Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (5 page)

“T
here’s a little glitch, oh Scary One,” I said to Irma as we tackled the next flight of steps. “You have to make the call from Rita’s Fudge Shoppe. Chances are good Winslow has caller ID.”

“So
you
go buy a pound of fudge and borrow the phone and make the call,” Irma said to me when we got to the bottom of the steps. “Easy as pie.”

“I just did pie and nearly broke my neck.”

Irma waved her hand, shooing off my objection. “All you do is ask Winslow how much SeeFar is worth and say you’re Rita and that you’re getting tired of waiting for your money and intend to take legal action of your own to get it. Winslow tells Dwight someone’s after his money, and Dwight goes after Rita and Dutchy.”

“Winslow will show up all right. The one thing a lawyer hates more than anything is the threat of another lawyer on his turf,” I said as we cut across a grassy park, where a big bronze statue of Father Marquette was looking out at the harbor. “I need to get Rudy off the hook, and you want to sic Dwight on Dutchy and Rita. I guess it’s worth a shot.”

“Now you’re talking. It’s another gift from above.”

“Meaning God works in mysterious ways?”

“Meaning I’m from Minnesota and God helps those who help themselves.”

A thundering
boom
rocketed over our heads, my heart jumped out of my chest and I dove under a white concrete bench by the Father Marquette statue and waited for the Canadians to attack. I peeked up at Irma. “I think that’s God saying we should forget this.”

Irma turned toward the fort perched up on the hill and put her hand over her heart as a bugle played
I hate to get up, I hate to get up, I hate to get up in the morning
—least that’s what we sang to the tune at Camp Wichicaca when I was in junior high.

“It’s ten o’clock and the Boy Scouts are raising the flag like they always do at this time,” Irma said as I left my bunker. “Three o’clock is a busy time at the fudge shops with all the day tourists buying fudge to take back home. It’s a perfect time to get to the phone and call Winslow.”

“Rita or Dutchy will overhear what I’m saying. The shop can’t be that big.”

Irma swaggered toward the emporium. “Not to worry, dearie,” she called over her shoulder. “That
those who help themselves
part
I mentioned involves planning a little distraction to take care of things. All you have to think about is making that phone call.”

*   *   *

This is why
people run off to the wilds of Alaska,
I decided as I pushed the bike down the street to finally retrieve the paint cans I had left at the dock. They didn’t have to run after killers to keep their jobs, share closets with hit men and deal with lawyers.

Rita’s Fudge Shoppe sat at the next corner pimped out in pinks and chocolate-brown with a matching striped awning across the porch. A big front window let tourists watch a burly guy flipping fudge on one of those marble-top tables. Dutchy? He looked like Irma’s Dutchy, with his bad hairpiece, fake suave manner and smile that didn’t reach his eyes. How could Irma fall for this guy? Then again, how could I fall for Tim the superjock? That he slept on NFL sheets and our honeymoon— which I assume he went on himself after dumping me unceremoniously on our wedding day—involved taking in two Chicago Bears football games should have been a dead giveaway I was not his top priority.

I wanted to find fault with Irma’s plan of getting Winslow on the island, but Dwight was a prime candidate for the Bunny Festival, and with a little luck this would bring his motive for murder front and center. Least it was a start to finding the real killer. To pull off
easy as pie
part two I should case Rita’s shop to see where the phone was, if I would be overheard and, the most important part, whether Rita gave out free samples.

I parked the bike, then blended into a group of tourists close to the plate glass window watching Dutchy toss in handfuls of nuts and chocolate chips to the long loaf of chocolate fudge on the table. He flipped the gooey concoction onto itself, making it smaller and smaller as it cooled on the marble surface. Behind the counter a woman with a phone trapped between ear and shoulder waited on customers.

Aha! There was a phone with one of those curly cords—a landline to prevent dropped calls from the less-than-terrific island service. I opened the door to Rita’s Fudge Shoppe as a woman barreled out without looking up, her scarf-covered head bowed low. She collided right into me and I grabbed her arm to keep both of us upright. She had one of those
deer in the headlights
looks on her face when our eyes met. “Fiona?”

