Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (8 page)

As part of my lawyer-infested upbringing, I knew that seven AM nicotine-enhanced phone calls came in two varieties: business that’s gone down the drain or someone who was dead. With a little luck this was both, involving Bunny croaking and Winslow delivering bad news, but there was no way of knowing for sure. Itching that little space between my eyes and then the one between my nose and lips, I clam-crawled my way to the front, keeping close to the house and out of sight.

Pea soup still engulfed the bluffs as I scrambled back over the gate onto the sidewalk, landing right in front of a man whose chin had not connected with a razor in days—maybe weeks. He wore a crumpled navy captain’s hat, a ragged Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and a knife with a well-used handle strapped to his belt.

“W
ho the heck are you?” captain guy grumbled, eyeing my fudge package. “You’re Dwight’s newest squeeze? Sweets for his new sweetie?”

I shuddered so hard at the thought of me with Dwight together that I stopped itching for a full minute.

Captain guy took a step closer, his barrel chest nearly touching my mostly flat one, for once making me grateful for 32-A’s. “Stay away from Dwight if you know what’s good for you. He’s taken, and don’t forget it. Mind your own business around here.”

The left corner of the captain’s lip arched in a sneer, exposing teeth the color of chewing tobacco and black coffee, then he strolled down the hill, disappearing into the mist. Since I’d seen 1-800-HotBabe on Dwight’s dresser and just witnessed his secret rendezvous with Huffy, it was a pretty fair assumption that Captain Yellow-teeth’s interest in Dwight was not of a personal romantic nature.

So why was he warning me off Dwight and why was he standing here in the fog staring at SeeFar and just how big was that knife he was packing? Was he casing the place out? Planning a burglary and not wanting me to burgle it first—is that what he meant by saying Dwight was taken?

Scratching my arms while making sure to keep away from the edge of the cliff and the express route to town, I located the steps. When I reached the bottom, I cut through Marquette Park, giving the Father a little good-morning salute, then passed the big Dutch Elm at the corner and crossed Main Street.

Okay, I should dump the fudge in the trash out of respect for Irma and her recipe plight, and I sure didn’t need five pounds of butter and sugar clogging up my arteries and adhering itself to my behind. But in the world of Evie Bloomfield, dumping fudge was never going to happen, so I dropped it off at Doud’s Market for them to share with their customers. I snagged a piece for myself because the devil made me do it, then crossed the street and banged on the back door of Irma’s shop.

Inside I could see her hustling around the kitchen, which was piled with bags of sugar, chocolate, maple caramel, shelves of nuts, a rainbow of candies—all the good things in life. Using a Goliath-size spoon, Irma stirred a massive copper pot simmering on the stove, ribbons of steam curling over the edge. Irma was the poster gal for the
if at first you don’t succeed
philosophy of life. Here she was giving fudge yet another try . . . God save us all.

“Did you catch up with Huffy?” I asked Irma when she let me in and poured coffee.

She did another stir while kicking out her left foot for me to see. “Top-Siders are the bomb—that’s what the kids say these days,
the bomb
. I guess ‘cool’ is back to being about the weather. These shoes don’t make a sound, and I scared the bejeezus out of Huffy when I caught up to her on her porch. She told me to mind my own business if I knew what was good for me.”

“That phrase seems to be making the rounds this morning. So what’s with Huffy and Dwight anyway? I got the feeling this was more than a one-night fling.” I pulled my socks down and scratched my ankles.

Irma gave the brew another swish, then sat across from me at a little wood table by the window. The fog was starting to burn off the harbor, letting in patches of sun and blue sky. “Everyone around here knows those two always had the hots for each other,” Irma said to me. “But Bunny put the kibosh on it from the get-go, just like she didn’t want her daughter to get involved with Smithy. Huffy’s dad runs the delivery system on the island; he ferries in all the stuff we need from the mainland.”

“He sounds like a respectable enough guy—so why didn’t Buffy approve?”

“Oh, he’s got money to be sure, and Huffy’s his pride and joy, but a shower, shave and clean shirt don’t exactly top his priority list. Bunny used to say that she was related to the Rockefellers, and she told Huffy right to her face and in front of half the town she must be related to Kentucky moonshiners. Dwight wouldn’t cross Bunny, since she paid for his lifestyle, but now that Mother Moneybags is between Rocky Road and Cookies ’n’ Cream, Dwight and Huffy can do what they want.”

