Dirty Rotten Tendrils (8 page)

M
arco’s green Prius was parked in the alley behind the bar. We dashed out the back door in the rain and slid inside; then as we headed for the Lip’s office, I filled Marco in on Martha’s phone call. “It just isn’t like Dave not to call his wife if he’s going to be late,” I said.

“Maybe Dave had such a bad day that he needed to cool off before he talked to her.”

“Is that a male thing? Because the female thing is to talk to somebody in order to cool off.”

“Male thing.”

Silly males.

The Lipinski building was on the state highway just south of town, a short ten-minute drive. It was a two-story Federal-style redbrick building with high, narrow windows, black shutters, a white portico, and gigantic gold letters on a big sign in front that said LAW OFFICES OF LIPINSKI & LIPINSKI, even though only one Lipinski was in residence.

There had been two Lipinskis at one time, but the Lip and his father had parted in a fight so bitter that the elder Lipinski had
de
parted soon after. The Lip’s brother hadn’t spoken to him since their father’s passing, nor had the extended family. Lipinski had one child, Ken Junior, by a former mistress. Little Kenny was supposed to follow him into the practice, but instead ended up in prison. Then there was Darla Mae, the wife Lipinski had divorced five years earlier, after a yearlong battle over marital assets that included a Bentley, a million-dollar “cottage” overlooking Lake Michigan, and a Labradoodle named TuLip, all of which the Lip got.

The rain was letting up as Marco pulled into the deserted parking lot and circled the darkened building, but we saw no sign of Dave’s car. We headed back toward New Chapel, taking a route Dave would likely follow to get home, then tried several variations, with no luck.

Out of ideas, we returned to Down the Hatch and sat in the last booth to discuss the situation over dinner. I didn’t have much appetite until the Reuben sandwich arrived—two hearty slices of rye bread browned on the grill, with thin slices of hot, tender corned beef, sauerkraut, melted Swiss cheese, and brown mustard—and then suddenly I realized how hungry I was. Marco ordered two microbrewed beers for us, so before we started on our food, he clinked his bottle to mine and said, “To Dave’s safe return.” We drank to that, and then Marco picked up his hamburger.

“Don’t we have something else to celebrate?” I asked.

Marco paused, his burger almost to his mouth. Then he put it down, sat back, and scratched his nose, as though slightly embarrassed. “There’s been a slight delay, so let’s celebrate tomorrow night instead.”

“Okay. Tomorrow night.” I took a bite of sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “So, what caused the delay?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow night. How was your day?”

He was evading my question, but I decided he must have a surprise up his sleeve, so I dropped the topic. Over dinner, I told him about my mom’s tee cart, Tara’s new career, and the Cody signing event that had been canceled.

As we were finishing our meal, Martha called on my cell phone. “Abby,” she said, “Dave is home. I just spoke with Peg. Apparently he stopped to visit his mother in the nursing home and his cell phone doesn’t always work there.”

I gave Marco a thumbs-up. “Wonderful! Did he say how his meeting went?”

“I didn’t speak with him,” Martha said. “Peg said he walked in the door, told her he’d fill her in later, and went to take a shower.”

“I’ll call him at work tomorrow, then. Thanks for letting me know.” I put my phone in my purse, feeling extremely relieved. Dave was fine. Nothing bad had happened.

 

 

A mosquito was buzzing around my head. I kept swatting it, but the pesky bug kept coming back. I finally felt it land and smacked my forehead to kill it. The pain woke me. I sat up and realized it wasn’t a mosquito at all, but my cell phone vibrating on my dresser. Simon, Nikki’s white cat, was perched behind it, tail curled around his lean body, watching the phone jiggle across the wood surface. He gave it a push with his paw, then watched as it fell to the carpet.

“Simon!”

He glanced at me in that innocent way all cats have, as though to say,
What? It was headed in that direction, anyway.

As I scrambled for the phone, I glanced at my clock. Six thirty in the morning. Time for me to get up. I saw Marco’s name on my caller ID, which surprised me, since he’d had another late night of surveillance work. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him until ten o’clock or later. “Marco?”

“Hey, Sunshine.” His voice sounded tired, but also tight. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not a problem. What’s up?”

