“It shouldn’t be hard to find out who got our order,” I said.

“Right,” Lottie said. “How many places around here sell flowers?”

She stepped into the cooler just as Marco wrapped up his phone conversation. “Use this number, if you would, Mr. Oke. Thanks for your help.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He has to check the current market value before he gives me a quote. I have a feeling he wants to check me out more than the value of the brooch.” Marco glanced at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. When do you want to go see Morgan?”

“Now, if Lottie doesn’t mind.”

Lottie came out of the cooler carrying an armload of roses. She stopped to glance from me to Marco. “Mind what? How is it I always walk in on the middle of a conversation?”

Greg Morgan lived on the third floor of a new condominium building on the east side of town, a fast-growing area filled with lots of apartments, condos, and starter homes. His building was the typical modern brick box four stories high. It had a small entrance hall containing rows of mailboxes and a list of occupants by last name, with corresponding buzzers.

I pressed the button beside his name and eventually a hoarse voice said, “Who is it?”

“Hey, Greg, it’s Abby. Nikki said you were sick, so we thought you might appreciate some homemade chicken soup.” I didn’t explain who the “we” was so he’d think it was Nikki.

“Are you sure you want to come up? I might be contagious.”

“Not a problem, Greg.”

He buzzed us through the security door, and we headed for the elevator. As I got ready to board, Marco said, “I’ll wait down here.”

“Don’t you want to question him?”

“I’d just be a distraction. You know how to handle Morgan. You don’t need me.”

“Are you afraid of catching the flu?”

“I just think Morgan will be more forthcoming without me there.”

“Sure, you do.” I wiggled my fingers at Marco as the doors began to close. “See you in about ten minutes.”

“You’re being a little overly optimistic, aren’t you?”

“Fifteen, then.”

Marco stopped the doors. “Do you remember what to ask?”

“About the note and the flowers.”

“Get details. And ask if they recovered evidence from Hudge’s van-and have a suspect.”

“I’ve done this before, remember?”

The elevator doors were nearly together when Marco stopped them again. “Remember, you can use the information we have on Charlotte and Honey as a bargaining chip.”

“Why don’t you just come with me?” I asked in exasperation.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No!” I blew him a kiss as the doors glided shut.

I exited on the third floor and found Morgan’s unit. I knocked, announced myself, and heard the shuffle of soft soles against a hard floor. The door opened and there stood the courthouse’s golden boy in a ratty old blue bathrobe tied loosely around the middle, with plaid pajamas beneath it and brown suede slippers on his feet. His nose was red, his eyes were watery and dull, and his face was pasty.

“I come bearing nutritious soup,” I said with a smile, holding up the container.

He peered behind me. “I thought Nikki was with you.”

I stepped inside a foyer and glanced around as I set my purse on the floor. The small front hall had been professionally decorated in shades of beige and brown, with a gorgeous, antique-style hall tree in one corner, a beautiful rosewood console table with a matching mirror on a short wall, and a thick oriental carpet underfoot. Morgan’s cashmere winter coat hung on the tree, his briefcase beside it.

“Nice place, Greg,” I said as he shut the front door. “Love these wood floors.” I hung my peacoat on a hook, saw a kitchen through a doorway across the hall, and headed toward it. “Granite counters. Awesome.”

“Thanks,” Morgan said, shuffling after me.

The kitchen was airy and modern, with lots of cabinets and counter space, and even a window, something I wished our apartment had. He had room for a table, too. How could he afford a place like this on a deputy prosecutor’s salary?

“How are you feeling?” I asked as I stashed the container of soup in his fridge.

“Not so good.”

I glanced up as he braced himself on the doorframe, swaying as though he was woozy. “Greg, are you about to pass out?”

He shook his head, then hiccuped. “I just feel fuzzy-brained.”

Not an unusual condition for Morgan. Then I spotted a medicine bottle on the counter and picked it up. “Did you take this cold remedy, by any chance?”

He nodded and hiccuped again.

“This stuff is sixty percent alcohol, Greg. How much did you take?”

Morgan held up two fingers, but said, “Three tablespoon fulls-tablespoons full.”

I read the directions on the back. “You’re supposed to take one tablespoon, Greg. One every six hours.”

“It didn’t seem to be working, so I kept taking it.”

Great. Now I had to get information from a drunk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“You know what you need?” I asked. “Something in your stomach to absorb all that alcohol. How about if I heat the soup for you? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Morgan swayed unsteadily. “I think that would be a-hic!-good idea. I haven’t eaten yet. Couldn’t stand the thought of food.”

I found a cooking pot and lid, and poured in a third of the container of soup, now partially thawed. I put it on the range and turned up the flame as high as it would go. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes, Greg. You’d better sit down at the table before you fall over.”

“Good thinking.” He shuffled to the table, pulled out a chair, and carefully parked himself on the seat. He propped his elbows on the table and used his palms to keep his head up.

“Did you catch Nils Raand’s news conference earlier today?” I asked, hunting for a bowl.

He nodded, then fished a tissue out of a pocket in his robe and made honking sounds as he blew his nose.

“Did you hear Raand threaten me at the end?”

Morgan stopped honking. “He threatened to harm you?”

“Yes! Well, not in those words, but Raand’s intent was clear. And now my mom is joining the PAR protest, so I’m afraid he’ll go after her, too.”

“I wanted to keep him in jail,” Morgan said, “but there’s no murder charge against him, so he was able to post bond.”

I stirred the soup, decided it was warm enough, and ladled it into a bowl. I found a soup spoon in a utensil drawer, a napkin in a holder, and placed everything in front of him. Morgan immediately picked up the spoon and dipped it in the soup. I glanced at my watch. I’d been there thirteen minutes. No way would I make my fifteen-minute goal.

“This tastes good,” he said, liquid dribbling down his chin.

“I’m glad you like it. So, Greg, has there been any word on who murdered Hudge?”

He shook his head.

“What about the weapon? Do you know what it was?”

“Wasn’t a metal blade,” he said between mouthfuls. “Something smooth, though.”

“Like wood?”

“No wood fibers in the wound. Wound was clean.”

“Any of the inmates talking about who might have done it?”

He stopped eating to gaze at me through bleary eyes. “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Abby.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “But look at it from my standpoint, Greg. Three attempts were made to kidnap me, and both kidnappers are now dead, one murdered right under your nose, probably to keep him from talking. Can you blame me for wanting some information?”

He blinked a few times. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then help me put some of the pieces together, okay?”

Morgan shook his dripping spoon at me. “You can’t take no for an answer.”

“But I already know what two of the key items of evidence are. I just need a little more information about them. It’s like someone sketching a tree with bare branches and someone else painting on the leaves. See what I’m getting at? I’ve sketched the tree; now it’s your turn.”