Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (10 page)

Okay, this was going to be a real problem. Friends. Everybody around here knew everybody and couldn’t believe the boy or girl next door was a killer.

“And why would Smithy be framing Rudy of all people? Tell me that, would you?” Donna added. “There not be a cross word between the two of them as far as I can tell. Ye gone daft in the head, girl, and I’ll be no part of pinning a murder on a perfectly innocent boy like Smithy.”

“I’m not pinning, but you have to admit that Smithy didn’t like Bunny, and maybe he’d had enough of not seeing his daughter and blamed Bunny for the whole situation.”

Donna snorted, wrinkled her nose and stormed off.

Being a nosy outsider would never compete with being a longtime friend, and I respected that, but Smithy was way up there on my
who knocked off Bunny
list. I strolled past the barn, the steady clang of hammer hitting metal vibrating into the fillings of my teeth. How did he stand the racket? Small wonder why he raised nice, quiet plants.

I turned for the side entrance I had gone in before and stopped at the screen door. Now I needed a distraction to get inside and up the steps to the loft without Smithy seeing me. Maybe I’d find a footprint or a gum wrapper or whatever up there to lead me to whoever wanted me out of the way. Heck, they found clues like that all the time on TV, right?

Red-faced, with sweat clinging to his forehead, Smithy swung the mallet, all his attention focused on the red-hot iron and the giant tongs holding it. Where I came from, we used tongs to snag the last olives out of the jar. I slipped off my shoes, waited for the hammer to hit the metal again then opened the door. The wood floor felt cool and smooth against my bare feet as I tiptoed up the well-worn steps as Smithy gave the iron rod another whack.

When I got to the top, the loft doors were still wide open, with the warm breeze drifting through them. The drying herbs and berries sat to one side, and I crept across the heavy floorboards to where I’d been pushed. The racket below suddenly stopped. I froze and waited a beat for the pounding to start up again, but instead felt someone come up behind me. Every hair on my body stood straight on end as I felt a hot breath against my neck.

S
mithy was strong with a big hot forge to cook me to ashes; least I wouldn’t itch anymore. I spun around, throwing my hands in the air with
Don’t kill me; I have a cat to support
on the tip of my tongue, and Irish Donna slapped her hand over my mouth to squelch my scream.

I took a step back and gave her the
what the heck are you doing here
hands-up gesture. Donna pointed below to where Smithy was, did a swirly finger by the side of her head indicating Smithy was crazy. I didn’t think Smithy was actually nuts, but something was clearly up with him.

She pointed to me, then to the loft door. She pointed to herself and the drying herbs and berries. From years of charades at Camp Wichicaca, I figured that meant I should look one place for clues and Donna would look in the other for some idea of who sent me airborne. I studied the floor by the open door for footprints other than mine as a woman’s voice drifted up from below.

“These are my friends from Chicago,” the woman said. “And we’d like a private tour of your blacksmith shop. We’d like to avoid the crowds.”

“Tour’s at three,” Smithy said in his
polite historic guide to thick-headed tourist who didn’t read signs
voice. “You and your friends are welcome then.”

“You don’t seem to understand.” This time the woman had an edge—just short of rude, since she had guests. “I’m Helen, and my husband is Ed Levine, president of the Mackinac Yacht Club, and I’m on the board for the Lilac Festival, and my son’s ad agency in Chicago does the publicity for free for the events on the island, so perhaps you can make an exception just this once for my friends.”

A crash sounded behind me and I spun around to see Irish Donna standing over a toppled tray of dried blueberries, her cheeks chipmunk-full, sublime satisfaction in her eyes. She gave me an
uh-oh,
look what I did
shoulder roll that didn’t look all that sincere. She sucked in two more blueberries.

The woman below said, “Someone is already here right now; we can just join them and make it a small personal tour. That should work out.”

“There’s not supposed to be anyone up there,” Smithy groused, a clatter of footsteps now heading our way.

Hide,
I mouthed to Donna as Smithy, a woman in Bloomingdale’s best and a man with hair on his chin and none on his head came into view at the top of the stairs. Irish Donna crouched down behind a drying table and I did a little friendly salute to Smithy and the gang, hoping to draw their attention my way.

Smithy and everyone else on the island knew I was snooping around to find Bunny’s killer, but getting Donna involved would draw even more attention and drive the killer underground. Besides, the people on the island were Donna’s friends. In a week I would be gone and forgotten, but she’d still have to live here.

