Dirty Rotten Tendrils (9 page)

“That’s not a good sign, Marco.”

“But no reason to panic, either. As far as Reilly knows, the detectives are talking to everyone Lipinski saw yesterday. And at such an early stage they won’t rule anyone out, Dave included. This is all part of a routine investigation.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing to be alarmed about, even if Dave was the last one to see the Lip alive?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Connor McKay. He stopped me this morning before work.”

We checked for traffic, then started across the street. “You didn’t tell McKay anything I said to you earlier, did you?” Marco asked.

“I know to be careful around him.”

“Good, because I’d hate for reporters to start nosing around in Dave’s private life. You know how they can slant a story to make even an innocent person look like a serial killer.”

“At least Dave has a good alibi.”

“Not really, Abby. His mom has Alzheimer’s. She wouldn’t be a reliable witness.”

“But people at the nursing home could verify that Dave was there. In fact, why don’t we drive over there right now and see how many we can find?”

“Not a good idea. Dave will let us know if he needs our help.”

But what if Dave didn’t know he needed it?

“Listen, babe, I’ve got to get back to the bar. If I hear anything new I’ll call you.”

“Okay.” I raised up onto my toes to kiss him. “Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Yep. Let’s make it six.”

Perfect. That would give me a small window of time in which to drive to the nursing home and find a few witnesses. Just in case.

T
ara showed up after school and immediately installed herself in the coffee-and-tea parlor at a table by the window. She came equipped with her cell phone, a bag of banana chips, a bottle of water, and a pair of her dad’s binoculars.

“Anything happening?” I asked, stopping at her table to grab a chip.

“Not yet.” She put the binocs down and tapped letters on her cell phone screen.

“If nothing’s happening, what are you writing?”

“
Nothing happening
.” She rolled her eyes, stuck a chip in her mouth, and peered through the binocs again.

“Do you expect anything to happen? I mean, given that Cody’s attorney just died, I’d think Cody would wait a day or so to do any publicity events out of respect for the man.”

“Nope. Cody is going to hold a memorial signing at seven o’clock this evening.”

“A memorial
signing
?”

“That’s what I heard.” She put down the binoculars and typed another message. I peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing. It said,
Stl nthng hppng.

“Why is Cody even sticking around town? He won’t have to appear at the status hearing, and he has to be bored after living the glam life in LA.”

Tara sighed, as if she were the mom and I the dimwitted child. “Aunt Abby, have you noticed the TV cameras following him everywhere? Cody wouldn’t get that kind of publicity in LA. Every other person is a star of some kind there. But in his hometown he’s a superstar. He’ll make the cover of all the teen mags, with headlines like AMERICA’S NEXT HIT SINGLE STAR GOES HOME, and weepy stuff like that.”

“How come you know so much about publicity?”

“Reality shows.” Tara glanced out the window, then typed in,
City trucks arrvd!!

Wow. Big news. “Is Grandma coming to stay with you when I lock up this evening?”

“My mom’s coming. She wants to go to the signing, too.” Tara picked up the binocs and surveyed the activity. “Did you hear that Aunt Jillian is going to take Lila Redmond shopping?”

“It’s wishful thinking, Tara.”

Tara didn’t answer. She was typing,
Tent going up!!

I went back to my workroom. The excitement was too much for me.

 

 

Before locking up for the day, Grace, Lottie, and I said good-bye to Tara and my sister-in-law Kathy, who was working a sudoku puzzle while Tara tweeted, then headed our separate ways. I hurried up the sidewalk to Lincoln and then went two blocks east, past the Daily Grind coffee shop to an out-of-the-way public parking lot—the only place I could find to park that morning. I had forty-five minutes to find a few witnesses and get back to Down the Hatch, but I didn’t foresee any difficulties with that.

Whispering Willows Retirement Village consisted of four long, tan brick, one-story buildings that made a large square. In the center was a small garden with benches and a fountain and a few picnic tables. One of the buildings was devoted strictly to Alzheimer’s patients, and it was there I headed.

The sign on the door said visiting hours were from one o’clock in the afternoon until seven at night. Entering the lobby through wide glass doors that swooshed open as I approached, I saw a counter at the back of the large reception area where a woman seemed to be helping three people sort out some paperwork. Around the room were clusters of comfy chairs, areas where family members could congregate, plus a beverage table with a coffeemaker, paper cups, condiments, and two pitchers of water.

I stood behind the people at the counter for several minutes, then grew tired of waiting and headed up a long hallway to see if I could find someone else to help me. I passed several offices on the way, but the doors were closed. At the end of the hallway was a recreation center with two rows of reclining chairs facing a big-screen TV, four game tables, a wall of shelves filled with books, and two nurses working with patients. No one looked up to see who had entered. No one stopped me when I left.

I returned to the reception counter, but the same three people were still engaged in conversation with the receptionist. I finally stepped up beside them and said, “Excuse me?”

They all looked around, surprised to see a stranger there.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I just want to ask a couple of quick questions.”

“Of course, honey,” the receptionist said. They all smiled at me. And waited.

“In private,” I said to her, “if you don’t mind.”

She stepped around the long maple counter and we moved a short distance away to talk. The woman appeared to be in her early seventies, and was round and plump, with permed white hair, kind brown eyes, and a name tag that said
Nadine
. “How can I help you?”

“I’m doing some investigative work for Attorney David Hammond. I’m sure you know his mother, Mabel, a resident here.”

Nadine gazed at me, apparently waiting for more.

“I’m looking for people who saw Dave here yesterday. Any chance you can help me out?”