“Chicago? What are you doing here? Drat! Look, you can’t tell Irma you saw me,” she blurted, hiding the pink and brown bag behind her back and scooting me off to the side of the wood porch so customers could get by us.

“Irma’s been friends with the family for years, but since Big and Ugly inside here ran off with her recipes,” Fiona went on, “Irma’s fudge has tasted like nut-covered hockey pucks, or worse, if there is worse. My niece just loves peanut butter fudge and I send her some once a month as a special treat. You won’t say a word to Irma, will you? Promise?”

I did the
zip across my lips
routine and gave her a wink as I started off. But before I could, Fiona grabbed my arm to hold me back. She whipped out a book with the words
My Little Princess
scripted in pink across the front. Oh for joy, I knew what this was all about—it was the proud-grandma ritual, which was obviously now also the proud-aunt ritual. It was the displaying of the cute little kid pictures and the expected oohs and aahs from the peanut gallery, meaning me. I’d seen more than my share of brag books at work and beyond. Take me out and shoot me.

“Here’s Kimberly on her fifth birthday,” Fiona said with a big smile as she flipped open the book. “Isn’t she cute?”

“Ooh.”

“This one’s on her new Disney princess bicycle that I sent.”

“Aah.”

“Kimberly’s in Florida thanks to Bunny and her mouth. If she hadn’t interfered, Smithy and Constance would still be married and Kimberly would be here on this very island with her daddy, where she belongs, riding her cute little bicycle.”

Okay, don’t shoot me just yet. What was this all about? “Smithy and Constance?”

“Smithy is my brother, and he married Bunny’s daughter, Constance.” Fiona’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Bunny never thought Smithy was good enough for Constance. Kept telling Constance she could do better, and then what do you think happened? Two years ago Constance divorced Smithy for some real estate tycoon vacationing here. Smithy hasn’t been the same since, so quiet and keeping to himself. Everyone can tell he’s upset, even the horses.”

“He’s a vet?”

“Blacksmith. He’s been the historic interpreter and blacksmith over at the blacksmith barn since he got out of high school. His herb garden is the only thing saving him. I keep telling him to put his place on the island garden tour, but he won’t have any of it. He’s shy and sweet and sometimes just a big kid at heart. I think that’s why dad gave me the
Town Crier
when he retired, so Smithy would have family around. That and Mother probably talked him into it hoping I’d find a husband from the tourist trade. She’s desperate. I’m thirty-five and wear a purple hat, and mother sees cats and crocheting in my future.”

“From my brief but painful experience with almost-marriage, cats and crocheting is the way to go.”

And that was true enough, but the part about Constance, Smithy and Bunny was news—big news. Not of the
Town Crier
variety, but good old island gossip that gave me another candidate for my
I hate Bunny
list. Smithy had no use for the woman, with her ruining his marriage.

Fiona headed off to interview performers for the jazz festival and it occurred to me that if Smithy or Dwight could have done in Bunny, what about the others who had it in for her? And there had to be others; the woman was a pain in the butt, just like Doc said. But I was a fudgie, an outsider, so the locals wouldn’t talk to me about anything more than what time the ferry left.

*   *   *

“And what bear
did you tangle with?” Rudy asked, staring at my knees as I parked the bike piled with paint cans, some dangling off the handlebars. Both doors to Rudy’s Rides were wide open this morning to let customers and sun inside—not that there were any customers.

“Holy crap! Forget my knees, what’s with the red smear across your chest. Should I call nine-one-one?”

“Primer. Knocked the dang can with my cast and scared the heck out of poor Bambino. He landed in the paint and then on me.” Rudy pulled the black cat with red whiskers, tail and paws from the side pocket of the pool table. Snarling and hissing, Bambino stuck his tongue out at Rudy; I swear, he really did. Rudy said, “After six treats I’m still in the doghouse . . . make that the cathouse.”