“But that’s just it, they’re not—they’re slinking around like love-struck teenagers. And there’s something else going on with Huffy—she also wants to buy out Rudy and take over the bike shop. She said she’d have the money in a month and it was her money, not her dad’s. She sure didn’t get that kind of cash from her own shop. Where’s it coming from? And I think I saw her dad outside SeeFar when I was rescuing the fudge off the back porch. What’s that all about?”

“That the captain was up there doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Irma said over the rim of her mug. “Now that Bunny’s at the big town council meeting in the sky and driving them all nuts, the captain wants to make sure his little girl gets what she’s always wanted . . . Dwight!”

A little smile played at the corner of Irma’s mouth as she went back to the stove, turning down the flame under the pot. “I know where this is leading; I’m getting good at detective stuff. I think it’s the clothes I’m wearing. Gives me good snooping vibes. I never had vibes of any kind before.”

“We’re not detectives. We’re just concerned citizens trying to help Rudy.”

Irma added cocoa to the cooking mixture, the aroma of rich chocolate filling the kitchen. “I bought a fingerprint kit at Walmart yesterday, so that makes us detectives—it says so right there on the back of the box—and I think that you think that Huffy joined up with Dwight and they got rid of Bunny for the money and maybe a little payback for keeping them apart all these years. That’s where that buyout money’s coming from, I bet.”

Irma held up her big spoon in triumph, dripping chocolate on the floor. “And that explains why they don’t want to be seen together. They knock off Bunny and frame Rudy.”

“Fingerprint kit?”

“I was thinking about getting a stun gun too; Tasers are too expensive. We really need a stun gun.”

Nate Sutter was going to kill me dead.

“And we need a plan.” Irma put down the spoon and whipped open double cabinet doors to reveal pictures of Bunny taped on one side and Huffy and Dwight on the other. “It’s a murder board like they use on those TV shows, except this is really a murder cupboard. We have the victim and suspects. I got the pictures out of my
Town Crier
recycle pile. Pretty slick, huh?”

“How’d we get from bookstore to murder cupboard?”

“What bookstore? I’m sorry to say my son’s convinced Rudy’s the killer, and that leaves finding him innocent up to you and me. So what do you think?”

“I think we’re looking at five to ten in a Michigan state prison for obstruction of justice.”

“So we won’t obstruct; we’ll just divert.” Irma turned down the boiling fudge, then looked back at me. “I don’t want Rudy to go to jail. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him out.” There was a hitch in Irma’s voice that I hadn’t heard before.

“Whoa—you like Rudy.”

“Everybody likes Rudy; least everyone in town here.”

“You
really
like Rudy. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

Irma faced me, nibbling at her lower lip. “That dumb widow thing I told you about before with Dutchy . . . well, I sort of chose Dutchy over Rudy. Talk about stupid on steroids—that would be me. I hurt Rudy’s feelings something terrible. If I can help find the real killer, it might make things right between us and we can at least be friends again. I truly miss him in my life. You’ll keep this to yourself and won’t tell anyone? There’s already enough gossip flying around here about me and Dutchy, and this would be fuel for the fire for sure.”

Such a little island for so many secrets. “Mum’s the word, I promise.” Irma and I were the Mary-Kate and Ashley of dumb guy choices. If there were a class called Men 101, Irma and I should sign up and sit in the front row and take notes.

Irma shoved her now-nonexistent glasses up her nose out of habit. “Huffy and Dwight weren’t the only ones with an interest in our resident dead person.” Irma reached for an issue of the
Crier
and ripped Speed Maslow’s picture right off the front page and taped it to the suspect side of the cupboard. “Bunny and Speed used to be friends, then last week she made a comment over at the bank about how he couldn’t be trusted. It was all over town in minutes, being as he’s trying to raise money for the Speed Maslow Challenge. You’d think she’d be more considerate of someone she knew when he was a kid around here.”

“Speed’s from Mackinac?”

“Helped his uncle with a lawn maintenance business in the summers. We figured that’s why he came back. He’s got an apartment over his bike shop now, but I’m sure he has bigger plans. There’s a lot of money here and people like him. Maybe Speed had enough of Bunny’s badmouthing and decided to shut her up.”

