CHAPTER ELEVEN.

*eave it to Libby to steal the scene every time. But after that shocking declaration, there was no way I could depart without knowing more. I turned back to see Libby cradled in Marco's arms, both of them sitting on the carpeted steps. Libby was wearing a black peacoat and a white silk scarf shot through with silver threads, silver boots, and a silver and gold plaid purse, as usual looking like me, only ten times more chic.

"It was awful," Libby cried, shuddering against him. "I closed up at five and drove home, stopping at my mailbox to pick up the mail. But when I pulled down the little door"-she buried her head against his leather jacket-"a snake tried to bite me."

"What kind of snake?" I asked. She turned to glance at me, only then realizing I had stuck around. "A hideous, scaly brown snake." "How long was it?" I asked.

"I didn't stop to measure it!" she cried. "Besides, it was coiled up."

"Was it thin?" I persisted. "Maybe it was a garden snake that crawled in for a nap."

"It was fat, okay? Besides, the door was shut. Someone put it there on purpose."

"Abby," Marco said quietly, giving me a glance that said, Don't press her. She's upset.

Poor baby. Unfortunately, I wasn't finished with Libby because I had a hunch she had made up the snake, just as she had her stalker. She seemed to like the role of victim.

"Did it bite you?" I asked, ignoring Marco's lowered eyebrows.

"No, I drew my hand back before it could strike." She gazed into Marco's eyes and in a whiny voice said, "I was peering inside, ready to reach for the envelopes, when it lifted its head and started to hiss at me. Honestly, Marco, it could have bitten me in the face." She put her hands over her eyes and began to wail, "Someone wants me dead, too."

She was so melodramatic I almost laughed, but my conscience reminded me that I was still judging her by past behavior. Maybe a snake really had been in her mailbox. Until I could prove otherwise, I had to give her the benefit of the doubt. Hmm. Maybe I should have a look.

"Come on," Marco said to Libby, "let's go up to Dave's office and get you some water. Then you can let Dave know what happened."

As Marco ushered Libby up to Dave's office, I left the building and headed toward the parking lot to get my car.

Halfway down the block I heard Marco call, "Abby, wait up."

I stopped and turned. What a sight he was, striding up the sidewalk in his leather jacket and tight jeans. He was so masculine he took my breath away. "Did you want something?" I asked, trying to sound bored.

"Yeah, I want you to stay away from Libby's mailbox."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going home."

"Right. Home via Libby's street. You're not fooling me. I could tell by your questions that you weren't buying her story."

"Marco, I truly don't know what to believe about Libby's story."

He studied me, as though trying to determine if I was being straight with him. I gazed back, hoping to look convincing while not noticing how the glow from the streetlamps lit up the gold flecks in his chocolate brown eyes, which always made me go all soft and gooey inside. Be a pro, my conscience chided. But it was too late. I had noticed his eyes.

Apparently, I also hadn't convinced him of anything. "Look, I know you're going over there," Marco said, "so you might as well ride with me."

Sit beside him in the very same car in which we used to make out? I took a step backward. "I don't think so."

"If there is a snake in her mailbox, do you want to be the one to find it? Besides, if we carpool, you'll save gas."

That was certainly a selling point, considering that my Corvette, with gas prices so ridiculously high, was burning up half of my pitiful income every month. Still, riding in his car was bound to bring back many bittersweet memories. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

Marco arched one eyebrow. "We're supposed to cooperate, remember?"

He was challenging me, knowing full well that I had never been able to turn down a challenge. The question, though, was why.

"My car's around the corner," he said, his mouth quirking devilishly.

As we headed south through town, crossing the highway to an area where new condos and town houses had seemingly sprung up overnight, I sat stiffly in Marco's passenger seat, determined not to let his proximity get to me. It was a losing battle, however, as soon as I caught a whiff of his spicy-musky aftershave lotion I loved so much. From the corner of my eye I could also see his right hand on the steering wheel, the hand that had often held mine. I stared out the side window, wishing I hadn't agreed to ride with him.

Marco knew right where to go, turning down one curving street and up another. How many times had he been here? He wound deeper into the new development until he reached a cul-de-sac of brick and cedar two-story town houses, where the mailboxes stood on posts at the bottom of long, curving driveways.

He pulled up near a large black metal mailbox whose door was slightly ajar. Then he reached across me to open the glove compartment, removing black gloves, a flashlight, and his tiny digital camera, sending the seductive aroma of his aftershave past me yet again. We got out of his car and cautiously approached the mailbox. Marco glanced around, saw a thick twig lying near a bush close by, and picked it up.

"Stand back," he said, then used the twig to free the latch, causing the door to swing down. When nothing slithered out, Marco shone the flashlight around the interior, using the twig to push the envelopes aside so he could see all the way to the back. Wearing heavy gloves, he carefully removed the envelopes, handed them to me, then scanned the inside again.

