Dirty Rotten Tendrils (16 page)

I thought back to my conversation with Kathy. “Around seven thirty.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a visitor,” Kim said. “You can talk to Lauren. She’s a nurse here, too. You’ll find her in the break room right now, first door on your right, behind the reception area. And also there’s Kelly, a student nurse. She works three evenings a week, and I believe she was on duty Monday evening. I’ll give you her number. I’m sure she won’t mind if you call.”

“Thanks, Kim. I appreciate your help,” I said.

“Dave’s a good man,” Kim said, scribbling Kelly’s number on the back of a business card. “He’s always been kind to his mom and to all of us. I hope you find your witness.”

We stopped at the break room to see Lauren, only to find that someone had beat us to it.

“Connor McKay!” Jillian hissed.

I dragged her away from the doorway before Connor could glance around. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered, and we fled across the lobby and out the door.

“I guess he caught on after all,” Jillian said breathlessly.

 

 

At fifteen minutes after eleven o’clock, I dropped Jillian at her car in the public lot, then pulled into an empty space to phone Dave with my report. When his cell phone went straight to voice mail, I called his office next, but Martha said he hadn’t yet returned from the police station.

“It’s been over two hours, Abby,” she said. “What could they possibly be asking him that they haven’t asked before?”

“They’re probably going over his previous statement, trying to see if he changes it. Is Dave still determined to represent himself?”

“Of course. The stubborn mule. I know it’s not my place to advise Dave, but I told him he’d better consult with another attorney, because there’s no way Melvin Darnell will be fair with him. Darnell doesn’t like to lose cases because he thinks it costs him votes come election time, but he’s lost more than a few cases to Dave, which makes Dave his enemy.”

“So much for our justice system,” I said.

“Sorry, Abby. I know I’m preaching to the choir. Do you want me to have Dave get in touch with you when he comes back?”

“Yes, please. Have you figured out what’s been bugging him lately? Why he hasn’t been himself?”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it and told me to quit asking, but I think I have it figured out. He’s been very forgetful lately, probably because of all the pressure he’s been under, but I think he’s afraid that he’s developing Alzheimer’s disease, too.”

“Oh, no! Poor Dave. I’m sure it’s just the stress he’s been under.”

“Me, too. Don’t tell him I told you.”

I assured Martha I would keep mum, then sat in my car thinking about Dave’s situation. Naturally, because of his mother, he would fear Alzheimer’s. Add to that the stress of his job, the pressure of winning Andrew’s case, and now the probability of Darnell’s singling him out as a prime suspect, and it was no wonder he was depressed.

But was that, indeed, what was going on? Was Darnell focusing solely on Dave and instructing his detectives to ignore other leads? It would help immensely to know for sure. I’d love to be able to tell Dave he wasn’t being targeted. What a relief it would be for him.

Wait! I knew someone who could provide illumination: Deputy Prosecutor Greg “I’m Too Sexy for My Court” Morgan. I glanced at my watch. Forty-five minutes before my date with Marco. If Lottie and Grace could cover for me a little while longer, I’d have time for a quick chat with my courthouse snitch.

I stopped at Bloomers to see how the ladies were doing and learned that business had been slow and that Grace had broken her eyeglasses.

“Silly old things,” Grace said, holding up the broken lenses, “but I’m blind as a bat without them. The optician agreed to squeeze me in if I can be there by twelve thirty, if you don’t mind taking a later lunch, dear.”

For a second, all I could do was blink at her, as my romantic interlude with Marco went up in smoke. But seeing her squinting hopefully at me, I couldn’t very well put her off.

“Sure, Grace. I have to make a quick trip over to the courthouse to see Greg Morgan about the Lipinski case first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Grace said.

“Has there been any word from Dave yet?” Lottie asked.

“Martha said he’s still being interviewed. And unfortunately I wasn’t able to find anyone to corroborate his alibi at the nursing home.”