“Your gut feeling was right. Something happened last night.”

My stomach knotted. My instincts were rarely wrong. “Is it Dave? Is he okay?”

“Dave’s fine, but Ken Lipinski is dead.”

“What!”

“The cause of death is unknown at this point. A secretary at his office discovered him first thing this morning slumped over his desk. She called an ambulance, but by then he’d been dead for several hours. The autopsy is scheduled for nine o’clock this morning. Then we’ll know more.”

Unbidden, my mind leaped to a horrible thought that Dave had gotten so angry he’d choked Lipinski. But no, that was impossible. Dave wasn’t a violent person. I felt guilty for even thinking it. “Let me know what you hear, okay?”

“Will do.” Marco yawned. “I’m going to try to get a few more hours of sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”

It wasn’t the best way to start my day, and it didn’t get any better when I found news crews parked all around the square, including in front of Bloomers, taking up valuable customer spaces. Reporters were interviewing passersby while they waited for a press conference that was scheduled for later that morning.

“Abby, wait up!” Connor McKay called.

I pulled my coat tighter against the brisk spring wind as he jogged toward me from the courthouse lawn. He had on a tan zip-front suede jacket, brown pants, and sneakers, and was pulling out a notebook as he arrived breathlessly before me.

“What do you hear about Lipinski?” he asked, his seafoam green eyes searching mine.

“Who are you working for today, McKay? The
News
or WNCN-TV?”

“Does that matter?” He tried his Prince Charming smile on me, but I merely scowled back. Looking over Connor’s shoulder, I spotted a photographer on the opposite side of the street, adjusting his lens, so I moved to let Connor block me from the camera’s view.

“So what’s the buzz?” he asked. “I’m sure you’ve been in touch with your former boss, or at least your buddy on the police force.”

As if I’d tell Connor anything. But he would never believe I hadn’t gotten the news somewhere. “Sorry. All I know is what I heard on the radio.”

“Yeah, right.” Connor gave me a wink. “Come on, Abby, strictly off the record—what’s Dave Hammond’s involvement?”

“Why would you think Dave is involved?”

“Rumors, kid. Rumors and innuendos. You know how the gossips are in this town.”

“And just what are these rumormongers saying?”

“That the Cody Verse lawsuit could have made Dave a wealthy man, secured his retirement, but the Lip cut him off at the knees in court yesterday, so Dave cut him off for good last night. Personally, I understand how the Lip’s actions could make a man snap—”

“Lipinski didn’t cut Dave off at the knees, McKay, and Dave certainly didn’t kill him. You’re fishing now.”

“So toss me a tuna, baby. Is it true Dave was incommunicado all evening? That he was the last to see Lipinski alive?”

The last? Dear God, please don’t let that be true!
“Not true at all.”

“So you
have
spoken to him?”

“No! Look, all I know is that Dave Hammond went to see his mom at Whispering Willows after his meeting with Lipinski, then went straight home. So if anything is going to be cut off at the knees, how about those nasty rumors? Attorneys face each other in court every day. They don’t kill each other afterward.”

“If you say so, sweetheart, it’s good enough for me. So what were
you
doing yesterday evening, Freckles, other than missing out on dinner with me?”

“Good-bye, McKay.” I unlocked the yellow door and slipped inside, locking it behind me. The photographer appeared to be taking photos of Bloomers, so I stepped back out of sight.

“Was that the reporter who jerked you around last fall?” Lottie asked. She was standing in front of the big bay window where we displayed a continuous rotation of flower arrangements.

“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m wise to him. He’ll never get anything useful from me again.”

“Some news about the Lip, wasn’t it?” Lottie said, as I joined her at the window. “What will it do to Andrew’s case?”

“Cody Verse will have to hire another lawyer,” I said, “and the judge will have to give the new counsel time to prepare. Dave could be in for weeks, even months, of this media circus.”

“Poor Dave,” Grace said, and we all sighed in sympathy for him.

We stood at the bay window like lost souls, gazing across the street at the people milling about on the courthouse lawn, waiting for something to happen.

“Time to get on with things, then,” Grace said, and we all headed in different directions.

