live here. And ask that Mother be allowed to immigrate as well. The new people don’t know what she did, how she helped them. So they don’t want to give her visa. Gary was helping me bring her over. He said he wants to hire her. We both work on the show. But now . . .”
“Have you talked to Henry Easton about your mother?” Liv asked.
“Easton, he only scream at me. Talk like I a child. I don’t know what will happen if Mother comes and she has no job. She very good seamstress. Better than me, and I’m hot stuff.”
“Would you like us to talk to Henry?” I said. “Or maybe Brad can.”
“Brad, he is nice. Handsome man, too. Yes, I think Brad can help. I think Henry might like to talk to handsome, young man like Brad.”
Mrs. June snorted, then smiled at Nevena.
Nevena stood. “I have to go to work now. See if bride need anything pressed.”
As the door swung behind her, I shrugged. “So much for my theory that she was having an affair with Gary. Another confirmation that Gary wasn’t a total jerk.”
“But that doesn’t mean that Gigi didn’t think he was having an affair with her,” Liv said. “So I wouldn’t cross her off the list just yet.”
“Of course not,” I said. “We’ll keep adding people until the whole world could have killed Gary.”
“Now, now, girls.” Mrs. June opened her purse. “Maybe I can help.”
“What did you find?” I positioned myself next to her chair so I could read the papers on her lap. Liv took a position on the other side.
“What I found was more details on an old kidnapping. All of this is pretty much public record, so it wasn’t much trouble to get.”
“Oh, you got pictures.” Liv leaned over Mrs. June’s shoulder.
I was fascinated with the pictures as well. This was Paige Logan’s nursery, shot shortly after the kidnapping. The crib was lined with a lacy bumper, and a mobile was dancing in the sunlight. “I recall the story. Deborah Logan put one-and-a-half-year-old Paige to bed that night and turned on the mobile. And never saw her again.”
Liv put an unconscious hand on her stomach. “I can’t imagine,” she said, her voice cracked with emotion . . . or hormones . . . or hormone-induced emotion.
I leaned in closer. “What’s that?” I pointed to the objects dangling from the mobile. “And that?” I pointed to another shadow in the window.
“I think those are wind chimes in the window,” Mrs. June said.
“And that’s a little bell on the mobile,” Liv said.
“Is there a police report detailing the scene?” I asked.
“What is it?” Mrs. June shuffled through her papers. “You’ve got the ‘eureka’ look on your face again. I don’t think I’ve seen it this strong since you discovered those tadpoles in the creek with the frog legs half grown on them.”
I snatched up the police report. “There was a good set of prints found at the scene.”
“Unfortunately, there was nothing to compare them to,” Mrs. June said. “Whoever left it wasn’t in the system. Never in the military. Never arrested.”
“But wouldn’t that have been enough to clear Evan Logan?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not. When they start taking fingerprints, they can be found anywhere—and anyone can leave them. Police fingerprint the family to eliminate most of the prints. The few they can’t identify could lead to a suspect. Even then, it’s a long shot. More often than not, they’re left innocently. The uncle that visited once, and the family forgot to mention it. The babysitter. The babysitter’s boyfriend the family never knew was in the house. Even the person in the department store who assembled the crib.”
I read a little more of the report and my hands started shaking. “There was a Tinker Bell doll missing. The parents believe it was taken from her crib.”
“Where’s the picture of the baby?” Liv asked. “Little Paige.”
Mrs. June handed it over. “You’ve got the same look,” she told Liv.
“Is it her?” I asked.
“I can’t tell. Might be.”
“Who are you talking about, dagnabbit?” Mrs. June said.
“Suzy,” Liv and I both said together.
“The bride?” Mrs. June asked. “How do you figure? She has a father.”
“But is her father really her father?” I said.
“Oh,” Liv said, practically jumping up and down, “That’s why the fingerprint guest book thingy was stolen.”
“And why Gary wanted it in the first place,” I added. “It would be odd for the father of the bride not to participate. Then all Gary had to do was compare the signed fingerprint to the one on file.”
Liv inhaled. “That explains the interviews and all the background information Gary wanted. He even had a copy of her birth certificate.”
“Wait,” I said. “He had Suzy’s birth certificate? Was Max listed as her father?”
Liv nodded.
I rubbed by chin. “Are we jumping the gun here?”
“Maybe the certificate was forged,” Liv suggested.
“There’s a fingerprint for Paige in here, too.” Mrs. June shuffled through the papers again. “Is that enough to go to Bixby with? What if Suzy isn’t Paige Logan, all grown up?”