While his attention was diverted, I quickly shuffled through the stack of envelopes, trying not to think of how many laws I might be breaking. The first two were from utility companies; the third was addressed to Libby in a bold script, the strong, diagonal letters topped with sharp points and long tails. To me it seemed like angry writing.

There was no return address on the envelope, just a hastily scribbled R. Shah. The date stamp said pittsburgh, pa. Hmm. Hadn't Libby attended school in the Pittsburgh area?

"Nothing inside the box," Marco reported, switching off the flashlight. "The door wasn't shut tight. The snake must have escaped."

Or maybe the reptile had never been there in the first place.

As we walked back to the car, Marco took the envelopes from me and glanced through them, pausing at the one with the angry writing. Was it the handwriting that had caught his attention, I wondered, or was it the name R. Shah? Could it be a letter from Libby's stalker? Would a stalker put his name on the envelope? I didn't think so.

Marco merely tucked them in his inside jacket pocket and got into the car.

"I meant to ask earlier," I said, trying to sound casually interested, as we pulled away, "have you had any luck tracking down Libby's stalker?"

"I'm about to wrap up that case."

Was there really a stalker? I wanted to ask, but I knew he wouldn't tell me anything. I was so used to being able to discuss ideas with him that it was hard not to get angry all over again. The problem was, I wasn't sure whom to be most angry with-Libby, Marco, or myself.

Maybe I could tie my question in with the murder investigation. "Is it possible Libby's stalker murdered Delphi?"

"I don't think they're related," Marco said. He looked like he was about to say more, but he stopped himself. Damn those confidentiality clauses.

"Could the snake be connected to the murder case?" I asked. "Maybe a warning of some sort?"

"It could be, which is why I'm going to inform the cops and let them look into it. Or it could be nothing more than a prank."

"If the snake was a warning, wouldn't you think the perp would have left a note?"

"Not necessarily. The snake could have been put there to shake Libby up, remind her that the killer is still out there."

By his answer I knew Marco didn't think the letter from R. Shah had anything to do with the snake. So why had the envelope made him pause? The only explanation I could come up with was that it tied in with the stalker case.

Marco turned on the radio, and the song "Sexy Back" was playing. He glanced at me. "Remember that song? Wasn't that Ross Urban's ring tone?"

He was referring to a suspect in the last murder case we'd worked on together. "Ross and Jess, the Urban legends," I said, and couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "That was a morticians' convention I'll never forget."

"It isn't every day that you get locked in a coffin," Marco said.

"Not just any coffin," I said. Then he chimed in with me, "A phone booth coffin."

We laughed together, and our gazes met, making my heart constrict in agony. We'd worked hard to break that case, and I'd nearly gotten myself killed doing so. But as always, my hero had been there for me. How painful that memory was now. Marco turned his attention back to the road and I turned to stare out my window. We rode back the rest of the way in silence.

"Thanks for the ride," I said when he dropped me off at the parking lot near Bloomers.

He waited until I was safely inside my car, then took off. I watched his taillights disappear in my rearview mirror, missing his good-night kisses more than ever.

Be a pro, that annoying little voice in my head whispered. Well, fine. I'd just turn off my heart, then. Grumbling to myself, I pulled out my notes and a pen and wrote at the bottom of the paper, R. Shah, Pittsburgh, PA.

"Okay, R. Shah," I said aloud. "You and I need to talk."

I got into work half an hour early on Wednesday so I could do an Internet search on the mysterious R. Shah, only to find two dozen orders for funeral arrangements waiting, and the deceased was none other than Delphi Blume, which meant her body had been released by the coroner's office. The autopsy report, then, must be done. Maybe Dave would have a copy by the time we met that afternoon.

I did a quick white pages search for all the R. Shahs in the Pittsburgh area and found three listed. I called the first number and struck out. The man who answered had no idea who Libby Blume was. He was also hard of hearing, and kept saying, "Who?" I had a strong hunch he wasn't the person I was looking for.

At the second number I got a machine recording that said, "Roshni and Sam here. Leave your name and number."

Was Roshni R. Shah? I left a message asking her to call me if she knew Elizabeth/Libby Blume. I tried the third R. Shah and reached a woman who had no idea who Libby was and hadn't attended college with anyone by the name of Blume. But if I wanted a free mobile phone, she had a deal for me.

Next I did a Google search on Roshni Shah and discovered she had a MySpace page that said she went to college at the University of Pittsburgh, which was also where Libby had gone to school. Coincidence? I thought not.

With the arrival of Lottie and Grace, I put the case on hold to work on the funeral orders, since Delphi's viewing was scheduled for six o'clock that evening at the Happy Dreams Funeral Home. The funeral service was set for the next day.

When I took a break midmorning, I checked my messages and saw one from Sally Mitchum. I called the number and reached her on her cell phone.

"Abby, I talked to my neighbor the congressman about the problem at the jail," Sally told me. "He promised to look into it, so I'll check back with him in a few days to see if he's as good as his word. He did say that with the financial problems the state was having, the federal government was our only hope to rectify the situation, but that it would take time to work through all the various levels to get to the proper funding."

