Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (6 page)

“On the outside maybe, but the girl’s got her priorities all muddled up. You work to live, not live to work, like she’s doing.” Rudy hoisted himself up, balanced then paused, giving me a long look. “Okay, Chicago, level with me. Why are you hanging around here? You could jump on a boat and hightail it back to the city where you belong. There’s got to be an easier way of getting a promotion from my daughter than hunting for a killer. Buy Abigail some chocolate. She’s a real sucker for dark chocolate.”

The Abigail I knew wasn’t a sucker for anything, but it was time to level with Rudy. “I talked Abigail into letting me come here, and you wind up a murder suspect. Not a great situation for either of us. Abigail will fire me in a Chicago minute if she finds out what’s going on. She’ll think I should have been looking out for you and I screwed it up big-time, and a Bloomfield hasn’t been fired since March twelfth, nineteen forty-four. Some kids memorize
In fourteen ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue
. In our family it’s
In nineteen forty-four, Uncle Lamoure got kicked out the door.
”

“You’re kidding.”

“They buried him some place in Georgia. It’s the land of the fried, big hair,
y’all
and
ain’t she precious
. How could they do such a thing?”

I started to sweat, and Rudy paled at the description. “You’re
not
kidding,” he said. “I’ll go make like a sitting duck over at the Stang and see who comes hunting. This red shirt will get people talking. The South, huh? That’s really harsh.” Rudy shook his head in disbelief, then thumped his way out of the shop.

I snagged a paintbrush and eyed the primer on the floor. Seemed a crime to throw it away with so many bikes in need. By two o’clock I’d only rented out four bikes, but I did have a nice line of dent-free, rust-free, primed cycles parked outside in the sun to dry. Visions of the last piece of pizza in the fridge danced in front of my eyes and I headed for the
home sweet home
part of Rudy’s Rides.

I went into the kitchen, patted Bambino and Cleveland and came face-to-face with Speed Maslow coming in the back door.

H
e was taller than I had thought, had more muscles than I remembered and looked threatening in black jeans and T-shirt, not giving a rat’s behind that he didn’t knock and had just barged in like he owned the place. Cleveland arched his back and hissed, and I pretty much felt the same way.

“Saw Rudy down at the Stang.” Speed folded his arms across his solid chest and gave me the
cool-jock to stupid-chick
stare. “He’s going to need money to get him out of this Bunny mess, and the doctor bills are eating him alive. Get the old fart to sell to me and there’s an easy grand in it for you. Rudy says you work for his daughter in Chicago and you’re here to make brownie points and get a promotion. This is quick money staring you right in the face.”

Personally I thought it was the island jackass staring me in the face. “Cycling’s big out West or in Europe. Why are you setting up shop on an eight-mile chunk of land in the middle of a lake?”

Like throwing a switch, Speed morphed into Lance Armstrong, the better years. “Michigan is virgin territory. There are no major cycling events in the state, and I can make a difference here. I can bring the fun and competition of cycling to Michigan.”

I gave Speed the
smart-chick to stupid-jock
stare. “The perfect sound bite for press and investors everywhere. How’s that ad campaign working out? Any takers?”

“Yeah, I got takers. Lots of ’em.” Speed took a step closer, his lips thin and eyes cold, hot breath across my face, trying to get me to back up. Fat chance. “I’ve got plans,” Speed growled. “And you’re not screwing them up just ’cause you’re from the big city and think you know it all. Bunny tried to mess with me, and look where she ended up. Get me this shop, and no one gets hurt.”

Speed slammed the door as he left, the panes rattling in their frames. I yanked out Sheldon, who really did know it all—that’s why I named my iPhone Sheldon—and Googled
Speed Maslow jerk
. Okay, I left off the
jerk
part, but I was thinking it.

Speed won some minor race last year and came in second in a few more and snagged a couple of endorsements along the way. He had his very own patented Speed On-The-Go water bottle in black or poison green, but that was about it—nothing blockbuster in the last two years. Four years ago he won the Tour of Texas, and since there was a list of Google references for that, I figured this was a big deal, except that it was four years ago.

My guess was Mr. Speed planned to cash in on his name while he still had one that people recognized. Okay, so how did Bunny figure into this or was Speed just shooting his mouth off to scare the dumb city girl?