“Well, let me think where I was yesterday. I work afternoons and evenings three days a week, that being Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and then I’m off on Thursdays—that’s when I get my hair done. Thursdays at the beauty salon aren’t as busy as other days, lucky for me. And then on Fridays, I attend a stretching class before—”

I didn’t need her bio. “So you’ll help?”

“Yes,” she replied, as though shocked by the interruption.

“Do you remember Attorney Hammond coming in yesterday after five o’clock?”

Nadine blinked at me for several moments, until I started to fear she’d either gone deaf or had a stroke. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Could you check your visitor log? Maybe he came in while you were out of the room.”

“We don’t keep a visitor log.”

“How do you keep track of visitors?”

“We don’t. Funny thing, though. A reporter asked me the same question earlier.” She pursed her lips. “Now what was his name? Connolly? Conrad? Oh, pickles, I almost had it.”

“Connor?”

“That’s it. Connor.”

Darn that McKay. I wanted to pickle him!

“Connor said he was doing background information for an article on Alzheimer’s patients. Now that I think about it, he seemed particularly interested in Mabel Hammond’s case, asking how often her family visited and whether she was able to recognize them. As I told him, it’s just her son and daughter now, because her husband passed away last year, although I hadn’t seen either one of them in the past few days.”

Pickles!
Connor would be all over that. Why had I let it slip where Dave had gone?

“I told him he could talk to Mabel’s family if he wanted to know more,” Nadine said. “My, but he had the most gorgeous eyes.”

I glanced at my watch. Five twenty. That didn’t leave enough time to search for more witnesses. “Thank you for your help, Nadine.”

She pointed to my left hand. “I noticed there’s no ring on your finger. You should make a play for that Connor. He’s a handsome devil.”

I agreed with the devil part. I just hoped there wasn’t hell to pay for my slip of the tongue.

 

 

When I stepped into Down the Hatch, every eye in the place was glued to television sets mounted on the wall at either end of the bar. The local news was on, and given the photo of Lipinski being shown on the screen, I knew the topic.

“Earlier today,” one of the news anchors reported, “police removed several bags of evidence from Mr. Lipinski’s law office, but they say it will be days before they’ve had a chance to comb through everything. Meanwhile, at a press conference, Chief Prosecutor Melvin Darnell had this to say:”

The screen switched to a clip of an interview with the DA. “If there is a crime here,” he said, striking the podium with his fist, “we will uncover it. If there is a murderer here, we will ferret him or her out. Justice will be served. I promise you that.”

Blah, blah, blah. No answers, just more rhetoric.

Marco was behind the bar and didn’t realize I’d come in until I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw me. “Hey, Fireball. How’s my girl?” Then, putting an arm around me, he went back to listening to the news report, where the anchor was now saying:

“Reporter Charity James caught up with Attorney Lipinksi’s secretary, Joan Campbell, as she was leaving police headquarters this afternoon, to ask her about the possibility of foul play.”

“No comment,” Joan said stiffly, trying to dodge the mics shoved in her face.

“What was Mr. Lipinski doing when you left the office?” Charity asked.

“Having a meeting with Attorney Hammond.”

“Do you know what that meeting was about?”

“They were discussing a case.”

“Regarding Mr. Lipinski’s client, Cody Verse?” Charity asked, trying to keep up with her. “I would imagine that was quite a heated meeting, considering what happened in court.”

“No comment.”

“Is it true Mr. Hammond filed a complaint with the bar association against Mr. Lipinski over claims that your employer removed a piece of evidence from Attorney Hammond’s file?”

“A complaint was filed, yes.”

“Was anyone else in the building when you left for the day?”

“Just the two attorneys, as far as I know,” Joan answered.

Charity James turned back to the camera and said dramatically, “A heated meeting. Two angry attorneys. One of them now dead. This is Charity James reporting from in front of the New Chapel police headquarters.”

Talk about slanting a story. She’d just tipped it on its side.

 

 

Marco ushered me to the last booth and motioned for Gert to bring two beers.

“That was just wrong,” I fumed. “Dave’s complaint against Lipinski should have been kept quiet. It makes him look like a man with an ax to grind.”

“Take it easy,” Marco said, reaching across the table for my hand. “You know the media loves to pump up a story. The evidence will prove Dave’s innocence.”

“It better!” I sat back and folded my arms in front of me. What a way to ruin a dinner.

Gert brought our beers, then pulled out her tablet. “Can I get you kids anything to eat?”

“I’ll have a turkey burger and sweet potato fries,” I said.

“A bowl of chili,” Marco said. “Thanks, Gert.”

Marco took his bottle and touched it to mine. “To justice for Dave,” he said, then took a drink. I let mine sit. I was too upset to swallow.

“I hope Dave will hire legal counsel to represent him,” I said, “if there’s a problem.”

“The last time I spoke with him, he said he’s an experienced defense lawyer and if the need arises he can handle it himself.”

Yet, as Dave often said, a lawyer who represented himself had a fool for a client.

I finally took a sip of beer, trying to tune out the talking heads on the television, but then I heard the news anchor say, “Now, from Connor McKay, our man-on-the-street reporter, who caught up with local florist Abby Knight—”

What?

I glanced up at the television, saw my face in a box on the screen, and felt my stomach going south. Luckily, Marco was listening to a message on his cell phone.

“You’ll never guess what Cody Verse has planned for tonight,” I remarked when he shut his phone, hoping to distract him until Connor’s piece was over. “A memorial signing. Nothing like taking advantage of a situation to do some self-promotion.”