Dirty Rotten Tendrils (30 page)

“I think he’s protecting his grandfather.”

“Are you serious? The way he talked about Herbert?”

“Talking doesn’t make it so. It could be an act.”

“If that’s an act, he fooled me. In any event, I might have been too hasty in dismissing Darla Mae.”

“Why? What happened?”

I showed him Nikki’s text message:
D M had abortion 17 yrs ago.

“That might be the sacrifice she was talking about,” Marco said.

“But only if she was forced into it. That would make a difference.”

Marco checked the time. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Let’s meet with Joan, and then we’ll track down Darla Mae and find out.”

I tried to stifle a yawn, but that never worked. “Okay,” I said, covering my mouth.

He reached over to run his thumb under my chin. “Tired?”

“Beat. But I’ll survive. This is important.”

“You don’t have to come with me, babe.”

“I want to be there.”

“Tell you what. When we get to the coffee shop, you relax with a cup of tea or cocoa—or whatever. I’ll question Joan. If you think of anything that I missed, you can jump in.”

“Okay.” I yawned again. “I don’t know how you do it, Marco. You work at the bar all day, then do your private eye work at night. You have to be exhausted by the end of the week.”

Marco didn’t say anything.

We pulled into a parking space near the coffeehouse, La Journalier Routine, and got out of the car. “What happened to the Daily Grind?” he asked.

“You’re looking at the French version.”

“Because of Cody being in town?”

“Cody and the television crews.”

“Unbelievable.”

“The realty next door to Bloomers is getting a face-lift, too. New paint and awnings, new sign. . . . In some ways Cody’s visit has been good for New Chapel. The town square is starting to look like a movie set.”

“You don’t have to worry about me getting the Cody bug.”

That was one worry I wished I had. Of all the businesses on the square, his bar needed upgrading the most. Marco had bought the old place a year ago and kept promising to redo it, but never found the time. Secretly, I suspected he liked the 1960s decor.

Marco took my hand as we walked toward the coffeehouse. It felt good to walk beside him, to have his warm, strong fingers entwined with mine. I wondered how it would be to have our lives just as tightly entwined . . . if we ever saw each other.

“I’m going to sell Down the Hatch,” he said suddenly.

Then he opened the door and we stepped inside.

M
y head was still buzzing from Marco’s startling announcement as he led me to a table and introduced me to Ken Lipinski’s secretary. Joan was probably in her midfifties, with light brown hair, small, shrewd brown eyes framed by lots of fine wrinkles, a mouth that didn’t appear given to smiling, and a jowly face. She wore a gray sweatshirt jacket over a white turtleneck, gray sweatpants, and running shoes, as though she’d paused during a run for a caffeine fix.

“Nice to meet you,” Joan said somewhat stiffly. “I’ve ordered flowers from your shop many times.”

At least that’s what I think she said. It was hard to hear over the voice in my head saying,
Marco’s going to sell his bar?

Sure, it would ease up his schedule and give us more time together, which was my biggest complaint with our relationship—or lack of one. But I just couldn’t let him do it. He’d told me once that he’d always dreamed of having his own business, and I knew he was proud of owning Down the Hatch. He might end up blaming me one day for squashing his dream.

“Abby?” Marco said, indicating the chair he’d pulled out for me. He gave me an inquisitive glance. I forced a smile and took my seat.

We ordered coffee, and then Marco eased into his questions by asking Joan how Lipinski’s staff was coping with his death.

“Scott doesn’t quite have a handle on things yet,” Joan said tactfully. “He’ll have to grow into it, I suppose.”

“I had a conversation with Heather yesterday,” Marco said.

“I heard,” Joan replied, but I couldn’t decide whether her tone was accusatory or not. Her expression and voice remained the same. “She told me about it.”

“Did she tell you about my conversation with Scott Hess?” Marco asked, as the waitress served our beverages.

“Yes, she did.”

“Hess didn’t want me inquiring into your boss’s death.”

Joan stirred sugar into her coffee, tasted it, then laid the spoon carefully alongside her saucer. “Scott isn’t the easiest person to talk to.”

Said the pot about the kettle.

“It went beyond that,” Marco said. “He was extremely defensive, and that always raises red flags with me. Do you think it’s possible that Hess had something to do with it?”

Wow. That was blunt.

Joan studied Marco, as though weighing her answer. “I’m not qualified to answer that.”

“I understand you’re accustomed to shielding your boss,” Marco said, “and Hess is now your boss, but you’re still with me on wanting Lipinski’s killer found, aren’t you?”

Joan looked down, as though ashamed. “Of course. I’m sorry if I’ve given you a different impression. This is—difficult for me.” She gave Marco a fleeting smile. “The staff calls me Mother Hen, and I guess I can be a bit overly protective.”

“All I ask is that you be honest,” Marco said.

“I know.”

“Then let me ask you again. Do you think Hess had anything to do with your boss’s death?”

“I wish I could say no, but . . . he did have a nasty argument with Mr. Lipinski. It was just before Mr. L’s trip to Los Angeles to meet with Cody Verse.”

“What was the argument about?” Marco asked.

“Scott wanted in on the case, but Mr. L wouldn’t agree, so Scott threatened to leave the firm. Mr. L told him to go, that he didn’t need him. He said lawyers like him were a dime a dozen, so Scott stormed out.” Joan sighed. “I felt sorry for Scott. He works hard but he’s never been acknowledged.”

“Did you ever talk to your boss about how he treated Scott?” I asked.

Joan glanced at me as though I’d just popped up from the North Pole. “It wasn’t my place.”

