Dirty Rotten Tendrils (21 page)

“Wait! I can explain why he’s still here. It’s all about publicity. Cody gets way more media exposure in New Chapel than back in LA, where minor stars are a dime a dozen . . .”

The policewoman took my arm.

Frustrated, I walked to the doorway, then paused to give it one last try. “Will you at least check out Cody?”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Knight,” Corbison replied indifferently. “I’ll look into it.”

That was doubtful. But Marco and I certainly would.

I
found Marco standing just outside the station talking on his cell phone. He ended the call and gave me a long glance, as though trying to get a read on my emotions. “How did it go?”

“I did okay, but I couldn’t shake Corbison off Dave’s trail. He didn’t seem very taken with my alternative-killer theories.”

“They’re focused on making a case against Dave. That was him on the phone. The cops just did a search of his office and house and discovered a bottle of his mom’s prescription medicine in his bathroom medicine cabinet.”

“Dave’s mom stays with him on occasion,” I said, as we made our way back to Bloomers. “It’s perfectly reasonable for him to keep a supply of her medicine there.”

“It’s reasonable, but if her medicine matches what was found in Lipinksi’s blood, they’ll have all they need to make a case against him.”

“Did the tox report come back?”

“We still don’t know, but if the DA wants to indict Dave, the lack of a tox report won’t stop him.”

“The report would clear him later, though, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not the danger, Abby. If Dave is indicted, think what it’ll do to his reputation.”

Exactly the concern Dave had expressed. I contemplated that dreary scenario as we headed up the alley behind Franklin Street. Neither of us spoke until we reached Bloomers, and then Marco said, “I’m going to get everything in order at the bar so I can start investigating right after our meeting tomorrow. Will you be able to get away to help me?”

“It’ll be tough. I feel terrible leaving Lottie and Grace alone again, even though I know they’ll be one hundred percent in favor of me helping Dave. I’d ask Jillian to fill in, but I’m afraid my assistants would stage a rebellion. Maybe we can figure out a way for you to investigate during the day, when the bar is quiet, and for me to work at night after the shop closes.”

“Let’s discuss our options when we meet with Dave in the morning. We still have to get through this evening.”

Mentioning my engagement ring at such a time seemed petty, considering Dave’s predicament, yet it was another problem that had to be tackled. I glanced at my watch. “If we’re going to talk to Cinnamon’s dad in private, we’d better get there early. What time is dinner?”

“Dinner’s at seven, so I’ll swing by at six. The Howards live up north, near Lake Michigan, so that will give us plenty of time to get there.”

And decide on a strategy.

 

 

At ten minutes past six o’clock that evening, Marco and I were zipping north on Interstate 49 in his green Prius, following the little arrow on his GPS that was leading us toward Lake Michigan. Marco looked so yummy-hot in his brown leather jacket over a marine blue crewneck sweater and tan pants, his dark hair gleaming in the glow of the streetlights, I found myself wishing we could turn around and go back home. But this dinner couldn’t be avoided, not if I hoped to get my ring back tonight.

“Let’s plan what to tell Mr. Howard,” I said.

“We need a plan?”

“Unless you know how to crack open his safe, yes.”

“Can’t help you with the safe, but I figured you’d want to do the talking.” Marco glanced at me. “You know, so you can work your feminine wiles on him.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I flirt with the man, are you?”

“No, I don’t want you to flirt. Just be cute and sympathetic so he’ll take pity on us.”

“Cute and sympathetic. So
that’s
the definition of feminine wiles.”

“You know what I mean.”

Men have no understanding of our complex female natures. “So basically you want me to smile perkily through my tears as I limp across the room on my newly sprained ankle to explain to Mr. Howard that his future son-in-law gave his daughter a diamond ring he can’t afford and didn’t own to begin with, but he will replace it with something inexpensive once he saves up some money.”

“I’d leave out the inexpensive part.”

I batted him on the shoulder. “That’s not funny.”