“Cripes almighty,” Rudy said, hobbling his way in the door between the shop and the kitchen. He did the thinking man’s pace back and forth across the kitchen, Cleveland and Bambino watching like it was a slow-motion Ping-Pong match.

“Everybody in town here thinks I’m innocent, the snobs on the hill think I’m guilty, and to top it all off, I wasn’t at the Stang more than five minutes and Huffy comes in and shoves a paper at me to sign agreeing to sell her Rudy’s Rides. Said she’d have the cash in a month and would add a ten percent bonus, and that her dad had nothing to do with it and this was all her doing.”

“Well, guess what. Speed stopped in and wants me to sweet-talk you into selling him the place. Said if I got in his way I’d wind up like Bunny. Does anyone get along around here? So far we know that Dwight wants his mother’s money ’cause he’s in debt, and from what Fiona said, her brother, Smithy, had good motive for sending Bunny over a cliff for screwing up his marriage, but neither of them has a reason to frame you. Then we got Speed and Huffy, who want your shop really bad, probably frame you without batting an eye, but why would they kill Bunny? Did you find out anything else?”

“Jason Bourne’s off to the mainland. Saw him heading for the ferry with a black trench coat slung over his shoulder, briefcase handcuffed to his wrist and sporting a glued-on mustache. Wonder who he’s got in his crosshairs this time around?”

Bourne, or whatever his real name was, obviously didn’t want anyone to know he’d been at Dwight’s house, or he wouldn’t have been hiding in a closet. “Do you really think he’s a hit man?”

“Do you glue on facial hair and handcuff your luggage? Bet he has one of those put-together guns in there with a silencer like you see on TV. I saw Irma walking down the street when I came in,” Rudy added. “She had on a big pink hat with a feather, had a wild look in her eyes and was carrying a plate of fudge. Wonder what that’s all about?”

“Holy cow! Did you smell smoke? I gotta go.” I took the back door that faced the picture-perfect harbor and tripped over a busted wood step with a crack clear through the middle. No wonder Rudy broke his leg.

I turned onto Main Street, which was crowded with horses, bikes and tourists moving so slow I wanted to yell,
Get out of the way!
I spotted Irma’s hat in the crowd then her pink and chocolate vest. She ambled her way toward Rita’s Fudge Shoppe, holding her tray high like a grand prize.

“Come and get some terrific fudge right here,” Irma sang out, her voice carrying over the street din. “See for yourself how Rita’s Fudge Shoppe makes the best fudge in town. Get some to take home for friends and family. They’ll thank you for it.”

Irma spotted me and gave a big impish grin. She hitched her head toward Rita’s shop. “Free samples of what you’ll find inside,” she sang out again as she stepped onto the porch.

Tourists crowded close, snagging the little white tissue cups and popping the delicious-looking morsels in their mouths. Smiles turned to frowns with fits of choking and gagging, along with bulging eyes, sour faces and some actual spitting on the ground. People pushed and shoved to get to the free fudge, then pushed and shoved to escape.

The crowd on Rita’s porch scattered, the word going viral and spreading to the customers waiting their turn inside. In a flash, the thriving Tuesday afternoon business at Rita’s Fudge Shoppe morphed into impending bankruptcy. Eyes glaring, Rita and Dutchy stormed their way out of the shop, heading straight for Irma.

So this was the Mackinac version of God helping those who helped themselves. With all attention focused on Irma, I slid inside the empty store and past the cute pink and white ice-cream parlor chairs and tables, then slunk behind the glass display counter piled high with really yummy-looking fudge. I snagged a piece along the way, popped it in my mouth and yanked the wall phone off the cradle.

Holy freaking cow! The fudge was maple walnut and was creamy and mind-blowingly delicious. I couldn’t see a thing or even feel my toes and fingers. My brain refused to function, every ounce of my being savoring the orgasmic taste. All this from fudge? Yeah, most definitely, all this from fudge!

Get a grip, Evie.
I tried, I really did, but there was no gripping. Instead I ate two more pieces! I didn’t think my mouth was that big, but it was! I needed fudge therapy; a twelve-step program. When a bit of sanity returned, I punched in Winslow’s number.