“And you’ll be lucky if you can afford that,” some slick-looking spandex guy said as he pedaled up to the storefront on a racing bike. An entourage followed, all in matching black and poison green spandex suits and helmets. “I’m going to redo this whole place when I take it over,” he pontificated, as much to the crowd as Rudy. “Or maybe I’ll just level the place and start over with a building with a lot of chrome and windows that look out onto the harbor. This place has some view—the only thing it’s got going for it.”

“That view’s mine,” Rudy said, as Bambino leaped onto the pool table.

The guy sat back on his skinny seat, designed to give a permanent wedgie. He parked his hands on his scrawny hips, the rest of his gang assuming the same attitude. “You got problems, big problems. You’ll sell, you’ll have to.” He gazed around like he already owned the place. “I’m starting the Speed Maslow Challenge, a three-day race along the Michigan coast, and this will make a perfect Speed Maslow training camp to talk strategy and nutrition. I’ll make it my headquarters.”

“In your dreams,” a girl in short-shorts said, weaving her blue bike to the curb. She was tall and lean, with thighs of steel and a perfect peach-shaped butt. Wow, I so needed to get my flabby apple butt on a bike . . . even though I might kill myself in the process.

“You’re not buying Rudy’s Rides, I am,” she said. “I’m calling it Huffy’s Hut—my coffeehouse where cyclers on the island can chill. I’m putting a massage clinic in the back and we’ll do yoga overlooking the harbor. A place to decompress and get away from the big city.”

Speed curled his lip at the basket strapped to the front of Huffy’s bike. “Your bikes are second-rate and your place has been losing money since I moved here last year; everybody knows it. You can’t afford another shop. What are you going to do, have Daddy buy it for you?”

“And all those fancy steeds at your shop are putting you in the poorhouse,” Huffy scoffed.

Huffy jabbed Speed in the chest with her index finger, and Rudy jabbed his crutch between Speed and Huffy. “Take a breath, you two, this is my bike shop, and it’s staying my bike shop.”

Speed gripped his handlebars, his knuckles blanching white, the vein in his neck throbbing. “You’ll come begging me to buy this place, Rudy, and I might not be so generous then. You got medical bills, and there’ll be attorney bills.” Speed pedaled off with his army in tow, the long black and green line snaking its way up Main Street.

Huffy gave Rudy a mean-girl look. “Too bad for you that Bunny got herself festivaled, but the rest of us here in town are glad it happened. And just so you know, I don’t need my father’s money to buy you out. I’m doing just fine on my own now. Your shop is as good as mine, Rudy—get used to it.”

“Don’t listen to either of them,” I said to Rudy as Huffy propelled herself down the street. “This is an eight-mile island. We’ll find the chairman of the Bunny Festival. In fact, I’d say those two are prime candidates. And how in the world does someone get the name
Huffy
?”

“It was her first bike, and word has it she used to park it in her bedroom every night.”

That seemed like a really stupid thing to do, but then, superjock parked in my bedroom for almost a year. Huffy made a better choice.

“Speed and Huffy are harmless,” Rudy added. “They’re all talk. That’s what people do around here, Evie: talk a lot.”

And Rudy was a teddy bear in a cast who thought the best of everyone. Maybe Abigail was adopted. “Why don’t you take a few hours off and go to the Stang? You could do with a break, and you might find out who had an interest in our local furry little mammal presently on ice. Bars have a way of making people loosen up and say stuff they normally wouldn’t. Keep your ears open, see what you can find out and I’ll hold down the fort for a while here.”

“Twain says,
The best way to cheer yourself is to try to cheer somebody else up
, so maybe you’re right. I’ll call Ed. He’s always ready for a game of euchre, and he’s been worrying about his son. The guy’s not exactly Mr. Industrious, and Ed still owns a chunk of the ad business. I tell you, with kids you’re always worrying about something.”

“You worry about Abigail? Trust me, she’s doing great.”