Marco laughed. “I was kidding. Just tell him the truth.”

“And what will your part in this drama be?”

“Supportive.”

Wonderful. It was all on my shoulders. “Are you sure you’ve never cracked a safe?”

Half a mile short of the lake, Marco turned off the highway and headed east, following a two-lane road into a residential area that bordered Indiana Dunes State Park. The ginormous houses, some of which had docks right on the lake, were testaments to what money could buy.

“Marco, I don’t think your GPS system knows where it’s going. This is a classy neighborhood and Cinnamon—well, she isn’t.”

“I’m using the address Rafe gave me.”

We wound through the hilly subdivision until we spotted the address on a mailbox at the curb. Marco stopped and we both gazed up the long, brick driveway to the hilltop house.

“Damn,” Marco whispered.

“Ditto. But I take back what I said earlier. Not everything in this neighborhood is classy.”

The Howard house was a massive white stone castle, complete with turrets and a tower that served as the front entrance. Rapunzel would have felt right at home. All it lacked was a moat.

Marco gunned the motor up the hill, pulled past the tower, parked, and came around to help me out. The gesture was appreciated because I was a bit unsteady on my five-inch stilettos, even though they’d seemed like a great idea when I bought them. At five feet two inches, I welcomed any additional height. I’d discovered the brown suede heels on a final-clearance rack and snapped them up, thinking they’d make me feel tall. Instead, they made me feel that I was about to break one or both ankles. It was the price one paid for being fashionable.

I pulled the belt of my trench coat tighter, then took Marco’s arm. Underneath my coat, I was wearing a wrap dress in a green-and-brown geometric print, very retro, deeply discounted, and totally figure forgiving, which mattered to a busty short person. And although I’d felt sexy when I tried it on, I didn’t feel that way now, as I clutched Marco’s arm and made my way unsteadily up the brick-edged driveway to the tower.

We were greeted at the massive wooden door by Al Howard, a short, unattractive man who I guessed was in his early sixties, around Grace’s age, and much older than I’d imagined Cinnamon’s father would be. She also looked nothing like him. Al had a narrow fish face, small, close-set eyes, thinning hair dyed an unnatural flat black, and a loud voice that, when he talked, came out like barks. Was he her step-father perhaps?

He invited us inside the tower, where I stared around in amazement as Marco helped me out of my coat. We were in a garish, marble-surfaced great hall, filled with expansive paintings of frolicking nudes, freestanding life-sized animal sculptures, gold-leafed furniture, a humongous multicolored crystal chandelier that was larger than my closet, and a double-sided, curving, white marble staircase with gold banisters that rivaled anything Hollywood could offer. Clearly, the Howards had money and liked to prove it, but not tastefully.

I couldn’t imagine how Marco’s mom, a widowed woman living within very modest means, would react to the excess. On the other hand, my mom’s golf tee tea cart might have found a home.

“Great to meet you both,” Al said, with a vigorous shake of Marco’s hand, and then mine. “My wife will be down in a jif. Has to put her face on first. You know how women are, right, Mark? Cinnamon and Rafe will be along soon. She had to stop at my club first to get something from the safe.”

What? The safe was at his country club? I discreetly tugged on the back of Marco’s jacket to be sure he had caught that.

“Are you a member of the country club in New Chapel?” Marco asked, as Al took my coat and hung it in a closet by the door.

“Sure am. I’m a golf nut. Couldn’t live without the country club membership.”

Oh, yeah. Mom’s tea cart would be perfect here.

“But I’m talking about
my
club,” Al continued. “Dirty Al’s.” He snapped his fingers and a man in a white jacket hurried through a doorway, bearing a tray with flutes of bubbly on it.

Wait. What? Dirty Al’s? As in
Dirty Al’s Gentlemen’s Club
? Cinnamon’s father owned a striptease joint?

