She laughed, a joyful, rumbling sound. “I want flowers for the stall, then I’ll take them home to paint. These are my colors.”
We found her a bouquet as pretty as the one I’d chosen, and wound our way down the North Arcade.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, lowering her voice. “I saw the people in the picture you dropped.”
“Watch where you’re going, you idiot!” a man yelled, and we both stopped, unsure what we’d done. But the man wasn’t yelling at us. His target was another man, struggling with a balky hand truck.
“Dude, cool it,” Jamie said, and we stepped out of the Arcade on to the cobbles, where it wasn’t quieter, but was easier to talk.
“This morning, on the bus. I knew I’d seen them somewhere else. They all got on together, the man in the photo, along with the woman and the little girl from the other photo, and an old lady. It was crowded, but somebody in back offered the old woman his seat, so she took it and the younger woman stood in the aisle next to her. The man in the picture stayed up front with the girl, right next to me. She’s so cute, in her purple jacket and the pink unicorn backpack.”
“That’s her.”
“I was wearing my purple coat, so I smiled and she smiled back, and we started talking about our favorite colors. I told her I liked her braids. She said her dad did her hair, and looked up at him and he looked back at her, and I—I’d have given anything to have a father who adored me like that.” She broke off and I had to wonder what family trauma she’d gone through. “They got off on First and Pike, same as me. She held his hand the whole time. But I got slowed down, lugging a portfolio of new paintings, and I lost track of them. Anyway, I don’t know if that’s helpful, but it was definitely him.”
“That,” I said, “is more helpful than you can imagine. And when you paint those dahlias, let me know. My walls would love a fresh bouquet.”
First thing I did inside the shop was call Detective Tracy and tell him what Jamie Ackerman had seen. “From what you said, sounds like Joe Huang works with people who had a beef with Patrick Halloran, but you can’t tie him, or them, to Maddie Petrosian, despite Special Agent Greer’s very special efforts.”
Tracy grunted. I took that for yes and went on. “I know you won’t rule him out because I said so. I don’t know his immigration status, though I assume he’s not an American citizen.”
“You assume correctly.”
“But no man that devoted to his daughter is going to do anything to risk deportation. I’m just saying, keep that in mind.”
Another grunt. “You may be right. I’ll pass that on. By the way, good thinking last night on Ms. Petrosian. We’ll be flying a little closer to Mr. Byrd.”
“Tell me about that alibi of his. Maybe I can help.”
“Don’t press your luck,” Tracy said. “Although with your love of movies, maybe I should. ’Course if you broke his alibi, I’d have to give you an honorary badge.” Before I could ask what he meant by that, he clicked off.
Then it was time to put my nose to the grindstone, metaphorically speaking. I could not leave work today. The weather was clearing and the weekend was upon us. And I still had to solve the Edgar problem. Kristen was off today, helping chaperone a school field trip, so my questions about our own school days would have to wait.
But the customers could not wait. “Good heavens, did you see what they want for a vanilla bean?” I heard one woman say to another. “Raising the prices right before people start their holiday baking.”
“The culprit is weather,” I said. “Vanilla is native to Mexico, but these days, the bulk of it is grown in Madagascar, off the east coast of Africa. A cyclone hit the island a couple of years ago and destroyed most of the vines. They’ve been replanted, but it takes three or four years for a plant to produce a crop. Plus it’s very labor intensive. It’s basically an orchid.”
“Oh,” the woman said, her irritation at being overheard turning to mild interest.
“Our vanilla may be pricy, but it’s the real thing. You will not find any artificial flavors or substitutes on our shelves.” Thanks to the solid relationships the shop’s founder had established with farmers and suppliers worldwide. But watching for fakes is a constant challenge.
“You know,” the friend said, “I’ve got an extra bottle, from when we cleaned out my mother’s kitchen. It’s nearly full. You can take it.”
The complainer agreed. They sampled our tea and left empty-handed. You can’t win them all.
Cody Ellingson arrived right on time. His black polo was a little big, and I wondered if he’d borrowed it from his dad. We found him a spare apron. Turned out he’d had a psych class with Reed, who flashed me a thumb’s up. Matt showed him the new delivery system he and Reed had devised, moving from a clipboard with a list of the day’s stops and a stack of paper invoices to an electronic version we could run on our phones.
“So, you played soccer with Gabe Halloran?” I asked as we guided the loaded hand truck out the door and onto the cobbles, away from foot traffic.
“Same team,” Cody replied, “but I was never in his league. He was two years younger, but always better.”
“That must have been hard. Here’s our first stop.”
“No. Gabe loves the game. I played for fun. Though my dad could never understand that. He and my mom, they do everything to win.”
“Must make
