Dirty Rotten Tendrils (31 page)

“Did you see what was in the basket from Cody?” Marco asked.

“Yes. It had a clear wrap around it. There were various kinds of cheeses and crackers, chocolates, and a bottle of champagne. I believe that was all.”

“Are you sure it was from Cody?” I asked.

“I assumed it was.” she answered.

“Did you hear anything about an encounter your boss had with Lila Redmond?” I asked.

She gave me a quizzical gaze. “An encounter?”

“A sexual encounter.”

“I certainly did not,” Joan said tersely. She checked the time, then finished her coffee. “It’s been a long day and I have to be up early tomorrow. Are we finished?”

Marco capped his pen and put away his notebook. “I think that’ll do it. I appreciate your talking to us, Joan. I know it’s been rough. Let’s hope it gets better from here.”

We said our good-byes outside the coffee shop, and then Marco and I headed toward his car.

“What are you thinking?” I asked Marco, after we were buckled in.

“That Darla Mae has spent years trying to punish Lipinski for that abortion—those drawings, her blogging. Maybe she didn’t feel they were punishment enough.”

“But why kill him now? She sent a drawing every year.”

“Maybe something happened this year to push her over the edge.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“How about you, Abby? What are you thinking?”

“That we need to talk about the bar.”

Marco was about to start the engine, but stopped to give me a curious glance. “The bar?” Then his expression cleared and he turned the key. “It’ll be fine, Abby. I don’t need the bar to make a living.”

“But you love Down the Hatch, Marco.”

“No, I love
you,
Abby. Down the Hatch is just a business.” Marco put the car in gear. “Let’s go see Darla Mae. Do you want to handle the abortion question? It might be easier coming from you.”

“Sure.” I drew a heart in the condensation on the side window. “What if you miss the bar?”

“I’m not talking about selling it today. It’ll be after we get married. And by the way, we haven’t selected a date for our wedding.”

“Then we should set one.”

“Great.”

“Okay, then. As soon as we find the killer, we’ll coordinate our calendars.”

“Let’s do it.”

Somehow that lacked the romantic tone the occasion demanded.

Marco parked the car near Darla Mae’s trailer, then killed the engine and sat there. “I have to sell the bar, Abby. I’m not going to jeopardize our relationship over it.” Then he got out.

I jumped out and hurried around the car to walk beside him. “The thing is, I don’t want to be a dream squasher.”

Marco stopped. “A dream squasher?” He took my shoulders in his hands and stared down into my eyes. “Do you agree that we don’t spend enough time together?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you agree that my two jobs create the problem?”

“Yes, Marco, but—”

“No buts.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly, until I melted against him. Oh, that man knew how to kiss. I wished we could forget about Darla Mae and go home.

With his forehead resting against mine, Marco said, “You know how much I enjoy my PI work. It’s where my real talent lies. Plus, with the bar out of the way, that frees up my day to focus on my cases. Trust me on this, Sunshine. You’re not forcing me to do anything. Selling Down the Hatch is my decision. Now let’s go talk to Darla Mae so we can squeeze in a little time for ourselves this evening. Okay?”

I nodded. And although Marco’s reasoning seemed sound, a little voice in my head whispered,
A decision that affects two people should be decided by those people
.

As Marco had said, however, that would be after we got married. We had a killer to find first.

 

 

Darla Mae answered the door with a cigarette in her hand. She was dressed in a bright red satin robe tied at the waist, with green and pink flannel pajamas underneath, huge blue curlers in her hair, and white satin mules on her feet. Quite a study in contrasts.

“What the heck are you two doing here at this time of night?” she asked, then blew a lungful of smoke out the corner of her mouth. “Come to accuse me of something else?”

She smiled wickedly, but Marco didn’t smile back, and I didn’t either. “Did something happen?” she asked, glancing from Marco to me in concern.

“Your suggestion to talk to Joan was helpful,” Marco said, “except that she told us some things that raised more questions.”

With a frown, Darla Mae tugged her robe closer about her, shivering in the chill night air. “I don’t have anything more to say except good night.”

She started to close her door, but Marco stopped her. “I can ask the questions through the door, but I don’t think you want the neighbors to hear.” He glanced over at the next trailer, only a few arm spans away, to emphasize his point.

With an angry huff, Darla Mae moved back to let us enter. I went first, then glanced around, appalled by the size of her living space. If I had thought it looked small on the exterior, the interior was downright minuscule, crowded with books, framed photos, stuffed teddy bears, and odd pieces of furniture, including a pull-out sofa bed that was already made up for the night.

Darla Mae stubbed out her cigarette in a platter-sized ashtray overflowing with butts. She didn’t ask us to sit down, which was okay since there was nowhere to sit but on her bed.

“Proceed,” she said, folding her arms over her breasts.

Marco gave me a nod, so I said, “We know about your abortion, and about the artist’s renderings you sent your ex-husband every year.”

Darla Mae’s eyes widened in shock. “Joan told you?”

“No, she merely confirmed it,” I said.

“We’d like to assume you didn’t tell us before because you knew you’d look suspect,” Marco said, “but I’ve learned never to assume anything in a murder investigation.”

Shaken, Darla Mae sat down on the end of the bed, her eyes filling with tears. “I swear to God I didn’t kill Kenny. I only sent him the drawings to remind him of what we could’ve had, what we should’ve had—a daughter. I wanted to punish him for what I had suffered.”