“Then we do what Gary was planning on doing,” Liv said. “We collect fingerprints for him to compare. I mean, even if Bixby doesn’t believe us, he’ll check them just for the satisfaction of telling us we’re wrong, right?”
“Don’t go doing nothing dangerous,” Mrs. June said.
“Nothing dangerous at all,” I said. “This is a wedding. They are going to be touching things. All we”—I glared at Liv—“I . . . need to do is discreetly collect things they touch. Then Bixby can compare the fingerprints to the ones on file and decide what to do.”
A knock sounded at the outer door. “Is everything okay in there?” Eric said. “You’ve been in there a long time.”
“Just peachy,” Liv yelled back. “We’ll be right out.” She rolled her eyes. “Men. He’s probably worried I’ve gone into labor in here.”
“If you’re going to collect things they’ve touched,” Mrs. June sa
id, “try to get smooth and shiny things, like a glass.”
“And put them where?” I held up my miniscule clutch purse, which would only be helpful if the thing they touched were a pack of gum. And not a very large pack, at that.
Mrs. June patted her gigantic handbag. “Right here.”
* * *
We took our seats as the wedding party started to file in. A gigantic bell was projected onto the floor, and the couple was introduced and took their first dance . . . to a pleasant acoustical—but totally inappropriate—version of Bob Dylan’s “Ring Them Bells.”
Amber Lee, Shelby, and Darnell had made their way to our table. Mrs. June joined what I learned was her official table, over with the police presence.
And Nick waved as he wandered around with his place card still in its little bell holder, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the room. No, I didn’t need to worry that bellflowers were too literal. Not in the least. But I did wonder if Brad had anything to do with Nick being seated at the farthest point possible from my table. I smiled. The cad.
Amber Lee leaned in closer. “I went over those computer files again.”
“Anything?”
“Not really. Gary seemed equally obsessed with both Suzy Weber and the Paige Logan kidnapping. He had both their birth certificates, if you can believe that. And guess what he was doing with them.”
“Checking to see if one was forged?”
Amber Lee’s jaw dropped. “You take the fun out of everything. But, yes. He had notes on both certificates, checking the markings and signatures.”
“Did he reach any conclusions?”
“He apparently decided they were both genuine.”
The emcee picked that moment to start the program. Toasts followed, and I eyed the table where Max Weber sat drinking from a tall champagne flute. The perfect object from which to get a fingerprint.
After the newly-married couple danced, they sat at a small sweetheart table and rang a little bell. The servers started serving food, first for the couple, and then for the rest of us. I kept rubbernecking the table where Max sat with the groom’s parents. But I couldn’t exactly go over there and steal the champagne glass right out of his hand.
I barely tasted dinner, which consisted of stuffed bell peppers with a really nice cut of steak that had no apparent connection to bells. (The horror!) After dinner, the DJ announced the father-daughter dance.
I watched it for a few moments. Marco had his camera trained on Suzy and Max, but I couldn’t help notice how Max seemed to swirl in a way to ensure that the camera focused on Suzy. Or was he trying to keep from being on camera?
But I excused myself, sent a look to Liv, and carried my untouched champagne glass over to the place where the groom’s parents sat. And where Max’s champagne flute stood unguarded.
“Well, hello, there,” I said, setting my glass coolly on the table near where Max’s glass stood unguarded and waiting. I proffered my hand to the groom’s mother. “I’ve so wanted to meet the groom’s parents. I’m Audrey Bloom, the florist.” They introduced themselves with names, I must admit, just as unmemorable as their son’s, and then proceeded to tell me how lovely the flowers were.
I thanked them profusely, chattered inanely, and, as the dance was coming to a close, bid them adieu. I picked up Max’s champagne flute by the stem, leaving mine in its place, and headed over to Mrs. June’s table. My flute was full since I didn’t want to drink, and his was empty, but I hoped nobody else would notice the switch and that he’d assume some waiter refilled it while he was dancing.
“But it’s empty,” she tried to say, when I set the flute next to her spot.
I cleared my throat.
“Oh!” She then picked up her napkin and wrapped it around the glass before turning to her colleagues at the table.
The one problem with using Mrs. June’s purse as a collection vessel for our fingerprints is that how do you explain to a table full of cops why you’re absconding with the Ashbury’s glassware.
“Evidence,” she said.
They shrugged but then were distracted as a multitiered tray of desserts arrived at the table. Little cheesecakes and cookies shaped like . . . You guessed it. I was saved by the bell.
I’d walked three feet from the table when I felt a hand close around my forearm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Brad pulled me to the side of the room. “We paid a deposit on that glassware. If any of it goes missing, the show is liable to pay.”
