Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man (12 page)

He looks down at his feet and shrugs.

I say real quietly, “The Skeleton Man was trying to kill you, wasn’t he?”

For a long time he just sits there, but finally he shrugs.

“You think it was your brother, don’t you?”

He jumps to his feet and starts pacing back and forth, shaking his head. “Why … now? Why … the … disguise?” He sits back down, motions to the candlesticks, and says, “Thank … you,” then puts his head in his hands.

I can tell that he wants to be left alone, so I pick up the sack and go out the way I came. And I’m about halfway home when I decide that home is not where I should be going.

The police station is.

ELEVEN    

I didn’t
want
another conversation with Officer Borsch, but I didn’t know what else to do. The toaster had to be connected to the Skeleton Man somehow, but
I
sure didn’t know how.

And I’m walking along, thinking about killers and toasters and how Chauncy would probably rather die than tell the police that he thinks his brother tried to do him in, when I notice these two men arguing on the other side of the street.

I know it’s none of my business what these two guys are pointing and yelling about, but I slow way down anyway, and pretty soon I’m practically stopped, listening to them. They’re both about the same age, but one of them looks like he changes oil for a living, and the other—well, I’d bet what’s left of my high-tops that he has a closet full of ties and a cell phone in his car.

Mr. Cell Phone’s yelling, “Look, park them in your garage, park them in your driveway, put them down the street somewhere, but don’t put them in front of my house! You’re breaking an ordinance and you know it. This is not commercial property. If you want to run a used car lot, rent yourself a spot across town!”

I look around and, sure enough, there are about ten old beat-up cars right around the Oil Man’s house. He wipes
his hands on a rag. “I ain’t breaking any ordinance. You’ve had the cops down here so many times you ought to know that by now.”

“That’s because you move them right before they get here!” Cell Phone rubs his forehead and says, “Look.
Please
. I’m trying to sell this house, and it just won’t move with your cars parked out front.”

Oil Man sneers and says, “Sorry, buddy. That’s your problem, not mine,” then walks away.

You can tell from the way Cell Phone’s hands are turning into fists that he’d like to
make
it his problem, but he just marches back up to his own house and slams the door.

I start walking again, and I’m about a block from the police station when something starts rattling around in my brain. At first it’s kind of quiet—just a little rumble. But before you know it, it’s like a gorilla up there, shaking a cage. And when the cage busts open, I quit walking to the police station and cut over to the mall to find a phone booth.

I flip through the realty section of the yellow pages, trying to remember the name on the sign. I know it’s Sunrise or Sunshine … Sun-
something
, so I keep on looking until I find it: Sunset Realty.

When a woman answers the phone, I pinch my nose and say, “There’s a house on Orange Street? Six twenty-nine East Orange? Can you tell me a little about it?”

I listen to her it’s-a-darling-three-bedroom-starter-home-with-the-feel-of-real-country-living spiel, and when she comes up for air I ask, “Has it been on the market long?”

What does she say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I slap the phone and say, “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Um, yes. I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Has it been on the market long?”

“A little while, yes, but the price I quoted you is ten thousand
under
the fair market price. The seller is definitely motivated. Would you like to arrange a walkthrough?”

The last thing I want is a tour of Mr. Chainsaw’s house, so I pinch my nose again and say, “Let me discuss this with my husband first.” Then while she’s trying to get my name and number I say, “Would you mind telling me something about the neighbor first?”

“The neighbor?”

“You know—the one with the bushes?”

She just sighs. “I don’t know what the situation is over there. Look. It’s a darling house. I’m sure you’d fall in love with it if you’d just take a walk-through. I could meet you over there in half an hour if you’d like …”

I tell her I’ll have to get back to her, and hang up the phone. Then I head back across the street to the police station. And as I’m crossing over the police station driveway, a squad car comes bouncing up and practically runs me down.

I’m about to say, “Hey! Watch it!” when I realize that it’s Officer Borsch behind the wheel—acting like he doesn’t see me.

I wave my arm back and forth, but he’s still looking right through me. Finally he starts to maneuver the car around me, but I move over a few steps and block his way again.

Muscles is sitting next to him, and he motions me to move aside. I hold up the paper sack and call, “I’ve got something to show you!”

Officer Borsch whips off his sunglasses, throws them on the dash, and hollers, “I told you to stay out of it!” because he knows I’m not there to show him my groceries.

“But I’ve got some evidence!”

Officer Borsch tries to rub away a headache while Muscles squeezes himself out of the passenger seat and says, “Let’s talk inside the station.”

Muscles escorts me in, and when Officer Borsch joins us a minute later, he takes me straight down the hall and practically throws me into an interrogation room. And while he’s hiking up his pants and straightening out his gun belt he says, “Sit down,” like he’s spitting tobacco.

I sit all right, but I roll my eyes at Muscles and whisper, “That breath needs
Lysol
.”

Muscles tries to keep a straight face, but you can tell—he’s thought the same thing himself. More than once. And in the split second he gives me a smile, Officer Borsch is all over him. “What was that?”

Muscles says, “Nothing, sir. She just … she just …” and you can tell from the way his jaw muscles are popping around that he’s about to shoot himself in the foot.