She wiped away her tears with her fingertips, her mascara smearing under her eyes. “That selfish SOB wouldn’t let me have the baby. He was furious when he found out I was PG. He wanted my undivided attention. Wanted me to wait on him like a slave so he could concentrate on law school. He said I couldn’t do that if I had a kid to raise. So he told me to do something about it or hit the bricks.”

She shook a cigarette from the box nearby and lit it with trembling hands. “Losing my baby girl has haunted me every single day of my life. So I sent him a reminder every year on the day she—” Darla Mae covered her eyes with her free hand and wept.

I blinked back tears, my heart constricting in sympathy. I started toward her, intending to put my arms around her, but Marco placed a hand on my shoulder and shook his head.

Oh, right. Never a good idea to console a suspect who might turn out to be the killer.

“Can anyone verify your whereabouts Monday evening?” Marco asked.

“The doc on call,” she said, sniffling, her eyes still shaded. “I told you that before.”

“I spoke with him,” Marco said. “He couldn’t verify your alibi after five p.m.”

She sniffed a few times, thinking, then looked up. “Pat was there. She’ll verify it.”

“Would you write down her full name and phone number?” Marco asked.

Darla Mae jumped up. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll let you talk to her in person. She lives one row over.”

D
arla Mae was right. Pat verified her alibi. And Pat’s husband verified Pat’s alibi. He’d phoned his wife at the nursing home during their dinner break and had spoken to both women. After talking with them, I was completely satisfied that Darla Mae could not have found enough time to jog up the highway, finagle her way into the Lip’s office, drug his drink when his back was turned, and jog back without her absence being noticed.

As we drove out of the mobile home park half an hour later, I said to Marco, “I think my gut feeling about Darla Mae was right the first time. She didn’t kill the Lip. So I’m for putting her at the bottom of the list.”

“Mmm” was all Marco said.

“I sure wish we knew what evidence the DA has. That would make our investigation so much easier. I don’t suppose you want to reconsider asking Reilly for help?”

“Mmm,” he said again.

I should probably take that as a yes. Maybe I’d give Reilly a call tomorrow.

“I still want to find that alibi witness who phoned Bloomers,” I said. “So tomorrow, while you’re meeting with Dave and his lawyer, I’ll call Whispering Willows and talk to the two nurses that I wasn’t able to see when Jillian and I were there. One of them has to be the person who phoned me at Bloomers—or knows who did.”

Marco was silent, no doubt weighing everything we’d gathered that evening. My head was certainly swimming with information.

After several more minutes of silence, I finally said, “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Just thinking about making love to you.”

I will never understand how a man’s mind works.

 

 

Back at my apartment, which we had to ourselves until Nikki got off work, I showered, slathered myself with vanilla-scented lotion—Marco loved the scent of vanilla—and put on a sexy green negligee, then checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not bad if you overlooked the freckles. Cleavage made up for it anyway.

I brushed my teeth and gargled, then sashayed provocatively out of the bathroom and promptly tripped over Simon, who was crouched in the hallway, waiting to play Ghost Cat, his new favorite game.

“Sorry, Simon.” I bent to pet him, but he ducked under my hand and stalked off toward the living room, tail swishing as if to say,
See if I ever leap out at you again, ingrate.

I continued up the hallway toward my bedroom. The lamp on my bedside table was off. The only illumination was the moonlight streaming through the open curtains. Very romantic.

All was quiet in the bedroom, so I peered cautiously around the doorjamb, in the off chance that Marco had decided to play Ghost Fiancé and leap out at me.

First thing I saw were his clothes hanging over the back of my chair. Good.

The bedspread was turned down, too. Perfect.

Even the pillows were plumped. Excellent.

Wow. There were even two glasses of wine on the dresser. Marco had thought of everything . . . except, apparently, how tired he was. He was sound asleep.

“Marco?” I called softly. He didn’t even flinch.

I slid under the covers and scooted up to him, smoothing his dark hair away from his forehead. He snorted and turned on his side. Okay, then. So much for romance.

Maybe giving up Down the Hatch was a wise move after all.

I cuddled against his warm body, put an arm around his waist, and whispered, “I love you.”

He murmured something that sounded like, “Love you, too, babe.”

I was going to add that I agreed with his decision about the bar, but I fell asleep, too.

 

 

My cell phone woke me up the next morning. I came out of a deep sleep and reached for it, answering groggily, “Hello?”

“Abigail?” my mom said. “I’m glad I caught you before you left for the shop.”

“Mom, it’s not even—” I glanced at the clock on my nightstand and gasped. Eight o’clock? Oh, no! I’d overslept.

Next to me Marco sat up straight, checked his watch on the nightstand, and muttered under his breath as he threw back the covers and raced for the bathroom, snatching up his jeans and shirt as he went.

“I wanted to remind you about dinner with the family tonight,” Mom said.

“Mom, I just woke up and I’m running late. Can I get back to you later?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Marco’s invited, too, of course.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hung up and started for the kitchen, gasping when Simon leaped out at me. As I staggered backward, he smirked, then raced to the kitchen and meowed by his dish.

I fed him, started the coffee, popped two pieces of bread in the toaster, then ran back to the bedroom to pull on my clothes. Marco emerged just as the toast popped up and ate his while I took my turn in the bathroom. We finished our coffee, I downed my toast, we brushed our teeth together and were out the door twenty-five minutes after that phone call.

In the parking lot Marco gave me a quick kiss, then jogged toward his car in the guest parking spot. “I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.” He pressed his fingers to his lips and blew me a kiss, then ducked into his Prius and was gone.

Was that what married life would be like?

One thing was certain. We had to have a bigger bathroom, wherever we decided to live—yet another subject we hadn’t discussed.