I shushed him. “Listen, it’s not what you’re thinking, and I’ll make sure I clear it with Kathleen.”
“What is going on?” he said.
“Fingerprints.”
“Whose fingerprints?”
“Max Weber’s,” I whispered.
“Why would you want Max’s fingerprints?” he said, a little too loudly for my taste. I took Brad’s arm and led him into the cloakroom.
“Will you be quiet?” I said. “It could be dangerous if anyone finds out.”
“But I don’t understand. I know you’ve been poking around Gary’s death, but I also know that Bixby didn’t find any stray fingerprints in the belfry or church to compare. Did he find some at the shop?”
“No, nothing to do with what happened in town. Well, it does, but the fingerprint is old. Over twenty years old.”
“Will you make sense, woman?” Brad said.
“She’d probably make more sense if you’d let her talk,” Nick said, sliding in next to us.
“What are you doing here?” Brad asked.
“I saw your discussion across the room, and I wanted to make sure Audrey was okay.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Nick’s brown eyes flashed with concern.
“Really,” I said. “Brad saw me take one of the Ashbury’s glasses and give it to Mrs. June.”
“Who put it into her purse,” Brad said. “I was concerned.”
“Well, if a whole table full of cops had no problem with it,” I said, “I don’t see why you should.”
Nick turned an inquisitive eye back to me.
“Okay, but try to keep quiet about this.” And then I explained to them our whole theory about Suzy being the missing Logan baby. “Crazy?” I asked.
“Yes,” Brad said.
“No,” Nick said.
“Well, not a crazy theory,” Brad amended, “but you have no proof.”
“Which is why she was taking the glass.” You lunkhead. Nick didn’t say that last part, but my Spidey sense picked it up loud and clear. Or maybe it was his eye roll when Brad wasn’t looking.
“So you’re going to give the glass to Bixby?” Brad said. “To compare it to the prints found at the scene of the Logan kidnapping?”
“As soon as I get one more set of prints.”
“A backup?” Nick asked.
“No. The police also had Paige Logan’s fingerprints on file.”
“So you want Suzy’s,” Brad said. “Just be careful.”
“We will be,” Nick said.
“We?” Brad said. “You’re going with her?”
Right at that moment, Mrs. June pulled open the door. “Audrey, are you okay? Did you get . . . ?” She looked at Brad, and then Nick, then back to me. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No. I was about to get Suzy’s glass. Alone.” I fixed a look at Nick and then at Brad. “Anything else might be too suspicious. Don’t move. Wait here until I get back.”
I walked out of the coatroom without another look back and focused on the sweetheart table where Suzy and (Michael? Mark?) fed each other bell-shaped desserts. Then rinsed them down with champagne. From the same glass. Ugh. And by the look of the pastry grease smeared on the outside of the flute, I doubted—even if I could somehow switch glasses without anyone noticing—whether it would yield a clean
print.
But her bouquet, still in the silver reproduction holder, sat at the front of their table. I hadn’t seen anyone else handle it since their arrival, and the shiny metal surface that she had grasped should yield a clear print. I headed in that direction, almost reaching their table when the bells started ringing—a signal for the bride and groom to kiss. Which they did, with a lip-lock that felt like it lasted a good fifteen minutes, at least when I was standing there towering over them.
“Congratulations to the happy couple!” I said, when they finally came up for air.
Suzy stood and gave me an air kiss, missing my cheek by about eight inches. “Oh, Audrey! I never should have doubted you. The flowers look lovely.”
“Thank you.” I then shook the groom’s hand. “But I know they’re still filming, and I’d really like to freshen your bouquet for you.” I grabbed the bouquet by the ring of embossed bells on the bottom, a place unlikely to yield many fingerprints. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I said with an exaggerated smile.
“You can’t take those,” Suzy said, then lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to know it, but they have a surprise for me later. They’ve got confetti and balloons and streamers in the ceiling.”
“Suzy, have you been snooping again?” her groom asked.
“Maybe just a little. And I need to look surprised for the camera. And I’d really love the flowers to be in the shot.”
“All the more reason for me to spruce these up,” I said. “Won’t take a minute.”
“But they look fine to me. Don’t they look fine to you?” she said with a pouty lip to her new husband.
“Well, I don’t know that much about flowers . . . ,” he started. Then, when Suzy sent a glare in his direction, he added, “But if Suzy says they look fine . . .”
“Oh, but they must be perfect,” I said. “All part of our service.” And I started walking away.
“Michael, stop her,” I heard, but I quickened my pace.
“I think you should put those back,” a male voice said behind me. But it wasn’t the groom’s uncertain tenor. It was Max Weber.
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Page 25