 

 

We were busy all morning, until suddenly around noon there was a buzz of activity on the courthouse steps as microphones were set up. The shop emptied out immediately as people rushed across the street to hear the latest news.

“Anyone want to see what’s happening?” I asked Grace and Lottie.

“You go ahead, sweetie,” Lottie said. “I’m not in any hurry to freeze my toes standing in that cold grass. Are you, Gracie?”

With their blessings, I grabbed my coat and jogged across the street just as Melvin Darnell, the chief prosecuting attorney—or DA, as the lawyers called him—stepped up to the row of microphones. “All’s Well Mel,” as he had called himself during his campaign for office, was in his late fifties, well over six feet tall, with thinning blond hair and a wholesome country-farmer appearance that belied his relentless, single-minded nature. He’d tried to pin a murder on me once, an experience I never wanted to repeat.

Today the chief prosecutor had on a gray overcoat with his U.S. flag pin prominently displayed on one lapel. Mel was always looking for a way to keep himself in the public eye so he’d be a shoo-in come the next election. This presented the perfect opportunity for him.

“Thank you all for your patience,” he began. “I understand there are a host of rumors and a great deal of speculation circulating about the cause of Mr. Lipinski’s death. We pride ourselves on the thoroughness of our investigations, and this is no exception. The facts as we know them are these: Mr. Lipinski died between five and eight o’clock yesterday evening. The preliminary autopsy report suggests that the cause of death was a toxic mix of drugs and alcohol. It is not known whether they were administered by Mr. Lipinski’s own hand or someone else’s. An investigation is being conducted at this time. We will keep you informed of any further developments.”

By Lipinski’s own hand
or someone else’s
?

At that, reporters began firing questions.

“Were the drugs prescription medications?”

“Is it true he had a weak heart?”

“Was Mr. Lipinski receiving death threats?”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Is it true Attorney Hammond was the last person to see him alive?”

That question was asked by Connor McKay.

The chief prosecutor held up his hands. “That’s all I have at this time, but if you will wait just a moment, Cody Verse’s agent, Sam Rhodes, will read a prepared statement.”

Darnell motioned for someone to come forward, at which point the bald man in the brown wool coat stepped up to the mics as cameras flashed.

“Cody Verse and Lila Redmond”—Rhodes paused as the crowd cheered—“send their deepest condolences to Mr. Lipinski’s family and will do everything in their power to see that the legal proceedings are carried out as Mr. Lipinski intended. Normally, this could take months, but as my client has a new recording contract that must be fulfilled”—more applause—“he has asked the court to allow Mr. Lipinski’s associate, Scott Hess, who is already familiar with the case, to take over.”

Hands went up and some reporters shouted out questions, but Rhodes waved them down.

“Please wait until I’ve finished. My client has also asked the court to reconsider his motion to dismiss, and I understand that there will be a status hearing on Friday to determine what will happen next. I’m sure you can all appreciate how distraught my client is, so please respect his privacy in this difficult time. I’ll take your questions now.”

I listened to the question-answer session for a few minutes, but since there was no new information, I decided to head back to Bloomers. I turned to leave and saw Marco striding toward me. I also noticed more than a few women watching him cross the lawn. He was wearing his black leather jacket, slim blue jeans, and black boots; a strikingly good-looking male, he always turned heads. Amazingly, he didn’t seem to notice. His focus was on me.

“Hey, Irish, how’s my woman this morning?”

I was oddly pleased by the question, despite its caveman feel. “You just missed the DA telling us what a great job his office does. But all he said about the Lip was that he died between five and eight o’clock last night, and that the preliminary autopsy report suggested the cause of death was a toxic mix of drugs and alcohol. He didn’t say what kind of drugs or whether they were legal, but he hinted that there might have been foul play. Have you heard anything?”

“Let’s walk back to Bloomers.” He put his arm around my shoulders and spoke in a low voice as we strolled. “I checked in with Reilly a few minutes ago,” he said, referring to Sergeant Sean Reilly, our police buddy, who had worked with Marco during his stint on the force. “His information matches what you just told me. Reilly also said that the police have Dave down at the station for questioning.”