“You?” Smithy growled, peering at me.

“I know, I know.” I held up my hands in surrender. “You told me to stay away, but I couldn’t. You see, I . . . I dropped my cell phone when I was up here earlier.” I held up my constant companion, Sheldon. “I was admiring your lovely herbs, and—”

“Herbs,” the woman shrieked, trotting over to the drying screens. “Oh my goodness, just look at these dried cranberries and blueberries; even the ones on the floor are perfection. These are amazing—so big and plump. And what’s this?” She grabbed a handful of some grassy stuff. “I’ve never seen this herb before, and I’m a member of the CHS—that’s the Chicago Herb Society—so I do know my herbs. It’s something French, maybe? English? It smells like hay with a touch of oregano? And it’s kind of sticky. Wonder what causes that?” She whipped out a wad of cash from her purse and shoved it at Smithy. “I simply must take some back with me to show the girls. How much?”

Smithy stuffed some rosemary in a baggie, thrust it at the woman then yanked away the grassy stuff and tossed it on the table. “Enjoy. No charge.”

“I can get rosemary anywhere.”

Smithy’s brows furrowed and he pulled himself up to his big hulking blacksmith self and pointed a stiff finger at the steps. Without another word, we all followed Smithy, me bringing up the rear, giving Donna a wink and grabbing a fistful of dill—maybe it was dill. It was local and Ed wanted different, and this was different.

When we got to the bottom, the three o’clock blacksmith tour was already crowding the barn to overflowing. Smithy hurried over to the forge and pumped the bellows, igniting the fire. Everyone, including Helen and her entourage, gasped in surprise as sparks flew. The throng took a few steps back as heat blasted out into the room. With all the attention now on Smithy and the blazing forge, Donna snuck down the stairs. Together we faded out the door as Smithy started in on his
welcome to the Benjamin Blacksmith shop
speech.

“Did ye find anything before we got interrupted by her lord and ladyships?” Donna asked when we got to the sidewalk and headed down Market.

“Boot prints in the dust is about all, and Smithy wears boots, but it’s his loft and—”

“And he could be the one giving you the old heave-ho earlier.” Donna said, opening the white picket gate to the Blarney Scone.

“What happened to Saint Smithy?”

“Everyone’s got a bit of devil in them, dear.” Donna yanked me down onto one of the blue wood chairs; there was a small bouquet of yellow sunflowers in the middle of the small table for two under a tree. She leaned across and whispered, “’Tis all about politics, the biggest devil of ’em all, if you ask me.”

“Are we talking donkeys and elephants?”

“Votes on the town council. I got to thinking about that, and as much as I like Smithy, the dear boy, if Rudy’s out of the picture with being in the poky, Smithy will be the one taking his place.” Donna’s eyes sparkled. “That’s what I came back to tell ye.”

“Smithy’s a townie and Rudy’s a townie, neither wanting the historical society looking over their shoulder. Their votes on the town council would be the same, so nothing changes. It’s still a fifty-fifty split between the townies and the bluffies.”

A sly grin creased Donna’s lips. “The person taking Bunny’s place on the council is on the side of the historic society, so nothing changes in the voting, but with Smithy it be different as peas and apples. The blacksmith shop and the other historic places on the island belong to the Park Commission. They aim to be keeping the island like it was back in the seventeen hundreds as much as possible and appeal to folks heading here for a bit of history and taste of nostalgia. Smithy’s part of that, and it’s job security for the dear boy. With him being on the council, the historical society gets his vote too, not the townies like you’d be thinking. The bluffies win.”

Holy cow. This was a really good piece of information. “So Smithy gets even with Bunny for the divorce
and
he keeps the island like he wants it. Why now? Why wouldn’t Smithy do the Bunny Festival last year, or even six months ago?”

“Your talk about the herbs is what made me think of it. Smithy uses the barn to be drying his herbs, and Bunny made a fuss at the last council meeting, saying the barn wasn’t Smithy’s and he didn’t have a right. Could be the dear boy had enough of the old biddy getting in his way with the herbs and his marriage and ended her once and for all. The thing is, I can’t see Smithy as the murdering kind and hatching the idea.”

“Could be bluffies helped Smithy come up with the idea.”