Irma held up the
Crier
with the big gaping hole where Speed’s picture had been. “Says here that tonight’s the kickoff up at the Grand for the Labor Day Jazz Weekend. It’s one of those
asparagus and thin salty meat on water crackers
affairs and Speed’s getting an award—Entrepreneur of the Year. Everybody’ll be talking about the Bunny Festival, and maybe somebody will let something slip.” Irma parked her hand on her hip. “Bought myself a ditching-Dutchy dress, and it’s time to take it out for a spin. I’d say you should go too, but it looks like you’re coming down with a rash.”

“Cat allergy—and try not to spin too fast, okay? We got to keep a low profile, or people will get nervous and clam up.”

Irma dipped a spoon in the fudge brewing on the stove. She handed it to me, a glint of hope in her eyes. “Okay, here we go. Tell me—what do you really think of this batch? I’m getting better.”

I really needed to enroll in lying school.

I headed off to Rita’s trying to enjoy the relaxed, quaint, agonizingly slow little town coming to life. Wagons and drays plodded along, people who hadn’t ridden a bike in years wobbled down the street, crashing into whatever got in their way, overnighters drifted into restaurants for breakfast. By some miracle of the island gods, and by using every ounce of patience I possessed, I didn’t yell or shove anyone out of my way. I figured that made me an urban saint.

When I finally got to Rita’s Fudge Shoppe, I waited for her and Dutchy to retreat back into the kitchen, then I slipped the bill and money for the fudge onto the counter. I went with the idea that they wouldn’t care where the money came from for the five pounds of fudge and would have no reason to call Dwight about the order if they were paid in full. Now there was no reason for Dwight to call Rita’s Fudge Shoppe and no reason for Rita’s Fudge Shoppe to call Dwight. This was a lot of mess for two pieces of maple-nut fudge . . . but honestly, it was so worth it.

I snuck out the side door, blending into a milling crowd that was going absolutely nowhere. Turning onto Market Street, I avoided the bottleneck on Main as Sheldon beeped and vibrated my butt. It was a text from Mother.
Leaving for Paris tomorrow AM. Check on Grandpa don’t forget.

Right, the parents’ trip to France for a month. Good for them, but the only thing Grandpa Frank needed from me was a lift back and forth to the airport when he headed off to Vegas for some R&B. He told Mother it was his love for rhythm and blues that took him to Vegas a few times a year, but I suspected it was more like roulette and bourbon. I sucked at lying, and Grandpa Frank had it down to an art form, except with me. We were buds. Maybe it was because I had his eyes or because he taught me how to drive a stick shift, but more than likely it was because neither of us fit the Bloomfield mold of society perfection and sublime snobbery. I like beer more than champagne, candy bars more than tiramisu and the Gap more than Saks. Grandpa Frank’s favorite club is Canadian Club whiskey, and his idea of the perfect night out since Grandma died ten years ago is playing poker with his army buddies. Yeah, we were buds.

I passed the blacksmith shop, workplace of Smithy, another Bunny casualty. He had to resent the mother-in-law from hell, but how much? Did he just bitch and complain about her at the Stang over a few beers, or was it more
I’m getting rid of the old broad ’cause she’s got it coming
?

The doors to the blacksmith barn were pulled together and locked tight, the shop and tour hours posted on the white plaque in front. Curls of smoke puffed from the stone chimney, the deep woody aroma wafting through the air suggesting the blacksmith was indeed
in
. Since I wasn’t here to get shoed or branded or whatever else got done in such shops and I just wanted to talk with Smithy, I took the path around to the side to see if I could find him.

“Hello,” I called out, knocking on the screen door. “Anyone home?” I stepped inside to find coals glowing deep red in the hearth, the heat radiating all the way to where I stood. Tools I didn’t recognize but that looked like something from the Old Testament hung on wood pegs, a buggy was parked in a stall and a black-and-white cat slept on a bench. Smithy couldn’t have gone far—there was a fire blazing. “Hello?”

Steps that were split half logs trailed up the side of the barn and I took them into a big loft with arched doors wide open letting in warm sun and a cool breeze. Smithy wasn’t here either, but he did have herbs and berries drying on big, flat screens held up on two-by-four sawhorses. The herbs smelled fresh and earthy and sweet, and there was a stack of little plastic baggies for storing them when the time came. I knew oregano from rosemary, and could pick out mint because I’ve had more than my share of mojitos over the years, but that was the extent of my herb awareness.