I jump in. “Look, I walked here from clear across town. All I want’s a drink of water. What’s the big deal?”

Officer Borsch stares at his partner with those squinty little eyes of his. Then he throws his head a fraction of an inch to one side and Muscles runs off to get me some water.

At first Officer Borsch walks back and forth like a caged lion. Then he leans against the table on his fingertips and says, “Do you know what I’ve been through because of you? Do you have any
idea?
”

I look down, because the last time I got tangled up in one of Officer Borsch’s cases, he got into some pretty serious trouble. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I’ve been on the force twenty-six years. Twenty-six years! And after that business over at the Heavenly Hotel, Jacobson tried to force me into an early retirement. When I refused, he stuck me in this lousy rotation with that … that …,” and he’s dying to say
moron
, but he just can’t do it. If there’s one person Officer Borsch hates more than his new partner, it’s me.

I was starting to get a little nervous. Being in a room with Officer Borsch sizzling and spraying at you is like being in a microwave with a sausage—it’s just a matter of time before things get real messy. So I was relieved when Muscles came back carrying cups of water. He had three of them: one in each hand and one in his mouth. He hands one to Officer Borsch and says, “So, where are we?”

Officer Borsch looks up at this fluorescent light that’s flickering away, takes a deep breath, and says, “What
evidence
do you have for us?”

So I take the toaster out of the sack and put it on the table. And the minute I did, I knew I should’ve told him the whole story first and then brought out the toaster, because right away Officer Borsch wags his head and says, “Well, looky here. She’s found us the smokin’ toaster!”

Now I felt like packing up my appliance and going home, but I didn’t. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “If you’d please just
listen …
”

Muscles says, “Go on, Sammy. Tell us your story.”

So I told them about going to the Thrift Store and how
I’d noticed the candlesticks and found out from CeCe that they’d been left with the toaster in the donation box.

Muscles is looking pretty interested, but all Officer Borsch says is, “So where are the candlesticks?”

I told him about going over to Chauncy’s and how he was so happy to get them back.

“And the toaster?”

“It’s not his.”

Officer Borsch says, “So his wallet’s been recovered, and he’s got his candlesticks back. I guess all his property has been recovered”—like, Okay, case closed.

I say kind of quietly, “This toaster is connected somehow to the Skeleton Man. I don’t know how, but since this is starting to look like more than just a robbery, somebody should look into it.”

Muscles says, “What do you mean, more than a robbery?”

“I think that maybe the Skeleton Man was trying to kill Chauncy.”

Officer Borsch rolls his eyes, throws his hands up in the air, and mutters, “Why me?”

I almost left. But Muscles put a hand up and said, “It’s been a long day, Sammy. Tell us why you think this, but try to stick to the point, okay?”

So I tell them about my suffocation theory and about Chauncy’s brother and the inheritance and how Douglas didn’t know his brother had had a tracheotomy. And the whole time I’m talking I’m thinking that when Chauncy finds out what I’ve done, he’s going to want to kill
me
.

When I’m finished, I look over at Muscles and he’s busy
pushing back his cuticles, nodding away like Wow, this is making a lot of sense.

So I say, “There’s someone else you might want to investigate.”

Muscles says, “And who is that?”

“Chauncy’s neighbor. Did you know he has his house up for sale?”

Officer Borsch snickers, “Can’t blame him for
that
. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

So I tell them about Mr. Chainsaw and how Chauncy had said he wasn’t too fond of his “sanctuary.” Then I tell them about my call to Sunset Realty and how I was sure that the house had been for sale for a long, long time.

They both just stand there for a minute, then Muscles says, “Does his neighbor know about the operation?”

“I don’t know.”

Officer Borsch says, “So we’ve got a brother stiffed out of an inheritance and a neighbor who can’t sell a house. Is that it?”

I shrug. “It’s a place to start.”

He shifts around a bit and says, “We’ll look into it.”

Right.

But there’s not much else I can do. So I hand the toaster to Muscles and whisper, “Don’t let him throw it away.”

When I got back to the Senior Highrise, I went up the back way, as usual, and I peeked down the hall for Mrs. Graybill, as usual. But for once her apartment door was closed.

So I hurried down the hall, and I would’ve just popped right into Grams’ apartment, only as I’m putting the key
in the lock I hear something I can’t believe. I tiptoe over to Mrs. Graybill’s door and put my ear against it. And there it is: music.

I stand there listening to the sound of violins and cellos floating out of Mrs. Graybill’s apartment and I wonder, What is going
on?
I mean, hearing music through Daisy Graybill’s door is like watching your cat eat broccoli—it’s just not something you expect to happen.

I wanted to knock on the door, just to see if it was really Mrs. Graybill inside, but instead I turned around and went into my own apartment. I closed the door tight and called, “Grams! I’m home!”

Grams calls back from the kitchen, “In here!” and when I round the corner she holds up a finger and says into the phone, “Okay, then. I’ll see you tonight. Bye-bye.”

When she hangs up I say, “Wow, Grams, got a hot date?”

That makes her blush. “Watch your tongue, young lady.” She adjusts her glasses and looks at me like she’s checking the ingredients of a box of cereal. “Mr. Graham has invited us
both
over for dinner, so don’t you get any strange ideas.”