Cornell Eps appeared in the doorway. “Fiona, your friends are asking for you.”
She pulled herself together, asked us, “Is that all?”
“Go ahead,” said George, but I had one last question. “What did she do for fun? What were her hobbies?”
“Hobbies?” Fiona looked blank. “I don’t think she — well, she did volunteer work at the church, in the pastor’s office. And she puttered around in the back garden; she liked flowers. And tomatoes. Last year she nurtured four tomato plants, actually produced some fruit. She read a lot, spent time at the library, and she enjoyed the mall. She used to say she got her exercise shopping at the mall. I guess those were her hobbies.”
“Fiona?” said Eps.
“We’ll get back to you if we need you. Thanks,” I said and watched her go. Early on I’d decided there must be a cop smell, some kind of aura, a dark shadow, something ugly; everybody always seems eager to get away.
Paul Reston, Jr., was mixing compost with potting soil when I found him. He’d told Lieutenant Gross that he’d been out of town the night Ms. Precious’s body was junked. A big plant show in Atlanta — he’d gone to pick up some exotic species. “More and more we’re getting calls for exotics,” he told me. “It’s all these Yankees coming down here. They think we can grow anything in Florida.”
“Maybe they can,” I said, “but I can’t. Tell me, can I grow azaleas in pots? I haven’t got much yard where I live.”
He straightened up. He must have been a third generation flower-growing Reston; a tall man, taller than I and I’m not short, he gave the impression he was looking down on me. “The azalea’s a member of the rhododendron family, you know; that’s why it does so well north of us in the Carolinas. They don’t sink deep roots, so pot growing’s been done — whether a plant makes it or not depends on how the plant likes its location, that’s the way I look at it. You want to try it, be my guest. It might help if you have a good-sized pot, not necessarily deep. Get some azalea food, follow the instructions, and have at it. You don’t have to be a magician to grow stuff; all you’ve got to do is pay attention. That’s the way I look at it.”
“Got any tomato plants?”
“It’s the wrong time of the year — some people can have a winter crop, but it’s tricky.”
“I don’t reckon you recall selling some plants last year to Rosejoy Precious? The girl we found in the park?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know as I ever met her. Maybe it was Pauline. My sister. She might recall.”
I indicated a couple of azaleas. “I reckon I’ll take these two. You keep some kind of security around at night, you must. We have had a bunch of cases of plantnapping in the Fairland area. Some character could bring a truck in here and sell the lot out on Route I-95 without anybody knowing.”
Reston grinned. He was growing a mustache; it was still kind of hit-and-miss. “Come up to the house with me, I’ll show you our security. Their names are Pete and Repeat.”
Pete and Repeat were big and black with fang teeth, a handsome looking pair of Doberman pinschers in a roomy cage. They came up to Reston, licked his hand through the chain-link, backed off, and growled at me. “We let ’em roam at night,” he explained. “We haven’t had any problems.”
“So there’d be nobody around at night — on two feet,” I mused.
“Not if they know what’s good for them.”
“But the dogs don’t go over into the park?”
“We’re fenced, the park’s fenced, and the dogs are trained. Can I sell you a bag of azalea food? How about some bone meal and potting soil? Have you got pots for your plants, we’ve got a pretty good selection...”
The Devil’s Disciple had warned the Winged Angel, “They’ll be calling on us sooner or later, you know. So don’t do anything stupid.”
The Winged Angel looked worried. “You know I’m not good at lying. Remember in grade school, you beat up the Higgins kid, and I was supposed to be your alibi. Mr. Jostyn hadn’t had me in his office five minutes before I ratted on you.”
“Yes, and you’re still paying for it, aren’t you? You’re my slave because you’ve got no character. Angels are supposed to have character and you’re a gutless wonder, so foul up again and I’ll delete you completely, you got that? You’ll cease to exist. There’ll be no saving you this time.”
“I’ll try,” whimpered the Angel. “What do you want me to say?”
George had news for me.
“Something funny’s been going on,” he reported. “You remember those guys, Eps and Wilson? Well, turns out they live in the same apartment complex. Two different streets, back-to-back buildings. What do you think the chances are that they knew each other before they began going after mother and daughter? Male gold-diggers, something like that?”
“Could be they didn’t,” I decided. “I don’t know all the people in my own building.”
“Yeah, but could be they did. The complex comes complete with pool and gym, they could have mixed and mingled. What do you think?”
“I think it’s about time we had a little get-together with the fellas. Want to toss a coin, who gets Wilson, who takes Eps?”
I won Eps, if win is the right word. Cornell Eps was the fairhaired boy I’m told women dream about, tall, muscular, good teeth, and dimpled chin. I could see, almost, why Fiona Precious fell for him. Eps, I reckoned was from Alabama. All of us Southerners come equipped with accents, but his was more pronounced than most.
Turned out I was right. He hailed from “Birmin’ham. Born and raised there. Came down here when y’all got to needin’ skilled folks, on account of Mr. Disney. My for-tay is hairdressin’. I’ve won national prizes in hairdressin’. I got me a big followin’ in hairdressing, that’s how I met Ms. Fiona Precious. I feel so real sad for Ms. Precious, losin’ her daughter that way. And I understand the poor little thing was p.g. Isn’t that the absolute pits? Whoever did that awful thing ought to be tarred and feathered before they hang him, that’s what my daddy would have done if it had been his daughter. ’Course, my daddy was an old fashioned Southern gentleman.”
Cornell had been busy the evening that Rosejoy met her tragic end, that’s the way he put it.
“I got this big following, you see, and some of my clients are so busy they cain’t come in in the day so I do them the courtesy of goin’ to their homes at night. That night — you said it was Saturday — I was giving Ms. Florence Henderson a perm. No, she’s not the actress, although I do the hair of many famous actresses. My Ms. Henderson is an elderly lady who has trouble gettin’ around. Here’s her phone number and address if you want to call her. She’ll tell you that her dear friend Cornell was right there shampooin’ and permin’ and blowdryin’ till the cows came home. I tell you that just in case — though I can’t imagine why you should — you had any idea that Cornell had anythin’ at all to do with the demise of Ms. Rosejoy Precious. Isn’t that just about the dearest name you ever heard? I told Fiona it was proof positive that she has this wonderful sense of the romantic...”
Cornell Eps’ eyes were as blue as the Florida skies. Bright blue. Without a cloud.
Jeffrey Wilson’s alibi was a night out with the lads as he put it. He named three buddies who had accompanied him to the Planet Hollywood cafe on the night in question.
George had zeroed in on his relationship with Rosejoy. “He answered funny,” said George. “Like he hardly knew her at all. He’s this weird looking guy, you know, with the shaved head and earrings, but big, a really big guy. I’d guess about six two, two twenty, something like that, maybe more. He’s gonna have a weight problem later on, I figure, soon as he stops going to the gym every day. He said that’s where he met Eps. Doesn’t know him real well, he said, but he does run into him at the gym.