“’Tis a bluffy conspiracy,” Donna gasped. “Blessed Saint Patrick.” She snatched her shamrock, which was still around my neck, and kissed it. “Sneaks they are, the whole batch of ’em, and using the dear boy like that. Sinful, it is. So who would be doing such a thing?” Donna cut her gaze side to side, then whispered, “The island jazz festival is kicking off tonight up at the Grand, and Shamus got an invitation with being head of the volunteer fire department like he is. The townies will be there with the Better Business Bureau folks acknowledging Speed Maslow as Entrepreneur of the Year. The bluffies will be showing off their baubles and designer duds and getting their pictures taken. Liquor will be flowing like a river and tongues wagging. Maybe I’ll hear something.”

“What’s your take on Speed?”

Irish Donna fanned herself with a napkin. “He and his cronies are good for the cash registers around here to be sure, and it brings a bit of new blood to the place. But what I and every other female on this here island be liking most is the fine way he fills out a pair of black spandex biking shorts when pedaling around town. ’Tis a sight to behold, I tell you. One glance and I’m in need of two blood pressure pills to set me straight.”

Irish Donna ushered a merry band of afternoon teetotalers into the Blarney Scone, and I headed for the medical center a few doors down and past Weber’s Florist with the flying pig weather vane on top. The itching was driving me insane, and my left eye had swelled completely shut. I took the steps to the white clapboard with porch and rocking chairs that looked, from what I could see, more house than medical office. Right now I’d give a witchdoctor a try.

“I think I’m dying,” I said to the nurse/receptionist behind the desk.

“We’re all dying, just not today. Take a seat, roll up your sleeve and quit your whining.”

“I
didn’t tell you what’s wrong with me,” I said to the nurse in a white jacket with rhinestones on the back pockets of her jeans.

I got the
duh
look along with a needle in my arm. She pulled out a book and pointed to a picture of leaves. “Count with me: One, two, three. Now say, ‘No-no.’”

She handed over a tube of green goop. “Wash with this three times a day and try really hard not to croak in a public place; it gives the island a bad name. Image is everything around here, you know.”

My one good eye shot wide open, and I sat up straight. “You mean I can die from poison ivy?”

“The
dying
part can be arranged if you keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, and so far you’re off to a running start.”

“But Rudy’s innocent. What am I supposed to do? Just let the guy rot in jail?”

“Think about dialing it back a notch, okay? This island looks friendly enough, but there’s a big dose of John Wayne rugged badass humming under the surface. It’s the humming part you need to keep an eye on, and it’s the part that’s keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m being too aggressive?”

“Bull moose comes to mind.” Nurse/receptionist Jane Parker planted a hand on her twenty-something fudge-developed hip. “Rudy’s a good guy, and no one’s passing the crying towel for Bunny. More like buying a round of drinks down at the Stang. But Rudy’s stuck in the middle.”

“This big spender down at the Stang got a name?”

In answer I got the bill, a snarl and, “I was first in line buying drinks. My grandma had the corner table at the Christmas bazaar for her clam chowder every year till Bunny made a stink that the Historical Society should get that spot. Broke Grandma’s heart. I got nothing good to say about Bunny Harrington and those snobby people up on the bluff, and that’s pretty much how most of us townies feel.”

I did the co-pay routine as another patient staggered into the office and dropped into a chair. Jane rushed over to what was either a heart attack or a sugar-fudge high—hard to tell the difference around here. I picked up my receipt, and right next to it on a sticky note were the words,
Alford’s, Jason Bourne, propranolol.

Alford’s was the drugstore on Main Street. Beyond taking aspirin, I knew zip about pharmacology and I also knew zip about Jason Bourne. When I got to the porch, I stood on the rocking chair, tried not to break my neck, held up Sheldon and found three bars of the phone reception variety. I Googled
propranolol
—after trying a bunch of combinations of
O
s and
L
s to get the spelling right.

A beta-blocker? What was a beta and what was so bad about it that you had to block it? That part I didn’t get, but the part about treating hypertension, anxiety and panic was pretty straightforward stuff. So, what kind of hit man who seemed to have a thriving business of doing people in had hypertension, anxiety and panic? You’d think they’d be cool as a cucumber; least they were in the movies.

I headed for the bike shop while reading three texts on Sheldon. One was from Lindsey saying Mother gave her a Chanel watch for making partner, and the next was from Mother saying she gave Lindsey a Chanel watch for making partner. Both seemed harmless enough on the surface, but being from a family that turned being passive-aggressive into a science, the message was when was Evie ever going to warrant a Chanel watch. The way things were going the only watch I’d ever get was of the Mickey Mouse variety.

