From the Grounds Up (9 page)

I nodded. 'Yes, but those will only give us seating for the warmer months.' Which in Wisconsin, meant late May through early September. If we were lucky.

'But didn't you say most of our business will be takeout?' Sarah asked. 'Commuters buying something to have for lunch at work and, in the evening, picking up something for dinner at home?
That's
not seasonal.'

'Do you want counter seating?' Ronny asked.

I gestured toward the large window on the side facing the tracks. 'I'd love a counter running the entire length of that wall.' I turned to Sarah, remembering, finally, to include her. 'What do you think?'

Sarah flushed with pleasure. Under all that bluster and crust, she was still the kid who'd been picked last for volleyball in elementary school, so she was secretly thrilled to be included in anything.

And I could identify. I was picked second last. Unless Cyndi Luckwood was sick. Then
I
was dead last.

'What about the part of the wall with no window?' Sarah asked. Then she snapped her fingers. 'I know. We can put electrical sockets and a work area there, so people can plug in their computers and not be distracted by a changing view.'

'Perfect,' I said. 'And we'll have Wi-Fi!'

Sarah and I high-fived, like we'd just nosed-out Al Gore for 'inventing' the Internet. Her eyes narrowed. 'Wait a second. I thought you hated the cyber-cafes like HotWired. You said you wanted people to talk, not type.'

HotWired, a chain of Internet cafes, had been our chief competition in town until . . . well, that's another story. Point is, though, HotWired was no more.

'That was because I hated the owner of HotWired, Marvin LaRoche,' I added for Ronny's benefit. 'Besides, whether it's typing or texting or tweeting, people are going to be clacking away. Who are we to stop them?'

'And, better yet, why not profit from it?' Sarah added.

'Amen,' I said, wholeheartedly.

As if on cue, my cellphone rang. Pavlik.

'I'm looking for Sarah,' he said without preamble. 'Is she with you?'

'Sarah?' Call me silly, but I'd hoped he was calling my cellphone to talk to his principal
squeeze
. 'Why?'

'So she's there?'

Sarah mouthed, 'Who's that?'

'The sheriff,' I said aloud. 'He wants to know if you're here.'

'Maggy . . .' There was a warning tone in the voice coming from the phone.

I'd pushed Pavlik as far as I dared, so I handed the phone to Sarah.

'Hello?'

I couldn't hear Pavlik's voice anymore. Just my luck he didn't practice 'cell-yell'.

'No, she didn't tell me.' Sarah fixed on my eyes.

'Tell you what?' I whispered.

Sarah ignored me. Vocally, I mean. She was shooting darts out of
her
eyes, though. 'No, this is the first I've heard about someone messing with my uncle's car.'

Sarah listened again. Then, 'The clock? No, why would I touch—'

My mind was racing. The police must have decided the clock
had
been re-set, despite Pavlik's skepticism. If they'd tested it and found Sarah's fingerprints . . .

'But you did touch it,' I burst out. 'You straightened the clock on the wall, remember?'

That got me another sour look and a hissed, 'Shut up!'

So I did.

'What's going on?' Ronny asked. I'd forgotten Sarah's cousin was still with us. I wanted to explain, but I wasn't sure how much I could or should tell him.

I was saved from my ethical dilemma by Sarah, who handed me the phone. Evidently Pavlik had finished with her and it was my turn.

'Hello?'

'I'm surprised Sarah didn't know about her uncle's car.'

'I didn't know if you'd told me in confidence,' I protested. 'You know, pillow-talk?'

'More like porch-talk,' Pavlik said. 'But in this case, the information is public. It appeared in the paper this morning.'

So how was I supposed to know that?

Sarah was angry because I hadn't filled her in. On the other hand, if I'd blabbed about something Pavlik told me in private, he'd be upset. Result: Damned if I did, damned if I didn't.

'Maybe you should flag our conversations, private and not,' I said to the sheriff. 'Just so I know what to keep to myself?'

'I don't tell you anything that I'd regret getting around.'

Well,
that
was a little insulting. 'I do know how to keep a secret, you know.'

'I'm sure you do.' Pavlik's tone implied he didn't have enough personal anecdotal evidence to judge. 'But I wouldn't put you, or myself for that matter, in that position. Not about something that has to do with my job. I have a public responsibility, a duty.'