“What about the woman who called here for you?” Lottie asked.

“I couldn’t find her,” I said. “Jillian and I asked all around. Then Connor McKay showed up, so we left. And by the way, if McKay should come by here, please don’t tell him anything. I let it slip about Dave visiting his mom and now I think I’ve set loose a monster.”

“You haven’t had a very good morning, have you, sweetie?” Lottie asked.

I shook my head. The afternoon didn’t look promising, either. “Did any orders come in while I was out?”

“Two,” Lottie said. “I took care of them and finished the ones still waiting on the spindle.”

Only two. The day was sliding downhill fast.

Grace tapped the face of her watch. “If you want to be back in time for me to make my appointment, Abby, you’d best step lively. Tempus fugit.”

“You’re right,” I said, and headed toward the curtain. “I need a bouquet of flowers to bring with me. What do we have overstocked?”

“Gerberas. Are they for the Courthouse Hottie?” Lottie asked.

Courthouse Hottie was one of Lottie’s nicknames for Greg Morgan. She used to believe Morgan was the perfect man for me, until she realized that Morgan believed he was, too. Perfect, that is. “Only if he tells me where the investigation is going.”

“You still think the DA’s gonna try to pin the Lip’s death on Dave?” Lottie asked.

“I don’t know. I just want to make sure we’re ready if he does.”

Lottie turned back to Grace. “What was that you said about a tempest?”

“Tempus fugit,” Grace said. “It’s a Latin phrase meaning time flies.”

“Time flies,” Lottie repeated as she hurried into the workroom behind me and got on the computer. A few minutes later she said, “I’ve got one!” and cackled with delight as she hurried back through the curtain.

As I wrapped the bouquet in cellophane, I heard her say to Grace, “Yep, time flies, all right. As Groucho Marx once said, ‘Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana. ’ ”

“Whatever are you talking about, Lottie? Bananas don’t fly.”

“Come on, Gracie,” Lottie beseeched. “Think about it. What do fruit flies like to eat?”

“Fruit.”

“Yeah, and what are bananas? Fruit. So fruit flies like bananas. Get it? That’s
my
quote about time.”

Stony silence. That wasn’t good.

I tiptoed to the curtain and peered out just as Grace assumed her lecture pose. “As Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.’” Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and glided into the tea parlor.

I jumped back as Lottie pushed the curtain aside and came into the workroom muttering, “She just had to have the last word, didn’t she?”

“You know Grace doesn’t like to be topped.”

“She doesn’t like to be stumped, either.” At that, Lottie broke into a grin. “And I did stump her, didn’t I?”

 

 

The temperature had risen over the course of the morning, and with the sun out, I decided to skip the coat. I was warm enough in a scoop-necked, long-sleeved yellow T-shirt with a black-and-white tweed cropped jacket and black jeans. So, with the bouquet in hand, I dashed across the street to the courthouse’s back entrance, where I was stopped by a guard I hadn’t seen before.

He was around forty years old, had a bald pate complemented by a thicket of black hair growing from each nostril, a big gut that hung over his belt, skinny legs, and a haughty attitude. I showed him my driver’s license, but he was more focused on my open jacket and the hint of cleavage that my scoop-neck T-shirt revealed.

“State your business,” he said.

I pulled my jacket together with my free hand and held out the bouquet so he had something else to ogle. “I’m here to deliver flowers.”

“To who?”

To
who.
I knew I shouldn’t—I tried to hold back—but when he repeated his question and aimed it at my chest, it just came out. “It’s to
whom
, and the whom is Deputy Prosecutor Greg Morgan.”

“Well, then, Miss Manners,” he said frostily, “remove your jacket, give me the flowers, then step through the scanner.”

I handed him the bouquet. “I didn’t have to remove my jacket last time.”

“It’s not my fault if the other guard didn’t follow orders.” He pointed to my chest. “Off.”