The third text was from Abigail asking how repairs and painting were going. I texted back that all was good and Rudy was glad to see me. I may suck at lying face-to-face, but I could lie like a pro in a text message.

“Hey, there you are. The great trail mix plan’s working,” Rudy said when I got back to the shop. “I rented ten bikes this afternoon alone. I think that red primer color is catching on around here—and where else can fudgies rent a bike and have darn good trail mix for five bucks? What a deal.”

“I ran into Helen Levine over at the blacksmith shop. The woman puts the
hell
in Helen. Hard to believe she’s Ed’s wife. While I was there I got some of Smithy’s herbs from his loft.” I pulled the tangle of weeds from my pocket and gave a sniff. “Dill, I think. Smells pretty good.”

Rudy stopped his primer brush mid-stroke. “How’d you manage to get that? He guards those herbs with his life.”

“Would you believe my ultra good looks and charming personality?”

“You look like you got the plague and half the town’s volunteered to buy you a one-way ticket out of here, in or under the ferry. No one much cares which.”

“Smithy was showing Helen around the blacksmith barn and I tagged along. He was giving away free herb samples.” It wasn’t a complete lie, and there was no need to worry Rudy about the
being pushed out of the loft
incident.

After adding the dill and a dash of chili powder to one of the trays brewing in the oven, I came back to the shop and took a stool beside Rudy’s wicker rocker. I dumped primer into a paper cup and dipped my brush, ready to get to work. “You know,” Rudy said as I tackled a bike, “we make a pretty good team. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty like a lot of city girls.”

“Comes from art school. I was always covered in shades of magenta, indigo, cobalt or whatever. I think my parents were afraid I was going to cut off an ear and leave it on the dining room table; they never got me going to art school. I didn’t go around spouting things like habeas corpus and due process and sue his pants off. It had to be kind of scary for them, now that I think about it. So, how well do you know our resident scary person, Jason Bourne?”

Rudy added a swipe of dull red to the rusty back fender of a Schwinn bike. “No one really knows the man, and we all consider that a big step toward longevity. Bunny never had anything good to say to his face or behind his back.”

“And look what happened to her longevity.” My gaze locked with Rudy’s. “If Bourne was fed up with Bunny, it would have been a snap for him to do her in. He could pick off the old girl with a scope and rifle from yards away, not cut her brakes.”

“Except,” Rudy said, adding more paint, “he’s the only one around here who could pick off the old girl like that. He might as well hang an
I shot Bunny
sign around his neck.” Rudy put down his brush. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, Evie, and you can’t go there. Jason Bourne is not a man to mess with, and there’s too much gossip out there for some of it not to be true. Besides, why would he frame me for Bunny’s festival?” Rudy leaned a little closer. “Your other eye’s starting to swell shut.”

“I thought the island was sinking. And why
wouldn’t
Bourne frame you? I doubt that you’re drinking buddies, and you’re the logical candidate around here for a frame. Heck, if I were looking for a go-to frame guy, you’d be first on my list. You and Bunny were always at each other and everyone knew it. You have motive out the yin-yang.”

Rudy took the paintbrush from my hand. “I’m not exactly sure where my yin-yang is, but you missed the bike and painted my knee. Least I won’t rust.”

“Jane Parker at the medical clinic jabbed me with some stuff. It should work, right?”

“We’ll cross our fingers and light candles. Right now get a cold shower and take a nap. Maybe you’ll unswell, though poison ivy is the least of your problems if you’ve been asking around about Bourne. People talk, and our sharpshooter’s not going to be gone forever, you know.”

“Maybe he’s not as sharp as we think. When I was at the medical center, I saw a script for him for anxiety. What’s with that? We got ourselves a nervous sniper?”

“It probably regulates the heart so he can pull the trigger between beats. It’s crucial for making long-distance shots. It was in some De Niro movie, so it’s gotta be true.”

Far be it from me to argue with De Niro.

*   *   *

I rolled over
in bed and stared into nothingness, everything in total black. Now both eyes had swelled shut? Least that’s what I thought till I caught the lighthouses blinking in the night harbor and the silhouette of Little-bit perched on the windowsill. I winked one eye, then the other. Well dang, I could see, and I didn’t scratch as much. Thank you, health insurance and Jane Parker.

