Free A Rose From the Dead by Kate Collins Page A

questions, Abby.”
    “Can I at least stick around long enough to see the Urban twins taken away?”
    “No. Now, go home. That’s an order.”
    At that moment, a contingent of crime scene investigators and the coroner descended on the storage room. Startled, I backed straight into the pointed nose of the jet plane. Luckily, every male eye in the room was focused on Sybil’s body, so my windmilling arms went unnoticed—or so I thought. But no, there was Reilly standing by the door, an amused look on his face. I straightened my skirt and made my way up the row of caskets, pretending nothing had happened.
    Suddenly a booming voice from the hallway called, “Where is she? What happened to Sybil?” and in the next moment Colonel Billingsworth appeared, leading his troop of new judges. He tried to get into the room, but Reilly’s arm shot out to bar his way.
    “Sir, please step back.”
    The colonel turned left, then right, trying to see what was going on, but there were too many men blocking his view. “Has Sybil been found? Is she here?”
    “Are you a relative, sir?” Reilly asked.
    “Her late husband’s business partner. Did something happen to her?”
    “Your name?” Reilly asked, flipping open his notebook.
    “Walker T. Billingsworth, president of the Midwestern Funeral Directors’ Association. Why are the medics here? Did she have a heart attack?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Billingsworth, but she’s dead.”
    The colonel blinked several times, mouth agape, as though the words wouldn’t register. “Dead?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He let out a huge sigh. “Thank God.”

C HAPTER S EVEN
    R eilly stopped writing and the new judges looked startled. “Excuse me?” Reilly said.
    The colonel looked flustered. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m not relieved she’s dead. I’m relieved she’s been found. She didn’t show up for the banquet or answer her page, and we—by that I mean the convention committee—were growing concerned. With good reason, as it turns out. Would you tell me the cause of her death, Sergeant?”
    Reilly scratched his ear. “It’s unknown at this time. Do you know if the deceased has family in the area, Mr. Billingsworth?”
    “We prefer to use the term loved one , rather than deceased , Sergeant, and to answer your question, Sybil has no family in the area. I believe there’s a distant cousin in Honolulu.”
    “How did you know to come down here to look for her?”
    “She was supposed to be here earlier to judge the entries for our casket contest, so this seemed a logical place to look.”
    “Did you search anywhere else?”
    “Her room and her booth.”
    “When was the last time you saw her?”
    “Just after two o’clock, when she was making the rounds of the exhibit booths.”
    Reilly finished jotting the information in his notepad, then pointed up the hallway. “Do you see that officer? Would you give him your name and a number where you can be reached?”
    “Certainly, sir. I’ll help in whatever way I can.” He pointed to the Purple Heart medal on his lapel. “I served in ’Nam, Sergeant. I know how to get things done.” He saluted, did an about-face, and strode away, followed by his small group, who fell into a single line behind him.
    Reilly glanced at me and sighed wearily. “It’s going to be a long night.”

    It was almost ten o’clock when I left the storage room and went to see whether Marco was finished. But the only person in the kitchen was the young cop.
    “Check for Salvare outside the building,” the cop told me. “He said he had to take a phone call.”
    A phone call at ten o’clock on a Saturday night? That couldn’t be good news, especially since ninety-nine percent of Marco’s calls came from either a bartender at Down the Hatch complaining about a problem at the bar or a member of his family complaining about another member of his family. I started for the back exit only to have my cell phone ring. I checked the screen.