Dirty Rotten Tendrils (7 page)

“Okay, girls,” Lottie said, “I’m off for a quick lunch at the Deli.”

“Correction,” I said. “Ye Olde Deli.”

Lottie rolled her eyes as she headed out the yellow door.

 

 

Ten orders had come in for a funeral the next day, with a viewing that evening. Lottie had finished three arrangements while I was out, so that afternoon, while Grace served tea and scones to the poetry club and Lottie waited on customers in the shop, I hurried to complete the remaining arrangements so I’d be done in time for Dave’s meeting.

At three o’clock, we loaded the flowers into the back of our rented minivan; then Lottie headed off to the Happy Dreams Funeral Home to deliver them. With Grace still serving customers in the parlor, I manned the shop, taking orders, ringing up purchases—and glancing at the clock, wondering why Mom hadn’t put in an appearance yet. Even the poets had given up and gone home. What could I do? Mom would be hurt if I left before she got there.

But as the hour hand moved closer to the four, I had no choice. As soon as Lottie returned, I headed for the workroom to retrieve my coat. Then I heard the bell over the door jingle, and my mom say, “Goodness, what a day this has been.”

Fudge.
Twenty minutes until the meeting with the Lip started and now Mom shows up. I couldn’t sneak out the back way, either, because those rusty old door hinges would give me away. I’d just have to keep my eye on the time.

“Maureen,” I heard Grace say, “how lovely of you to drop by. Did you bring something for us?”

I tiptoed to the curtain to peek out, watching as Mom began to take tissue-paper-wrapped items from a shopping bag and set them on a display table. They appeared to be the components of a cute ceramic tea set—a pot that resembled a giant strawberry, with four little berry cups, a sugar bowl, and a creamer to match. Great! She had returned to her pottery wheel. I could deliver a few honest compliments and be on my way.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, striding through the curtain. “Let’s see what you made. Oh, how pretty! You outdid yourself this time.”

“Abby, dear,” Grace said in a tone I should have recognized as a warning.

But I forged recklessly ahead, almost giddy with relief that at last Mom had made something completely normal. “I mean it, Mom. This has to be your best work yet. Your attention to detail is amazing. Look at this. The top of the pot is the stem and leaves of the strawberry. And look at these cute little berry cups. We should have no problem selling this set. I might even buy it for myself.”

I suddenly caught sight of Lottie standing to one side, gesturing for me to zip my lips. What had I said?

“I bought the tea set at Target,” Mom said.

I blinked hard, trying to absorb the magnitude of my gaff. I glanced at Grace for help, but she had apparently decided to let me sink. She went to the door and held it open while Mom stepped outside and wheeled in what I could only describe as an enormous golf tee. I turned to see Lottie slipping through the purple curtain. Coward.

The giant wooden tee was about two and a half feet tall and finished with a coat of glossy ivory paint. It had a circular flat top less than two feet in diameter and a tapering stem that was planted in a circle of artificial turf edged with inch-high brass filigree. Brass casters on the bottom gave it mobility, and a wooden golf club attached to the base served as a handle of sorts.

“This,” Mom said proudly, “is what I made.”

But what was it made
for
? I glanced at Grace again, this time with a pleading look.

“What a lovely tea cart,” Grace said.

A
tee
tea cart? “And an exceptionally ingenious one at that,” I said, gushing a little too hard.

Mom ignored me. I knew I’d hurt her feelings. She placed the pot and cups on top of the cart and stepped back. “I call my art
Tee Time
. It’s designed with golfers in mind.”

“Quite clever,” Grace said.

“And so—practical!” I kissed her cheek, discreetly checking my watch. Quarter of four. “Unfortunately I have to go to a meeting now, Mom. Why don’t you stay and try some of Grace’s new coffee blend?”

“You don’t like the cart, do you?” Mom asked bluntly.

“Why would you think that?” I asked, trying to look offended.

The bell jingled and my thirteen-year-old niece, Tara, bounced in. She was dressed like a half-pint rap artist in a hot pink satin baseball jacket and cap, balloonlike cargo pants that sported pockets on the legs big enough to accommodate baby kangaroos, and white sneakers that were barely visible beneath the voluminous pant legs.

“Hi, Grandma,” she said, giving my mom a hug. “Awesome tea cart.”

Brat.

“Thank you, Tara,” Mom said, shooting me a look.

“Hi, Grace. Hey, Aunt Abby.” Tara headed straight for the parlor, where I soon heard a chair being pulled out.

“Tara, what are you doing here?” Mom called. “I thought you had piano lessons at three thirty on Mondays.”

“Just a minute,” came the muttered reply.

“I hope Tara’s not ditching,” Mom said. “It’s important to learn a musical instrument to get a well-rounded education.” This from a woman who grew up on a farm where instruments were saw blades and empty jugs.

She said to Grace, “My boys took to the piano like ducks to water. They have those long surgeons’ fingers, you know.”

Probably why they became surgeons and not pianists.

“Abby, you enjoyed piano lessons, didn’t you?” Mom asked.

Three years of torture enhanced by a piano teacher with green teeth whose breath smelled like sour tobacco. “Loved them. Listen, Mom, about your tea cart. I really, really—”

“I know. You like it. Now would you ask Tara why she isn’t at her piano lessons? She’ll tell
you
.”

I was about to reply that
she
was the grandma and therefore the in loco parentis, with emphasis on the loco, but since I’d already offended Mom once that day, I thought better of it. I glanced at my watch. It would be a ten-minute drive to Lipinski’s office. How was I going to make that meeting now?

“Abby,” Grace said, “shall I call and find out if the meeting has started? Perhaps they’re running late.”