I climbed out of bed, turned on the light, caught my reflection in the mirror and swallowed a scream. Okay, the swelling was down, and that was good, but my hair stood on end as if slathered with wallpaper paste. Needing some fresh air and food, I did the comb routine with marginal success and added the desperate tie-back with a scrunchie. I snagged Little-bit and took the steps down to the TV room.

Rudy was asleep in his blue Naugahyde La-Z-Boy, snoring like a hibernating bear, with his legs propped up, Bambino and Cleveland on his chest looking as if they belonged there.
Survivor
droned on from someplace in Africa with everyone doing a really bad job of riding elephants. Snagging a Chicago Cubs throw from the back of the green, worn couch, I covered Rudy up to where the cats took over, then added Little-bit to the mix. Two cats? Three cats? Maybe Rudy would think he’d had three all along, and if he didn’t he wouldn’t care; he was that kind of guy. Heck, he took me in, didn’t he?

Grabbing a trail mix baggie, I headed outside, where there was a horse-drawn carriage filled with the fashionably dressed trotting down Main and Fiona just ahead on the sidewalk.

“Nice dress,” I said, falling into step, the carriage just ahead of us. “Hot date?”

“My mother says enough novenas that it should be. Instead I’m on my way to the Grand to cover the kickoff for the jazz festival and get some pics of Speed accepting his award.”

“Always the hat?”

Fiona rolled her eyes up toward the purple sequins. “It’s a warning so people know they need to smile when they see me coming and not be in the middle of a screaming match. The
Crier
is all about smiles.
Inside Scoop
was all about the smut.” We followed the carriage onto Mahoney with clapboard houses and colorful window boxes.

“Do you miss L.A.? The excitement?” We turned onto Cadotte, which was congested with other equines heading up to the Grand perched up on the hill like a giant wedding cake.

“Like a toothache. I went there to do investigative reporting and ended up sneaking pics of stars and their sexual exploits. Bad job, worse boss. Peephole Perry had enough dirt on people to sink half the town; I’m surprised he’s still alive. But L.A. doesn’t have a monopoly on dirt.” She gave me a sassy grin. “We’ve got a ton of our own. All the talk tonight’s going to be about the Bunny Festival. You need to be there, girl. Maybe you’ll hear something that will help Rudy. And the food’s to die for.”

I could so do with the food part. I pulled at my shirt and nodded to the drivers in top hats guiding carriages up to the staircase, the band playing “Mood Indigo” on the two-football-fields-long front porch. “The fashion police would have me in chains and leg irons.”

“They’ve got to catch you first.” Fiona stopped by the stone steps that led down into a wooded area. “Bat cave entrance. Follow the path and it takes you up the side of the hotel. Blend in like you’re a gardener; gardeners always look splotchy and have poison ivy.”

“You’ve done this.”

“Not the poison ivy, but Julia Roberts and Ron Howard, to name a few, show up here once in a while. Smithy and I were celeb stalkers at an early age. I think that’s how I got the L.A. bug.”

“The L.A. bug’s been squashed?”

“Flatter than a frog on a four-lane, if we had a four-lane around here. With a little luck I’ll never lay eyes on Peephole again. There’s sure no reason for him to come here. Find a shovel and you’ll do great. Good luck.”

I trotted down the steps. The wooded area came out at a greenhouse, tool shed and compost pile, a huge swimming pool and tennis and bocce ball courts just beyond. Thanks to Grandpa Frank and the gang at Sleepy Meadows Retirement, I kill at bocce ball.

“There you are.” I was turned around to face a huge guy in jeans and a maroon polo with
Grand Hotel
embroidered on the sleeve. “HR said they were sending you over, and—Jeez, tuck in your shirt and do something with your hair, will ya? This is a classy place.”

He draped an industrial-strength apron over my head, then jabbed a shovel, big bucket and thick gloves at me. “We got the uniformed guys cleaning up the front road; you take the rear where they make deliveries. We can’t have the staff stepping in it and tracking it into the hotel, making the whole place reek. Get a move on.”

“It?”

I got the
oh for the love of God
look. “Horses? The fragrant gifts they leave behind? The reason you were hired. Take the back steps, and you better do a good job or you’re on the next ferry out of here.”

This was all Fiona’s doing with that
find a shovel
crack. She cursed me. Okay, I looked bad, I realized that. My hair truly was a disaster, and I’d slept in my clothes and I still had the
red plague
look and red primer splotches—but a human pooper-scooper? Really? How did I keep getting into these messes? Easily—oh, so easily that I scared myself.