Dirty Rotten Tendrils (26 page)

“Does she live around here?” Marco asked.

“As far as I know, she went back to Barcelona. That’s where she was from.”

“I need to ask you some standard questions now, if that’s okay?” Marco asked.

She glanced at her watch. “You’ll have to make it quick, honey.”

“Where were you Monday until around eight p.m.?” Marco asked.

“Right here. You can check with the on-call doc about that. Monday is his day to make rounds, and I assisted.”

“Would you give me his name, please?” Marco asked.

“Even better, I’ll give you one of his business cards.” She fished in her pocket, brought out a stack of cards, shuffled through them, and pulled one out. “Here you go.”

Marco pocketed the card. “Do you have access to the pharmacy?”

“You saw me coming out of it. Someone has to dole out all the pills every day.”

Pat stuck her head into the room. “We need to get the patients back to their rooms.”

“I’ll be right there.” Darla Mae turned back to Marco. “Listen, sugar, if you have more questions, you’re going to have to come back when I get off work. I’ll tell you right now, though, you’ll be wasting your time. I’m not sorry Kenny’s gone, but if I had actually ended his life, I’d have taken down the blog that told how I did it. I may have been stupid when I let Kenny push me around, but I’ve gotten a lot smarter since then.”

Marco put away his notebook and extended his hand. “Thanks for your time.”

 

 

As soon as we stepped out the door, I drew a breath of fresh air and shook off the melancholy that had crept over me while we were inside. As we walked toward the Prius, I said, “I think we can cross Darla Mae off the list.”

“Not yet.”

“Really? I thought she was pretty frank about her feelings.”

Marco opened the car door for me. “Doesn’t mean she was completely forthcoming.”

“You don’t think she gave us the whole truth?”

“Most people don’t. Not in the first interview, at least. Did you catch her comment about having made sacrifices for Lipinski that gutted her? That’s a powerful statement. It makes me wonder what kind of sacrifices he asked of her.”

“I wouldn’t even begin to know how to investigate that.”

Marco got into the car and shut the door. “What kind of big sacrifices do men ask of women?”

“To give up their jobs.”

Marco glanced at me. “That was quick.”

Probably because it was a topic Marco and I needed to discuss. What would happen to our respective businesses after we married? We both knew that with him working nights and me days, something had to give or we’d never see each other. But for me to abandon my flower shop was unthinkable. If Marco felt the same about his bar and his PI work, we’d have a problem.

I shrugged. “I’m just saying . . .”

Marco reached for my hand. “I wouldn’t ask you to give up Bloomers, Abby.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to give up your jobs either, Marco.”

We had a problem.

After a thoughtful pause, Marco said, “I’ll dig up Darla Mae’s work history. Maybe I’ll find a clue there.” He started the engine. “What else would be a sacrifice?”

“Having children.”

Marco gave me another glance—children was another subject we’d tiptoed around—so I added, “Before they’re financially or emotionally ready.”

“I don’t think Darla Mae and the Lip had any children,” Marco said, “but it’ll be easy to check out. Anything else?”

“The reverse situation—not having children. If one spouse really wanted them, it would be a huge sacrifice.”

“We’d have to ask Darla Mae about that one. I don’t know any other way to find out.”

“I might.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Nikki’s number, catching her still at home. “Hey, Nik, I need more information on Darla Mae. Can you talk to your source and see if she knows whether Darla Mae ever had kids, didn’t have kids, wanted them, didn’t want them—that kind of thing?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nikki promised. “By the way, did you hear that Cody Verse is going to judge a talent contest here in town? So . . . remember that baton-twirling routine we did as kids?”

“Yeah, I remember the routine. I have the scars on my head to prove it.”

Nikki, at the budding age of ten, had watched a college bowl parade and decided we needed to become baton twirlers. With her long arms and legs, she’d been a natural. But a short, impatient redhead who was unable to catch a spinning shaft of metal wasn’t. I spent most of that summer ducking and running.

“Besides,” I told Nikki, “no one would even know what a baton twirler is nowadays.”

“Then how about a piano duet of ‘Heart and Soul’?”

