Good luck finding Flick.”
It wasn’t until I had dialed the police station that I realized what she’d said. “It’s Flip,” I called, but she was already in her room and might even have been asleep.
The police dispatcher switched me to a grumpy cop who insisted no one had been in a serious or fatal car accident in the previous twelve hours, and who the hell had connected me to his line anyway? He suggested I call lockup, so I did, and gave them Flip’s real name and description. No luck there, either. I called the hospital next. Again, no luck, which was actually very good news.
Then where was Flip?
CHAPTER FOUR
“H e’s not in the hospital, the morgue, or the jail,” I reported to Jillian via cell phone as I walked the track. “So maybe he met someone and spent the night at her house.”
“Flip isn’t like that. He’s very shy with women.”
“You’re just going to have to wait until he shows up, then.”
She moaned loud and long. “I knew something would go wrong with this wedding. Why did I ever propose to Claymore?”
“You’re such a pessimist. Give Flip a few more hours and he’ll show up.”
I was wrong. At noon there was still no word on Flip’s whereabouts, and even I was starting to be concerned, so I took a stroll down the block to pick Marco’s brain.
The Down the Hatch Bar and Grill was teeming with judges and attorneys from the courthouse across the street, in for a hearty lunch together before returning to battle the injustices of the world as well as each other. According to Lottie, the bar hadn’t changed in fifty years, and shouldn’t, since it was a piece of local history.
My opinion was slightly different. If a town’s history could be represented by a fake carp, a bright blue plastic anchor, a big brass bell, and a fisherman’s net hanging from the ceiling, then the town had a major image problem.
Now that Marco had taken the helm there was hope for change. And if the rehab he’d done on his office was any indication, the residents of New Chapel were in for a surprise. The office was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, and black steel and leather furniture. His desk was black and chrome, and that’s where I found him, hunched over ledgers, working industriously while the black TV mounted in a corner opposite him was tuned to CNN Headline News—muted, of course. It was a spare, masculine room and it fit Marco to a T.
“What’s the problem?” he asked without looking up.
“How do you know there’s a problem?” I plunked down in one of the leather director’s chairs opposite his desk.
“Because you never come here unless you need my help.”
How awful. Was that true? “That’s not true!”
He raised his head and fixed me with that penetrating, brown-eyed gaze that could melt a girl’s mules. I played it safe and slipped mine off. I couldn’t afford a new pair.
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
“If you will remember, the first time I ever came here I was delivering flowers.”
He got up and came around the desk, all five-foot-ten hunky man of him. He leaned against an edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And you were delivering flowers because . . . ?”
“I don’t remember.” We both knew I remembered.
“Because you, ” he said, grabbing the end of my nose, which he once told me was pert, “asked me to find a hit-and-run driver, so we traded favors—twelve of your finest roses for my expert help.”
I batted his hand away. “The next time I come here, it will not be for your help, expert or otherwise. I promise.” I meant it, too.
“Want to put your money where your mouth is?” He smiled a Marco smile, which was a slight upward hitch of one corner of his mouth. He didn’t do big emotions; I was sure this was due to his special operations training with the Army Rangers. But his little emotions said a lot.
I gave him a sultry lift of one brow and lowered my voice to husky. “What did you have in
It wasn’t until I had dialed the police station that I realized what she’d said. “It’s Flip,” I called, but she was already in her room and might even have been asleep.
The police dispatcher switched me to a grumpy cop who insisted no one had been in a serious or fatal car accident in the previous twelve hours, and who the hell had connected me to his line anyway? He suggested I call lockup, so I did, and gave them Flip’s real name and description. No luck there, either. I called the hospital next. Again, no luck, which was actually very good news.
Then where was Flip?
CHAPTER FOUR
“H e’s not in the hospital, the morgue, or the jail,” I reported to Jillian via cell phone as I walked the track. “So maybe he met someone and spent the night at her house.”
“Flip isn’t like that. He’s very shy with women.”
“You’re just going to have to wait until he shows up, then.”
She moaned loud and long. “I knew something would go wrong with this wedding. Why did I ever propose to Claymore?”
“You’re such a pessimist. Give Flip a few more hours and he’ll show up.”
I was wrong. At noon there was still no word on Flip’s whereabouts, and even I was starting to be concerned, so I took a stroll down the block to pick Marco’s brain.
The Down the Hatch Bar and Grill was teeming with judges and attorneys from the courthouse across the street, in for a hearty lunch together before returning to battle the injustices of the world as well as each other. According to Lottie, the bar hadn’t changed in fifty years, and shouldn’t, since it was a piece of local history.
My opinion was slightly different. If a town’s history could be represented by a fake carp, a bright blue plastic anchor, a big brass bell, and a fisherman’s net hanging from the ceiling, then the town had a major image problem.
Now that Marco had taken the helm there was hope for change. And if the rehab he’d done on his office was any indication, the residents of New Chapel were in for a surprise. The office was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, and black steel and leather furniture. His desk was black and chrome, and that’s where I found him, hunched over ledgers, working industriously while the black TV mounted in a corner opposite him was tuned to CNN Headline News—muted, of course. It was a spare, masculine room and it fit Marco to a T.
“What’s the problem?” he asked without looking up.
“How do you know there’s a problem?” I plunked down in one of the leather director’s chairs opposite his desk.
“Because you never come here unless you need my help.”
How awful. Was that true? “That’s not true!”
He raised his head and fixed me with that penetrating, brown-eyed gaze that could melt a girl’s mules. I played it safe and slipped mine off. I couldn’t afford a new pair.
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
“If you will remember, the first time I ever came here I was delivering flowers.”
He got up and came around the desk, all five-foot-ten hunky man of him. He leaned against an edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And you were delivering flowers because . . . ?”
“I don’t remember.” We both knew I remembered.
“Because you, ” he said, grabbing the end of my nose, which he once told me was pert, “asked me to find a hit-and-run driver, so we traded favors—twelve of your finest roses for my expert help.”
I batted his hand away. “The next time I come here, it will not be for your help, expert or otherwise. I promise.” I meant it, too.
“Want to put your money where your mouth is?” He smiled a Marco smile, which was a slight upward hitch of one corner of his mouth. He didn’t do big emotions; I was sure this was due to his special operations training with the Army Rangers. But his little emotions said a lot.
I gave him a sultry lift of one brow and lowered my voice to husky. “What did you have in
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