"That's a start, Sally. I really appreciate your help."

"I don't know if it will come to anything, but I always keep my promises. And by the way, I've made it my personal crusade to see that young Maria is treated justly."

Feeling hopeful that something would be done at last, I hung up with a smile. Then Grace came in to tell me that she'd had no luck tracing the wig with either the post office or FedEx. "They're mum on the subject. Privacy laws and all that."

But she had persuaded our friendly UPS deliveryman to disclose that he'd delivered over thirty packages to Blume's Art Shop in the past three weeks, but none to Libby's home address, and only one to Delphi's address, which could have been for either Delphi or Oliver. Unfortunately, the guy couldn't help us any more than that.

"There has to be some way to find out if Tilly or Oliver bought a wig," I said.

"I'll put on my thinking cap," Grace said, and went to attend to some customers.

As Lottie and I worked on the stack of orders that afternoon, I found myself constantly checking the time, wishing it were five o'clock. The reason for my eagerness was Marco, of course, which was infuriating because I couldn't get him off my mind.

Still, at ten minutes before closing time, I put away my tools and supplies and slipped into the tiny bathroom in back to check my hair and douse my lips with peach-flavored lip gloss. And just before I walked into Dave's office, I paused to put on my best imitation of a model's bored yet sophisticated expression. Then, after a deep breath, I glided in, right shoulder first, then left, butt tucked under, chin angled daringly, one hand on my hip.

"Hi, Dave," I said in a sultry voice, giving him a cool smile. I turned to give Marco an elegant nod-only to find his chair empty.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

*ave was watching me with some amusement. "If you're looking for Marco, he had to run home to make a wardrobe change. He'll be here soon. If you want to wait in the conference room, you can make that entrance again when he gets here." With a furious blush, I flopped into the chair. "I'll pass." "When are you two going to kiss and make up?" "What makes you think I want to make up with him?" From outside the office I heard Marco's sexy, deep voice: "Afternoon, Martha." I quickly crossed one leg over the other and tossed my hair back. "Well," Dave said, "that, for one thing." As always happened when I saw Marco, I felt a surge in body heat that I knew was turning my cheeks pink. He sauntered in like James Bond, wearing a tailored black suit, ivory shirt, and silk tie, looking hotter than ever. I wanted to devour him like a chocolate bar.

Before I made a fool of myself, I rummaged through my purse to find a pen and my notes, mumbling a quick, "Hi," to his, "Afternoon."

"Are you going to the funeral home for the viewing?" Dave asked Marco.

"Yep. How about you?"

"I'm going to stop by after supper," Dave said.

They both paused, obviously waiting for me to announce my plans, which until that moment had been up in the air. I hadn't decided if I wanted to show my face at Delphi's funeral or not, considering that most of the town would probably mistake me for Libby. "Um, I have to go home to change clothes first."

"Why?" Marco asked. "You look great."

I glanced down at my outfit with a blush. "In this old thing?" Well, okay, it was new, a skirt and sweater I'd gotten on the last-ditch sales rack at H&M. "Thanks."

"It looks good on you," Marco said. "Really good." He wasn't looking at my outfit, though. He was gazing into my eyes, a hopeful glimmer in his brown ones, as though he were extending an olive branch, seeing if I would accept it. But I couldn't. Maybe it was just my foolish pride, but it still rubbed me the wrong way that he wouldn't trust my gut feelings, not even a little. So I looked down at my hands in my lap and said nothing.

"Let's move on," Dave said. "We have a lot to cover. Marco, your report?"

"I wasn't able to track down Kayla or Oliver," Marco said. "Kayla seems to be holed up in her mother's house. I haven't been able to catch her coming or going. Oliver wouldn't answer his apartment door, and Blume's Art Shop is closed until next Monday. I haven't seen the van around, either. I asked Libby if she knew where he was, but she hadn't seen him since yesterday evening. He seems to be keeping himself scarce, too."

"Try Harrigan Park," I said. "Guys play war games there all the time."

"Did that," Marco said. "He wasn't there. I even talked to the guys he hangs out with, but they hadn't seen him in a few days."

"Oliver is very fearful of being followed," I said. "Maybe he thinks you're tailing him. Maybe he'll come out of hiding only for a face he trusts."

"If you can find him and get him to talk to you," Marco said, "be my guest."

"I'd rather you went with Abby," Dave said to Marco, "just to be on the safe side."

There was a long moment of silence, during which I stared at my notes. "That's okay," I said finally. "I don't need help."

"No, Dave is right," Marco said. "If you can track Oliver down, let me know when you plan to talk to him and I'll be there."

I'll be there. His words were like tiny darts straight into my heart. Was it just a month ago that he'd said to me, I'll always be there for you, Sunshine? Now there were ifs attached.

"I meant to ask this earlier," Dave said to Marco. "Did Libby receive any written threats or phone calls after the snake incident?"