Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (7 page)

T
he sun sank into Lake Huron, a big ball of fire against the gray blue of deep, cold water. I hadn’t seen Irma since the great fudge encounter of the unbelievable kind, so I couldn’t tell her I contacted Winslow. That I’d gotten myself into a holy mess with the phony fudge order was something I intended to keep to myself, since it involved stuffing my mouth with maple-nut from her stolen recipes. But right now the big question was, where the heck was Irma?

I added another paint-primed bike to the thirteen others as Rudy scooped Bambino from the left pocket of the pool table and plopped down in the wicker rocker. He eased a straightened coat hanger between his thigh and the plaster cast, a look of relief on his face as he maneuvered the wire to a certain spot.

“Dang cast is so blasted itchy, it’s driving me nuts,” Rudy said. “Only good thing is that it takes my mind off the fact that we’ve only rented out eight bikes the whole blessed day. At this rate I’ll be bankrupt by Thanksgiving. When I bought the shop four years ago, I thought of it as vintage bikes on a vintage island. Now my bikes are just old, really old.”

“Old can be good.”

“If it’s Scotch and wine.”

“We need a gimmick. A saying.”

“‘Geezers a go-go’?”

“I was thinking more like chocolate candy that melts in your mouth and not in your hand, or cereal that goes snap, crackle and pop.”

Rudy thought for a minute then let out a long sigh. “I got nothing. I’ll hobble on over to Doud’s and get a few groceries. Least I can do is feed you for all your work. The bikes you painted look good—a lot better than they did before—but they’re still just old.”

“A word of warning: Skip the tater tots and pizza,” I offered as Rudy strapped a shopping tote to his crutch. “You never know what or who those things have been sitting next to in the freezer, if you get my drift.”

Rudy gave me a smile and a two-finger salute. “Got it.”

Rudy fed Bambino and Cleveland a treat each, then stomped off. I scratched my chin and my neck, probably in sympathy to Rudy and his itchy cast. A family of four strolled by the shop, took one look at the red-primed bikes and kept on going. Okay, this was just what I needed: a local focus group. If I got some feedback, maybe I’d find out there was something I could do to fix the bikes that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg.

“Excuse me,” I called, rushing out onto the sidewalk. I slapped on my best
please the customer
smile. “What would it take for you to rent these bikes for your family to explore the island?”

The dad was a young exec type with a big income and the ego to match—just the kind of client I loved dealing with in Chicago, always so cooperative.

“A miracle,” he said with a sneer as he studied the front of the shop. “This place is a dump.”

“What about lakeside rustic?”

“Dump.”

Mom flipped back her long blonde hair. “In the fourth grade I had a pink Sweet Thunder bike with a banana seat and purple streamers and a doll carrier. ’Course it was new, not like these. I’d never let my children on these; probably get some disease.”

The smaller boy folded his arms. “I have a Batman mountain bike, special edition.”

The bigger kid sneered like dad. “I play basketball, that’s all I care about. These bikes suck.” I got the snotty-kid eye roll, and the family pranced on down Main.

So this was my target audience? They weren’t out for a bargain rental; they wanted flashy, new and different, something to brag about to family and friends. They were after something that made for great vacation pictures on Facebook and Twitter or got pinned on Pinterest. They wanted a red Ferrari on two wheels. Rudy was right—this wasn’t going to work, and I had no idea how to fix the problem.

“Well now don’t these bicycles look darlin’,” Irish Donna said as she tugged Paddy to a stop by the curb. “Just darlin’ indeed. Rudy is lucky to be having you around even if you are sporting a big black cloud.”

“How would you like to do me a favor and rent one of these darlin’ bicycles?” I said, a wave of desperation washing over me. I needed a bit of good news to save Rudy’s day. “You could ride around tomorrow and give Paddy here a well-deserved rest. Bet he’s one pooped horse, and you’d get some great exercise; wouldn’t that be nice?” I rubbed my hands together to stop the itching. Grandpa Frank once said that an itchy palm meant money was coming. I hoped this was it.