“Bye, Nik.” I ended the call and said, “Nikki’s on it.”

As I tucked my phone into my purse, Marco pointed across the highway and to the west. “See that?” he said. “Lipinski’s office and parking lot are visible from here. Darla Mae would have been able to tell when he was there alone.”

“And done what about it? Jogged to his office on her break, carrying a bottle of pills? Besides, the Lip wouldn’t have given her the time of day.”

“Not necessarily. Think about the kind of man the Lip was, Abby. If Darla Mae had called him just before closing time on Monday, asking for his help, I’m betting he would have stayed late to see her. It would have stroked his ego to have her come to him for assistance.”

“I’m sure it would have. The thing is, I didn’t get any bad vibes from Darla Mae, and you know I usually do when someone is guilty.”

“I’m curious about something,” Marco said. “When did you start noticing these vibes? Was it before or after you got hit on the head by your baton?”

“Are you making fun of my vibes?”

Marco’s mouth curved devilishly. “What do you say we pay Mr. Chapper a visit?”

“Now there’s a guy with bad vibes. I’d really love to go, Marco, but I’d better get back to Bloomers. Can we make it after five o’clock instead?”

Marco reached over and looped a finger under the chain just inside the neck of my shirt, drawing out the ring so he could see it. Then he tugged me toward him for a kiss.

I took that as a yes.

 

 

As Marco dropped me off in front of Bloomers, I noticed a bunch of young people lined up in front of a large tent, as though waiting for admission. The jugglers and acrobats were back, too, performing for the people in line, along with the ad hoc brass band, which was playing a very bad rendition of a John Philip Sousa march while parading back and forth in front of the courthouse. All of it was being filmed by cameramen.

I approached Bloomers cautiously. I wasn’t usually afraid to enter my flower shop, but now I found myself peering through the window first to see if I could spot the transformed Lottie—just in case I needed to brace myself. It was always better to be prepared. I’d learned that lesson from my mother’s art. But the only people I saw were a pair of women browsing among the gift items.

“Aunt Abby!”

I turned to see Tara and her three friends dashing across Franklin in their pink rapper outfits. “Aunt Abby,” she said breathlessly, “did you hear about Cody agreeing to judge the talent contest?” At the mention of Cody’s name, they bounced up and down in excitement. “We just signed up for it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked.

“The teachers let everyone who wanted to enter the contest take time off,” Tara said. “My mom drove us downtown.”

Why hadn’t teachers been that cool when I was a kid?

“We’re going to perform our rap,” one of her friends said. “If we win, we get to meet Cody in person.”

“We’re not sure which one to do,” another friend said. “We have to rehearse them first.”

“If we can find a
place
to rehearse,” Tara said, swinging back to look at me with big, hopeful eyes. “Like your coffee-and-tea parlor.”

“Tara, I’d love to help, but we always have customers in the parlor.”

“It’ll be after hours.” She gave me a hug. “Please? The first round is tomorrow.”

“Please?” her friends echoed, their hands folded together in supplication.

“We’ll help out in the shop after school,” Tara volunteered, receiving eager nods from her fellow rapperettes.

Cool
.
Extra hands in the shop. “What time could you be here?”

“I can be here at three o’clock,” one of the friends said.

“Me, too,” Tara said, “except on Monday.” She made a face. “Piano lessons.”

“I can be here at four,” another friend said, “after ballet lessons.”

“I can be here at four, too,” the last one said. “I have band practice after school.”

“Can you serve coffee and tea?” I asked them.

“Yes!” they said in unison.

“Okay,” I said, “so how about two of you work in the parlor starting at three o’clock, followed by the other two at four. Then after five o’clock, the parlor is yours—as long as an adult is with you.”

Leaving me free after three o’clock to work on the investigation.

“We’ve got that covered,” Tara said. “My mom is going to come down at five today, and the other moms will take their turns starting tomorrow.”

“You certainly came prepared,” I said.

“We want to win the contest,” one of the girls said.

“So show us what to do,” Tara said. “We’ll start right now.”

“I’ll let Grace handle that.” I held the door open for them. “Head for the parlor, girls.”

