Read Online Dirty Rotten Tendrils by Kate Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Collins
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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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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,
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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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,
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