I took a moment to imagine what day-to-day life would be like with Pavlik. Our breakfast conversations. Soccer moms and coffee drinks could carry a couple only so far. And if Pavlik wasn't going to share, why should I keep him informed about Brookhills and its denizens?

I lowered my voice. 'So, you tell me only things I can repeat?'

'Sometimes I
want
you to spread the word.'

Maggy the pawn. He was using me as a cat's paw. A reverse snitch.

Not that I hadn't done the same thing, on occasion. Like when I informed Laurel Birmingham, our town clerk, that Ted and I had divorced. Seemed easier than telling people individually and Laurel could disseminate the word quicker than high-speed Internet. That very night three people brought over casseroles and wine. Lots of wine, God bless them.

I sighed. 'Fair enough, Pavlik. So, can you tell me, for public distribution, whether the clock had Sarah's fingerprints on it? Because if it does,' I added hastily as I saw her face contort, 'I can explain that.'

I held up my hand, palm-out, to Sarah as a 'Stop' sign. 'The clock was crooked when we came in and she straightened it.'

I declared it with a self-satisfied smile, but Sarah didn't look relieved.

'Good to know,' Pavlik's voice said. 'But we haven't fingerprinted it yet.'

'Why?' I asked. 'It's just metal and glass. Those surfaces tend to hold latents.' I know my forensics. I do watch TV, after all.

'And they would,' said Pavlik. 'If the clock hadn't been missing when we went back to get it.'

I turned to look at the depot's wall.

Sure enough. Between Seattle and New York was a gaping hole where the Brookhills' timepiece had been.

Chapter Ten

'I noticed the clock was missing when I came in. I just figured you knew about it.' Ronny was trying to get a look at the hole in the wall, the cleats on his heels making tat-tat noises as he unsuccessfully tried to balance on his tiptoes.

I slid a chair over. 'Don't electrocute yourself,' I said.

'Better listen to her,' Sarah said. 'Maggy's lost a lot of partners that way.'

'No,' I said. 'Just the one.'

Ronny threw me a startled look and steadied himself.

'I was so busy imagining what the store would look like,' I continued, 'that I don't remember noticing the clocks at all. You?' I asked Sarah.

'Uh-unh. I didn't know the clock was gone until Pavlik asked me if I'd taken it down.' Sarah raised her eyes toward Ronny. 'What do you see up there?'

'Not much. Torn wires, mostly. Looks like someone was in a hurry and just yanked the clock off the wall.'

He climbed back down and pushed a lock of Brylcreemed hair out of his face. Then he looked around for some place to wipe his hand. Before he could go for his jeans, I dug a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to him. I guess one just never stops being a mother.

At least
this
one.

'So what's going on?' Ronny asked, ineffectively wiping at his hands.

I'd forgotten that, so far as he knew, his father had been killed in a bizarre but unfortunate accident. A convergence of seemingly unrelated circumstances that was starting not to seem so unrelated anymore.

Especially when you factored in the mystery of the missing clock.

I sighed. 'You want to tell him?' I asked Sarah.

'Nope.' She sat down on the chair Ronny had been standing on. 'I just heard about it, remember? And from the sheriff, rather than my dearest friend Maggy.'

Touché. 'It was on the news,' I protested weakly. Then I turned to Ronny. 'I wish I
knew
what's going on, but there's a possibility that your father's death was not an accident.'

'The train hit him on purpose?' Ronny looked back and forth between us. 'You were both here at the time. Did the engineer try to stop it?'

I was nodding as a knock came at our open door. Christy, the red-haired piano teacher with the germ fetish, stuck her head in. She smelled faintly of chlorine bleach.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Christy said, obviously embarrassed. 'I didn't know anyone was here.'

'Then why are
you
here?' Sarah asked. Classic Sarah, but on point. If Christy didn't think anyone was in the depot, why did she come a-knocking?

'I mean, I saw the door open and thought the police had left it that way.' She flushed even more deeply. 'I was going to lock up.'

'That's awfully nice of you,' I said, trying to put the woman at ease, though I wasn't sure that was humanly possible. 'Have you met Kornell Eisvogel's son, Ronny?'

'Hello,' Ronny said, holding out his hand to shake.

Christy took it after a slight hesitation and got a load of hair goop for her trouble. She stared at it. 'How do you do?'

'Oh, sorry about that.' Ronny handed her the ragged tissue. Poor girl looked pale enough to pass out.