How frustrating for Scott. Maybe their argument had pushed Scott over the edge.

“Joan,” Marco said, jerking me out of my thoughts, “I’d like to talk to the secretary who found your boss’s body. I know she took time off from work. Has she returned?”

“Holly promised to come back tomorrow.”

Marco put his pen and notebook in front of her. “Would you write down her contact information?”

“I’m not sure it would be wise to talk to her yet,” Joan said as she wrote. “Holly’s only two years out of high school. She was extremely upset about finding Mr. L’s body, and then she went through hours of questioning. I’d give her another week before making her relive it.”

“The problem is,” Marco said, “our time is running out. The DA is calling for a grand jury to convene next week to decide whether Dave Hammond will be indicted.”

“Oh, dear,” Joan said, biting her lower lip. “Maybe I can answer your questions. I wasn’t the first one on the scene, but I entered Mr. L’s office shortly after Holly did.”

We ordered another round of coffee, and then Joan began.

“It was Holly’s job to bring Mr. L his coffee first thing every morning. On Tuesday morning, I was collecting the faxes that had come in overnight when Holly walked past me with his mug. She knocked on his office door twice, as she always does, then opened the door and stepped inside. Then she started screaming for help. I ran to see what had happened and that’s when I saw Mr. L”—Joan’s chin was trembling so violently, she covered it with her hand—“lying over his desk, as though he’d put his head down to nap. But his face . . . It was horrible.”

Marco let her collect herself. “What did you think had happened? Your first impression?”

“I thought he’d had a heart attack.” Joan found a tissue in her purse, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”

“What made you suspect his heart?”

“It looked like he’d collapsed. Men his age have heart attacks all the time.”

“Can you picture what was on his desktop?” Marco asked.

Joan closed her eyes. “His telephone was in the upper right-hand corner. It wasn’t off the hook. His computer monitor was on. His keyboard slides under the desktop. I don’t remember if it was out. There was a cocktail glass near his right hand. . . . That’s all I remember.”

“Was it normal for him to have a glass on his desk?”

“He liked to have a glass of bourbon around four o’clock. He always kept a decanter on the credenza behind his desk.”

“Was the glass full?” Marco asked.

She shook her head. “I think it was empty.”

“Where was his briefcase?” Marco asked as he jotted down notes.

“On a console table under the window. That’s where he kept it. I always chided him about leaving it there because he liked to have the window open a few inches, even in the winter. He couldn’t stand stale air.”

“Was his window open Monday when you left?”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” Joan said.

“Was there anything different about his office Tuesday morning?” Marco asked. “Any sign that someone else had been in that room?”

“I can’t remember. Everything happened so fast. I wasn’t even considering the possibility that he’d been murdered.”

“Do you have an outside company clean the office?” Marco asked.

“Yes, but they clean on Friday nights,” Joan replied.

“What do you know about a package that came in the mail for your boss on Monday morning?” Marco asked.

She took a sip of coffee. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but I don’t think that’s for me to say.”

Marco leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, watching her. “What if it would help us find the murderer?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel comfortable telling you. Perhaps you should talk to Mr. L’s ex-wife.”

“We have talked to her,” Marco said. “She didn’t mention anything about a package.”

Joan sighed heavily, running her fingertip around the rim of her cup. I glanced at Marco and he met my gaze briefly, giving me a look that said,
Hold on. She’ll cooperate.

“It goes against my better judgment,” Joan said, “because it touches on a subject Mr. Lipinski wanted to keep private.”

“I think your boss would understand,” Marco assured her.

“The package was from Darla Mae. It was an artist’s rendering of what their daughter would have looked like. Darla Mae sends one every year on the same date.”

“I wasn’t aware your boss and his ex-wife had ever had a child,” Marco said.

“They didn’t.” Joan shifted uncomfortably.

“Was the child aborted?” Marco prompted.

Joan nodded, eyes cast down. “Please understand, Mr. Lipinski’s reputation has never been the best, and that was just one more thing to tarnish it further. I realize that he often deserved the scorn he got, but he always treated his employees well and had many satisfied clients. I just wanted to see him buried with some dignity, that’s all.”

“Did you destroy the drawing?” Marco asked.

“I put it in the trash bin behind the building. That’s what he has me do every year.”

“When is the garbage picked up?” Marco asked.

“Wednesday mornings,” she said. Which meant the drawing had already been taken to the landfill.

“What do you know about the gift basket the police took from the office?” Marco asked.

“There were two baskets in his office when I left on Monday,” Joan said.

“I thought you told me before that there was only one basket,” Marco said.

“That’s wrong. I must have been in a fog. I saw the police carry out one basket, but I don’t know which one. I assume they took both, though, because when I was in Mr. L’s office Wednesday morning, neither one was there. I can tell you that one came last Thursday by UPS, and Mr. L brought the other one back with him after he met with Cody Verse at the hotel.”

“The basket that came by UPS.” I said, “Do you recall a return address or a company name on the box?”

“There wasn’t a sender’s name on it, but I think it came from one of those catalogs we get in the mail.”

“Could it be from A Basketful of Dreams?”

“Maybe. I’m just not sure.”

“Did you open the box?” Marco asked.

“Yes. I always opened Mr. L’s mail. He was afraid of paper cuts.” She smiled at that.

“Was there a card with the basket or anything to identify the sender?” Marco asked.

“I don’t recall seeing one.”

“Wouldn’t your boss have asked who sent it?” I asked.

Joan shook her head. “He didn’t pay any attention to things like that. If there’d been a card, I would have sent a thank-you from him.”