“Is somebody there?” asked the receptionist.

My mouth was too full to talk. I sucked in a breath around the candy. “Mithr Winow?”

“Pervert.” The line went dead.

I swallowed and tried to convince myself I was a rotten human for eating fudge and not concentrating on the task at hand, except my heart wasn’t in it—the fudge was just too awesome to contemplate remorse.

“What are you doing?” a voice said from behind me.

The only reason I didn’t scream was that my mouth was full of fudge. I swallowed the whole glob in one gulp.

“Fiona?” I coughed as I spun around. “You scared me to death . . . almost literally.” I coughed again.

“I need to make a phone call and I have to hurry. Irma’s got an idea how to get even with Dutchy and Rita for doing her wrong.”

A huge smile skated across Fiona’s face, her green eyes dancing. “Revenge! You betcha’. I’m in, do it. ”

Fiona was my kind of gal.

I repunched the numbers. “Mr. Winslow, please. This is Rita Delong calling from Mackinac Island. I need to speak to him, it’s an emergency.”

Fiona stifled a giggle and I licked a stray glob of fudge off my thumb as I waited for Winslow to come on the line. I could see Rita and Dutchy arguing with Irma on the porch, their heads close, faces red, words like
slut
,
thief
,
old biddy
and
granny
drifting our way.

“The tourists are snapping pictures as if this were the local zoo,” Fiona said.

“From what I can see, they aren’t too far off the mark.”

Fiona backed us and the curly corded phone into the kitchen, which had copper pots stacked on a table, big bags of sugar on the counter, a king-size stove and a mixer. “Avoiding fudge temptation,” she said, plopping a piece of vanilla fudge in her mouth. “And keeping us out of sight. How long could a fudge-fight last?”

We peeked around the corner as Rita threw a piece of fudge at Irma and Irma hurled a chunk at Dutchy, resulting in the whole tray going airborne and everyone backing away from the toxic pieces. “Pretty darn long,” I said. “Who would have thought?”

“Winslow here,” came the voice on the phone. “How can I help you?”

“This is Rita Delong. Dwight Harrington owes me money, a lot of money. Since you’re Dwight’s attorney, I’m assuming you know his mother bit the big one, and now that he’s inheriting his mother’s house, I want my cash, and I want it now.”

Fiona gave me a thumbs-up.

“Who is this?” Winslow growled.

“Rita Delong. I own a fudge shop here on Mackinac Island and I want my money. Don’t forget to tell Dwight Harrington that I called.”

The phone went dead and Dutchy rounded the corner, plowing straight into me and knocking me against the giant mixer. “Thought I heard . . . ” He looked from me to Fiona. “What are you two doing back here? You’re fudge thieves. I’m calling the cops.”

Dutchy grabbed for the phone and Fiona beat him to it, clutching it in her hand. “You can’t do that ’cause we were doing you a favor. The phone rang, no one was around, so we took the order.”

Dutchy towered over me, backing me toward the wall, a scowl creasing his forehead. “I heard you talking. What does Dwight have to do with this? And what don’t you want him to forget?”

“Dwight’s the one who made the call,” I said, lying my little fudge-stained heart out as best I could. “He wants five pounds of chocolate-pecan delivered, and I told him I wouldn’t forget to tell you.”

“Dwight?”

“Says he’s your biggest fan. Just add it to his bill.”

“What bill?”

“Drop it off at SeeFar tomorrow. Put it on the back porch. He’s on a sugar high,” Fiona said.

“That’s a nice order.” Dutchy looked confused, and Fiona and I seized the moment of Dutchy contemplating his bank account to duck under his arm and hustle out of the shop, not stopping till we got to the street,

“I think he bought it,” Fiona gushed as we blended in with the foot traffic.

“Now maybe, but when five pounds of fudge gets dropped off and Dwight calls Rita’s Fudge Shoppe wanting to know what’s going on, we’re toast. My grandpa Frank talked me out of being a lawyer because I suck at lying. He said things never got better when I opened my mouth; just a lot more complicated.”

Fiona gave me a friendly shoulder bump. “Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong, but at least this time your mouth was filled with really good fudge.”