I gave her a quick nod. Grace hurried toward the workroom, and I headed for the parlor. Tara had parked herself in a chair at one of the white ice cream tables in front of the bay window and was busy working her cell phone keys.

“What happened to your piano lesson?” I asked, walking up to the table.

“Codycation,” Tara replied without looking up.

“What?”

“Cody. Cation.” Her fingers flew over the tiny keypad.

I put my hand over the screen. “What’s a
codycation
?”

“A day off because Cody’s in town. Now can I finish my tweet?” She narrowed her eyes at me. It was like looking at a younger version of myself—same flame red hair, same freckles, same green eyes, and same feisty temperament.

“The piano teacher gave you a day off because of Cody Verse being in town?”

She shifted her gaze away. “Kind of.”

Translation: She ditched.

“Can I please finish now? I’m the official Cody Tweeter, and your window is the perfect lookout.”

I removed my hand from her phone. “You’re too late. Cody left the square at noon.”

“He’s coming back.”

“Not until the hearing resumes, and that won’t be until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Wrong. Cody and Lila are coming to the square at six o’clock tonight to sign autographs. See their tent?” She pointed out the window.

I leaned over for a look. Sure enough, a big green-and-white-striped tent was being erected on the lawn in front of the courthouse, and a crowd had gathered to watch. The TV news vans were back, too. “We lock up the flower shop at five o’clock, Tara, and I have plans this evening.”

Grace came through the doorway. “I’m sorry to report that the meeting has started.”

Which meant I was out of luck, since I couldn’t very well barge in. I sank down on another chair at the table, hoping Dave didn’t do or say anything rash.

Tara’s flying thumbs paused. “Please let me stay, Aunt Abby. I won’t touch anything. I’ll just sit here tweeting.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Mom said, pulling out a chair at the table.

“What about Grandpa?” Tara asked.

“Grandpa is perfectly capable of making himself a sandwich. Abigail, leave me a set of keys, and I’ll lock up when Tara is done.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” Tara said, smiling at her. “You’re awesome.”

“And
you
have to make up your missed piano lesson,” Mom said, wagging her index finger at Tara even while she beamed at the compliment.

“I’ll put on some coffee for you before I leave, Maureen,” Grace said cheerfully, heading for the counter at the back.

“Y’all have a good evening,” Lottie called to us on her way out.

Terrific. Everyone was happy, if you didn’t count me. I took myself back to the workroom to finish the orders on the spindle before my six o’clock dinner date with Marco. At least that was something to look forward to.

 

 

At five o’clock it started to rain. By five thirty the rain had turned into a full-blown thunderstorm, with wind gusts up to twenty-five miles an hour, eardrum-shattering claps of thunder, and jagged bolts of lightning that had our electricity blinking.

I checked on Tara and Mom and found them packing up. “The signing was called off,” Mom said. “Severe storm warnings are out. I’m going to take Tara home.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow after school,” Tara promised.

“Can’t wait,” I said.

As I watched them dash to Mom’s car, the phone rang. I locked the door, then hurried to answer it at the cashier counter. “Bloomers Flower Shop. How may I help you?”

“Abby,” Martha said, “have you heard from Dave?”

“No, why?”

“He didn’t come back to the office after his meeting with Attorney Lipinski, and he’d said he would. I thought maybe you’d spotted him around the square or he’d stopped by Bloomers to talk to you about the meeting, since you’d volunteered to help him with the case.”

“I haven’t seen him. Maybe he went straight home.”

“I called his house, but Peg hasn’t heard from him either. I phoned Lipinski’s office and no one answered, but it’s after five o’clock, so everyone’s probably gone for the day. I tried Dave’s cell phone, too, but he isn’t picking up. I don’t know whether to be worried or not.”

“He could have stopped at the grocery store on his way home,” I said. “My cell phone cuts out in some stores. Maybe his does, too.”

There was a pause and then Martha said, “You’re right. I’m sure it’s something as simple as that. Anyway, if you should hear from him, tell him I got the complaint filed and within an hour had a call from a reporter who somehow got wind of it. I wanted Dave to be prepared.”

“Will do, Martha. And, likewise, if you hear from him, please let me know.” As I hung up, I spotted Mom’s tee cart in the middle of the showroom floor. I pushed it into the corner beside a tall dieffenbachia and hoped a golfer with a tea habit would come in to order flowers.

In the workroom I sat down at the computer to look up information about a new variety of rose I wanted to order. But I kept thinking about how upset Dave had been, and then I started to worry. What if he’d suffered a heart attack after meeting with the Lip? What if he’d blacked out while driving home and was lying in a ditch somewhere, unable to call for help?

I had fifteen minutes until I was supposed to meet Marco, time enough to make the drive from Lipinski’s office to Dave’s house. I put on my coat, took our spare umbrella from the workroom, locked the door, and got ready to race around the corner to the public parking lot.

Then I remembered my Vette was parked three blocks away.

I opened the door and a gust of wind tore the umbrella from my hand. I stepped back into the recessed doorway and watched it tumble wildly up the sidewalk. Damn!

I went back inside, tore off a big piece of clear wrap, covered my head with it, then stepped outside, locked the door, and hurried up the sidewalk to Down the Hatch. The wind snatched the wrap before I could dash inside.

The bar was full and the television was tuned to a sports channel, so no one heard me enter. I made my way through the people standing three-deep along the counter and discovered Marco mixing drinks behind the bar. He smiled when he saw me, then called over the noise, “Hey, there’s my ray of sunshine. Wait for me in my office. I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

I motioned for him to come down to the open end of the bar.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Dave’s been out of contact since his meeting with Lipinski. Martha’s been trying to reach him, and his wife hasn’t heard from him, either. Something’s happened to him, Marco. I feel it in my gut.”

“Give me five minutes and then we’ll go look for him.”