'We were just telling Ronny that Kornell might have been murdered,' Sarah told her, in what might have been an attempt to cut the Brylcreem tension. 'Now I have to boogy.'

Sarah was fishing through her bag for car keys, so it was left for me to explain. 'Kornell's Buick was tampered with and we believe someone reset the middle clock.'

'What clock?' Christy asked.

'The Brookhills one, that's missing. Somebody must have taken it to cover up something.'

'But they left a hole.' Christy pointed at the far wall.

'I meant cover up . . . oh, forget it.' I didn't want to be left behind by Sarah again and it would take too long to explain.

'The clock was wrong?' Ronny had turned as pale as Christy. 'Are you saying somebody wanted my father on the railroad tracks at a certain time? But what about the clock in the car?'

It was a good question, one that hadn't occurred to me. 'Do you know if it was working?' I asked Ronny.

'Like I told you, my father loved that car. If something wasn't working, I'd have heard about it.'

'Maybe,' Christy piped up, 'maybe the person who sabotaged the car changed the clock, too.'

'From the mouth of a babe,' Ronny said appreciatively. His outfit made it clear what meaning of babe he was thinking of. 'What did they do to the car?'

I shrugged. 'The sheriff said the fuel line was disconnected.'

Sarah had found her keys and was heading for the door. I scurried after her.

'But you'd have to be a genius to predict when the car was going to stop,' Ronny protested. 'The chances of being on the tracks at exactly the right moment . . . Astronomical.'

Sarah stepped out on the porch, allowing me to pass before she answered. 'What can I say?
Some
body got lucky.'

'Geez,' I couldn't hold it in any longer as we drove home. 'Could you have been more insensitive? Kornell was Ronny's father.'

Sarah shook her head. 'Kornell was an asshole. Ronny knows that and, even more important, he knows I know. Besides, I wanted to get out of there and leave him with Christy. I sensed . . .' both hands splayed out ' . . . love in the air.'

If love smelled like Brylcreem and bleach.

'How do you suppose Christy intended to lock the door?' I asked. 'Don't you need a key for that?'

Sarah's jaw dropped. 'Maybe she didn't know that.'

Reasonable. 'Maybe not.'

'Or I suppose Christy might have designs on Ronny and was looking for an excuse to stop over.'

'She's never even met Ronny,' I said.

'But she's seen him.'

'Right. Like greasy hair and tight jeans would entice a woman like Christy to cross the street.'

'Don't underestimate the maxim that opposites attract.'

Yeah, but hair oil and bleach water don't mix. 'So, Ronny is going to meet us at the depot tomorrow morning?' I asked as we slewed into Sarah's driveway.

The house she shared with Courtney and Sam was a pretty Victorian done up like a painted lady. It was a big place and, if the two kids really did leave as Sarah feared, it would be an empty barn. Still, like Sarah said, she'd lived there without them before.

'Yup.' She turned off the car. 'Ten a.m. again.'

I climbed out and looked around. 'Where's my Escape?'

'At the depot.'

Damn. She was right. I'd driven to the depot this morning and left the Escape there when Sarah and I had driven to Brookhills Manor. With all the craziness since then, I'd completely forgotten.

Sarah was mounting the stairs of her porch. 'Sam and Courtney are out for the night. Want to stay for dinner?'

I started to ask her why she hadn't told me about my car, but I thought better of it. Sarah looked eager for me to stay. 'Sure,' I said. 'Vietnamese?'

'Only if it's delivered.' Sarah tossed her keys on to the hall table. 'I'm already going to have to drive you back to get your car.'

'Delivery it is, then,' I said, walking to the kitchen. 'I'll order and I'll pay.'

'Are we the Rockefeller Foundation all of a sudden?' Sarah groused, following me. 'You need the Yellow Pages?'

'No.' I picked up the phone. 'I know the number at Pho Vietnamese by heart.'

I was trying to be upbeat for Sarah, but I also was eager to call Pho and speak to Tien Romano, who was working there. It was Tien and her father Luc I hoped might throw in with us.

Happily, she answered the phone. 'Tien,' I said. 'This is Maggy Thorsen.'

'Hi, Maggy.' I could practically hear the smile on her face, which combined her late Vietnamese mother's complexion and facial features with her Italian father's thick curly hair and hazel eyes. 'How's the hunt going?'