I followed behind them, still waiting for a glimpse of Lottie. Grace was making a fresh brew behind the coffee counter and glanced up in surprise when the four girls surrounded her, chattering excitedly.

“Grace,” I said, stepping through the circle, “how would you like to have some help in the afternoon?”

“That would be lovely,” Grace said, smiling at them. She was such a trouper.

“Would you be able to show them what to do this afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” Grace said. “First, Tara, would you perform introductions, please?”

Tara pointed around the semicircle. “Sarah. Beth. Jamie. This is Mrs. Bingham.”

“Hello, Mrs. Bingham,” they said in unison.

“How fortunate you’re wearing your lovely pink caps,” Grace said. “We won’t need to pull your hair back. Would you like to wash your hands, please, so we can get started?”

“Are you okay with the girls helping?” I asked Grace while the girls were washing up. “I thought it would free you up to work in the shop so that I can spend more time on Dave’s case.”

“It’s a splendid idea, love,” Grace said. “It will also allow me the opportunity to mold these girls into well-mannered young women, something I find sadly lacking these days.” She glanced around at the doorway, then said conspiratorially, “Have you seen Lottie yet?”

“No. She wasn’t in the shop. How did her makeover go?”

Grace thought for a moment, then said, “As Sir Francis Bacon put it, ‘There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.’”

Strangeness? Uh-oh.

“But you should judge for yourself, love.” Grace turned my shoulders toward the doorway. “Lottie’s back.”

 

 

Lottie was ringing up a purchase at the cash register. “Thank you, ladies,” she said, handing the customers a receipt. “Visit us again.” She saw me and stepped around the counter, pivoting to model her new look. “Well? What do you think?”

That the horror movie had followed me to Bloomers. At least I had the presence of mind not to drop my jaw again.

Starting at the top, Lottie’s brassy golden-red curls were now starched and straightened into a layered bob that stuck out all around her head at a forty-five-degree angle. Her thick, pale eyebrows had been plucked into sharp, maple brown tents. Her eyelids sported supershimmery olive green shadow, and her eyes were heavily rimmed with black kohl eyeliner, giving her a Cleopatra look. Her round face had acquired instant cheekbones through shading in a dark bronzer topped with swipes of peach shimmer, and her lips were a glossy persimmon.

Then came her outfit. Instead of her usual small pink hoop earrings, she now sported huge chandeliers made of silver that brushed the tops of her shoulders and must have felt like lead weights dangling from her lobes. The earrings were accompanied by at least four heavy silver chains that filled the V-neck of her olive green knit baby-doll top—not a good look for a woman of Lottie’s size unless she was pregnant.

Over the green shirt she wore a ruffled black sweater vest that was short in back and hung to her knees in front, and in place of her jeans she had on a pencil skirt in a black pinstripe, with black high-heeled platform shoes that gave her the appearance of having clubfeet. Lottie was a big woman. She didn’t need added height.

Thank goodness I was an expert at disguising my feelings. “Who is this fashion plate?” I cried, putting my hands to my face. “Lottie, I can’t believe the transformation. A. Mazing!”

She giggled like a girl. “Aw, come on, it isn’t that much of a change.”

Yes, it was, and not a good one. I wasn’t sure what Jillian had had in mind at the outset, but I doubted this was it. I found myself hoping Lottie’s husband, Herman, was taking his heart medicine faithfully. He’d need a reserve of it tonight.

“What do
you
think of it?” I asked her.

“Well,” Lottie said thoughtfully, “I’ll admit it takes some getting used to, and it’s going to be a lot of extra work because I have to starch my hair every morning and use a straightening iron on it, but Jillian promised I’d be the trendiest woman on the square.” She turned carefully on her club-footed shoes so I could get a 360-degree view. “Who says a woman my age can’t wear the latest fashions?”

Many, many smart people.

 

 

Tara and her friends were hard at work when I left the shop a little after four o’clock that afternoon. Grace had worked with the girls for the first half hour, then monitored them for the next, so that by the time I was ready to go, they were bustling around the parlor on their own, refilling coffee cups, pouring tea, taking orders for scones, and chatting with customers, who thought they were delightful.