I glanced around to see if there were witnesses, which there weren’t, so I gave up trying to argue, slipped off my jacket and handed it through to him. He nearly dropped it because his gaze was now glued to the front of my T-shirt, one of the banes of being well-endowed.

Giving him a glare, which he didn’t see, I stepped through the scanner and snatched my belongings out of his hot paws. “And just so you know, Miss Manners teaches etiquette, not grammar.”

“So maybe you should sign up for her class so you’ll know it ain’t polite to correct a person’s grammar.”

Touché.

Turning my back on the guard, I donned the jacket, then hurried toward the wide staircase with the bouquet. I took the first flight at a run, stopped to catch my breath, then went slower on the second flight so I’d have it together by the time I entered the prosecutors’ suite. There I encountered the head secretary, a skinny woman in her thirties who favored thin, blue-tinted glasses and talked in a high, nasal voice. She was hard at work on her computer, filling in the next day’s calendar.

“I have a floral delivery for Attorney Morgan,” I announced.

“Leave it on my desk,” she said without looking over at me.

“Is Mr. Morgan here? I’d like to deliver it myself.”

She heaved a sigh, then reached for the phone. “I’ll check. Who shall I say is calling?”

She knew who I was. I’d delivered flowers there before. “Abby Knight, in the flesh, not calling.”

“Abby Knight is here in the flesh,” she twanged tonelessly. She listened a moment, then replaced the receiver and turned back to her computer. “Mr. Morgan has an appointment in fifteen minutes. You’ll have to be quick.”

As I headed toward Morgan’s office, my phone beeped. I glanced at the screen. Marco was texting. He’d have to wait.

T
he deputy prosecutor’s tiny office seemed to be made out of manila file folders. They were piled in large stacks on a row of filing cabinets against the wall, spilled out of cartons on the floor, and swallowed up the desk. The room was so full of files that Morgan was lost in their midst.

He was sitting on an old wooden swivel chair in front of a beat-up oak desk, his carefully manicured fingernails, neat haircut, charcoal pin-striped Hugo Boss suit, and gray silk tie at odds with the scarred wood floors, cracked plaster walls, and mildewy corners of the high ceiling. As always, Morgan looked model perfect, his chestnut brown hair glistening with blond highlights, his baby blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes, and his smile too white to be natural.

He saw me and got a big grin on his face, his chair creaking as he rose. “Abby! What a pleasant surprise. And you brought flowers for me. Gee, it’s not even my birthday.” He held out his hands and wiggled his fingers impatiently, as if to say,
Gimme, gimme!

Greg Morgan was the only man I knew who would assume that a bouquet of daisies was for him. If I didn’t need his help, I wouldn’t give them to him, just for his smugness. At least I could pretend I’d brought them for another reason. Lucky for me, Nikki was dating Morgan.

“I had to come over, anyway, so I thought as long as I was here, I’d drop these by in case you wanted to surprise Nikki tonight.”

“Oh.” His smiled faded as he sat down.

Now I’d embarrassed him. I would have to come up with something to make him happy again. The easiest way was to stroke his gigantic ego, so I put the bouquet on his desk and said, “By the way, Nikki said you two had a great time Sunday. She really enjoyed herself.”

He gazed at me skeptically. “She did? Are you sure?”

Not the reaction I’d hoped for. What
had
Nikki told me about Sunday? I knew they went somewhere, but nothing was coming to mind. I pushed on, hoping he wouldn’t press me for details. “Did you hear that Dave Hammond had to go back for another interview with your boss this morning? Actually, he might still be there.”

Morgan suddenly became busy, shuffling through some papers so he wouldn’t have to meet my eyes. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

Yeah, right. I knew how courthouse staffers gossiped. I sat down on the straight-backed wooden chair opposite his desk so we’d be at eye level. It was harder for him to ignore me that way. “Yep, a second interview. What’s that about? Darnell can’t possibly believe Dave had a hand in Lipinski’s death. Can he?”