“Well that’s not a bad idea a’tall,” Donna said, a big smile on her face. “I suppose I can be helping out my old pal Rudy by renting a bike. My guess is that sales are pitiful and you’re fighting to save the sinking ship. I can cheer him up on this fine night and be making you a good deal too now that I’m taking the bike off your hands.”

Donna reached down beside her and pulled out a wiggly furball of tan and white. “Our Miss Blueberry snuck out one night and went and got herself in a family way before me and Shamus had the good sense to ship her off to the vet and get her saucy female desires adjusted.”

“It’s a cat.”

“Well now, ye must be one of those brainy college graduates.”

“Rudy already has two cats.”

“And I be a horse person and have Paddy here to be taking me around the island in grand style and I’m in no need to be a renting a bike, yet I’m getting one stashed away in my caboose. Fair is fair now, don’t you think?”

“A cat for a bike? One lasts a day, the other for a whole lot of years—and there’s the litter box and dead mice by the bed and cat puke in your favorite gym shoe when you go to put it on in the morning. What about you rent two bikes for one cat?” I tried to barter.

Donna reached down again and retrieved another butterscotch kitten with four white paws. “I’m thinking fair is two for two.”

Rudy wasn’t the only one screwed. “One for one is the best I can do,” I agreed, scratching my nose and forehead, my hands itching more than ever, and knowing I’d just been had. “What am I going to do with a cat in my apartment?”

Donna held up the cat and studied his paws. “I’d be getting myself a bigger apartment.”

I hoisted the bike into the back of the carriage, where we’d parked Bunny the night before. Irish Donna forked over the rental money and the kitten about the size of my hand. “Gee, he’s really little.”

“Enjoy the moment.” Donna and Paddy ambled off and I sequestered Little-bit in my room with food and litter till I could think of a way to introduce the new kid on the block to the rest of the gang.

Rudy returned with a sack of groceries, plus chips from Horn’s bar and fried green beans that had to be the best vegetables ever and things called pasties from Millie’s. Back in Chicagoland pasties were not delicious flaky crusts covering meat and veggies. Pasties covered something else entirely—and not something from the food pyramid.

*   *   *

The next morning
I woke up at six thirty to the sounds of Sheldon knocking on Penny’s door emanating from my phone, a feline motor humming on my chest and the moan of foghorns out in the harbor. My legs, arms and face itched like mad. Not only did I have my very own cat—I had my very own cat allergy. I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt between scratching and more itching, slid my credit card and Sheldon in my back jean pockets then did the good cat-mommy thing and tucked Little-bit under the covers.

I tiptoed down the steps so as not to wake Rudy and have to spill my guts on what I was up to—stealing fudge off Dwight’s porch—and why I was doing it. Instead I left a
little white lie
note about taking an early-morning run, figuring Rudy hadn’t known me long enough to realize what a crock the note was.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I had five-foot visibility at best, with the whole island cocooned in a wad of wispy cotton. I heard horse hooves way before I saw the horses, and considering their Budweiser dimensions, that was going some. I turned for the steps that led up to the bluffs and smacked right into Irma coming the other way—least, I thought it was Irma.

“Well, there you are,” Irma said to me. “Just the person I want to see. But I didn’t think you’d be out and about at this hour. How did the call to Winslow go?”

“You’re blonde . . . and where are your glasses? And what color lipstick is that?”

“I’m now officially a Pink Coquette girl; that’s what the package of lipstick said I’d be if I bought this stuff.” Irma puckered up and kissed the air. “I needed some coquette in my life and everybody knows blondes have more fun and men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

“You’re looking for passes?”

“You betcha.” Irma held out her arms and did the
look at me
twirl. “I went off-island and got modernized. I got contacts, baby blue ones, and those jeans that hold your stomach and butt in so you look skinny.” She gave her backside a swat. “Now I got a pretty nice rump for a gal my age. And I got Top-Siders like all the boat people wear around here. I’m part of the in crowd.”