“Have some champagne,” Al said. “Moët and Chandon. Got a case yesterday. You wouldn’t believe the price. If you want me to hook you up with my liquor source, Mark, just let me know.” He elbowed Marco and winked at me, and then his gaze dropped to my breasts.

I reached for a flute, turning away so he couldn’t leer. If I hadn’t needed my ring back, I might have poked him in the eye. Seriously, Dirty Al’s? Poor Francesca. She had no idea of the surprises in store.

Something metallic clanked, and Al said, “Here comes the little lady now.”

I turned to see a forty-year-old version of Cinnamon coming down one side of the staircase. She, too, had on a wrap dress, a silver one, but it was a lot less wrapped than mine, and probably ten times more expensive. Her straw blond hair was piled artfully on top of her head to show off her dazzling, teardrop-shaped dangling earrings—diamond, no doubt—and her unnaturally full lips were coated a shade of red one note away from black.

The clanking was caused by the stack of platinum bracelets on each wrist, which coordinated with her heavy platinum necklace set with pavé diamonds that vee’d straight into her impressive cleavage. She, too, wore a pair of five-inch heels, in a leopard print with silver spikes, but unlike me, she had no trouble walking in them. She was holding something that resembled the fuzzy end of a dust mop, until it raised its head and gazed at me with alert black eyes. At the dog’s yap, she stroked its head and said, “Ginger loves meeting new people.”

Ginger and Cinnamon. I was beginning to see a pattern.

Al put his arm around her. “Abby, Mark . . . my wife, Pepper.”

Didn’t get much worse than that.

“So you’re Rafe’s brother,” Pepper said, giving Marco a slow once-over that was more of a caress. “I see a strong resemblance between you and Rafe. People say that about me and Cinn, too. Everyone thinks we’re sisters.”

“Say, doll, why don’t you give Abby a tour of the Sugar Shack?” Al suggested.

Pepper rolled her eyes at me. “Sugar Shack. How silly. He knows it’s Casa Paprika. You’ll see why when we get to the second floor.”

Forget the pattern. That was just stupid.

“While you’re showing Abby Casa Paprika, Mark and I are gonna have cigars in the den. Right, Mark?” He nudged Marco with his elbow.

Marco enjoyed cigars about as much as he did being called Mark. To keep him from leaving, I clasped his hand. We needed to get Al alone, and soon. “Why don’t we hold off on the tour until your mom arrives, sweetheart? I’m sure she’ll want to see Casa—” No, I just couldn’t say it. “This gorgeous home, too.”

“We’ll give the missus her own tour,” Al said. “Pepper loves to show off her house. Don’t you, doll? Pepper comes from farm stock. Before she hooked up with me, she lived in a barn.”

“You old silly,” Pepper said, giggling. “I didn’t
live
in a barn. There was a barn on the property.”

“So how did you two meet?” I couldn’t resist asking, although I suspected I already knew.

“We met at Al’s club fifteen years, one month, and three days ago,” Pepper said, running her hand up his shirtfront as she gazed adoringly at him. “I auditioned for him.”

Called that one.

“I’m still awed by how successful he is,” Pepper gushed. “A genuine entrepreneur and a community leader, too.”

Puh-leez.
Her husband owned a strip joint.

“Come on, Abby,” Pepper said. “You’ve gotta see my kitchen. It’s something else.”

“Some
place
else, she means,” Al called, as Pepper started up the marble hallway toward the back of the house. “As in someplace she hardly ever visits.” Both of them laughed on cue. It felt rehearsed.

Al motioned for Marco to follow, then practically trotted through open double doors into what appeared to be a den. From the foyer I could see brown leather sofas flanking a fireplace and a monstrous flat-screen TV above it.

Before Marco left, I handed him my champagne glass and whispered, “Talk to him. Be cute and sympathetic.”

Marco gave me a scowl, then stepped through the doorway, so I wobbled after Pepper. She took me through the mansion like a paid tour guide, while I hoped against hope that Marco was convincing Al to give us the ring.