“What brought this on? You were fine before, you know.” I itched my neck, then rubbed my arms.

Irma’s lower lip dropped into a pout. “Rita the Bimbo called me a granny and Dutchy said I was an old biddy. I decided if I’m going to find the instigator of the Bunny Festival I need to get in the groove, change things up—think outside the fudge box, right?”

“Like as in Jessica Fletcher?”

“Like as in
CSI.
I just got back from the Lucky Bean,” Irma went on. “Took my new threads out for a test-drive and got a wolf-whistle from Smithy heading over to his blacksmith barn. He’s always so relaxed, a pleasure to be around. He gave me a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie to go with my coffee. So what’s the scoop with Winslow—is he coming to the island to harass Dutchy and Rita or what?”

A kid on a bike with pink and chocolate brown boxes piled in the front basket for a bunch of deliveries zoomed by, nearly running us over. “There’s a problem,” I said in a rush to Irma, feeling the need to get a move on before the kid headed up the hill toward Dwight’s house. “I made the call but Dutchy caught me using his phone at the fudge shop. I needed an excuse, so I said I was taking an order and Dwight wanted five pounds of fudge delivered this morning. Dutchy saw dollar signs and ignored the logic of Dwight never ordering fudge, but now I’ve got to get that order before—”

“Before Dwight and Dutchy realize you’re up to something and start wondering what’s going on,” Irma said, grabbing my hand and trotting off for the steps with me in tow. “We got to get Dwight’s fudge before he does is what you’re saying. Looks like that kid has a lot of deliveries; we can make it.”

“You don’t have to go.” I started off, guilt riding me hard, knowing if I hadn’t stuffed my cheeks with maple-nut I wouldn’t be in this mess. “I can do this on my own.”

“But I got outfits for just this sort of thing. More jeans, a cute denim blouse. Right now I’m all decked out and ready for action. Maybe I should get pepper spray.”

I am never eating fudge again.

The bluff was socked in just like town, the weird sensation of Irma and me being the only people on the island closing in around us. We hung a left onto Huron and crossed the street to the sidewalk. The big Victorians were completely hidden in the clouds and my scalp itched like the invasion of a million ants.

“We can hide here and wait for the kid on the bike,” Irma said when we passed the concrete pots with purple and white petunias spilling over the edge. “Dwight’s house is right next door, and he’s more of a party-hearty, late-night kind of guy than an early riser. We can snatch the fudge and no one will see us in this fog and—”

A door opened somewhere in the haze and I put my fingers over Irma’s mouth. She pointed to SeeFar and I nodded in agreement. Low, sweet-talking voices and seductive giggles drifted our way from Dwight’s front porch, followed by footsteps coming down the walkway heading right for us. Irma ducked behind the big flowerpots, pulling me with her, the two of us hip-to-hip, and the urge to scratch driving me nuts.

The wrought iron gate squeaked open just as the shadowy outline of a bicycle and rider headed up the street from the other direction. Dwight’s early-morning visitor . . . or more than likely overnight playmate . . . jumped behind the pots. Huffy’s left foot now squashed my right one, her nose flattened Irma’s and three pairs of eyes rounded to the size of baseballs in
what are you doing here
fashion as we all stared at each other. I bit back an
Ouch
.

None of us moved a muscle as the kid put down the kickstand on the bike, opened the gate and ambled up the walkway, my pink and brown fudge package tucked under his arm. In a flash, Huffy flipped us the bird of the non-feather variety, then scurried off down the street, fading into the swirling froth with
CSI
Irma right behind her. Go, Irma.

I scratched and itched everything I could reach till the delivery kid took off to complete the rest of his deliveries. I then hoisted my leg over the gate, avoiding the squeaky hinge alarm system, and made my way to the back porch, keeping below the windowpanes, which revealed lights on inside. Picking up the fudge, I then chanced a peek into the kitchen, and there, right in front of me, was Dwight. If he weren’t so caught up in a phone conversation, he would have seen me for sure. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, with two more smoldering in an ashtray, taking chain-smoking to the master class level.