Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) Read online

  “Any idea who the grand marshal of the Bunny Festival might be?” I limped inside the empty emporium to find a decor of English pub meets Martha Stewart, with dark oak on one side and three long marble-top tables on the other. Wads of paper and cardboard littered the floor.

  “There’s a list of folks wanting her out of the way.”

  I sank down into a chair. “Always thought small towns were chicken soup, borrowing a cup of sugar and marrying the boy next door, not sending someone off a cliff.”

  “There’s the soup side and then there’s the sending side. Last year when Big Ray won the Great Chili Cook-off we have every year, John from over at the VI objected and there was talk of a duel. Ray’s been walking with a limp ever since. People get feisty no matter where they live.”

  So much for Sutter’s milk-and-honey theory. Irma headed for the old display case with enough fudge to give me a visual sugar high. “If you want my opinion on who gets top billing for doing in Bunny,” Irma said to me, “Dwight gets my vote. SeeFar has been their family cottage for over a hundred years and is worth a bundle. Dwight’s a screwup and always looking for a payday. He’s got a sister, but she married some gazillionaire in Florida. My guess, Dwight inherited the house all by himself and is happy as a clam right about now.”

  “Think he’d talk to me?” I picked gravel out of my knee.

  “If you dress like a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader and shake your pompoms—and I’m not talking about the ones at football games.” Irma made a gagging sound at the shaking part and handed me a box of Band-Aids and a wet towel.

  I patted my knees. “What’s with all the paper on the floor? Redecorating?”

  “My last batch of fudge was a total bust, just like every other batch I make, so I’m giving up, burning the place to the ground and collecting the insurance.”

  Okay, Irma didn’t look crazy. No twitches, no evil glint in the eyes, no dagger strapped to her hip or snake tattooed on her forehead. She looked like someone who should have Grandma in front of her name. “All that over bad fudge?”

  “Because I’m having a dreadful time making good fudge—any kind of good fudge.” Irma sat, shoulders sagging. “Dutchy swiped my husband’s fudge recipes and is now cohabiting with that two-bit Delong tramp on the next block, do you believe that? They opened Rita’s Fudge Shoppe and are getting rich off of what’s mine. I suppose they had this planned all along. My dear departed husband made the best fudge on the island. Then Dutchy made goo-goo eyes at me, the lonely widow, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.”

  “What about dropping your prices, running an ad and giving Rita and Dutchy some competition.”

  “My dear husband did all the cooking, and so did Dutchy. Heaving those pots and flipping fudge takes lots of muscle. I took care of the customers and the books and now there isn’t any of either one.”

  Irma waved her hand over the store, then pulled a box of matches from her apron. “So how much more paper do you think I need to get a nice hefty blaze going in here? And don’t worry about being a witness or tattling on me. You’re a fudgie, so no one will pay any attention.”

  “But you can just sell the place.”

  “There will be more gossip and I’ll feel stupid because I can’t get it right.” She nodded to a five-foot loaf of something chocolate on one of the marble tables. “Looks real good, doesn’t it? Tastes like roadkill with nuts. Takes years to perfect a big-batch recipe.”

  Irma nibbled her bottom lip, glasses sliding down her nose. I knew this feeling of being double-crossed by a piece-of-dung guy and having your job in the toilet. My pocket buzzed and I yanked out Sheldon to find a text from Abigail. Call me! What was I going to say? Hey, boss, your dad’s accused of murder and his shop could be a pile of cinders by noon thanks to the crazy lady next door starting a fire?

  “Let’s go see this Dwight guy,” I blurted. I needed answers to the Bunny Festival and had to start somewhere, and a change of scenery might help Irma stay off the island’s most-wanted list.

  “I wasn’t kidding about the pompoms.”

  “I’m Evie Bloomfield from Chicago. I can handle anything Dwight the Third has to offer, and fresh air will make you feel better.”

  “So will a match.”

  Ten minutes later, Irma and I climbed the same steps I had come down the night before. In the light of day I could read the sign: Crow’s Nest Trail. The steps zigzagged up the hillside, leading from downtown up to Huron Street, and by the time we got to the top my lungs were on fire, and Irma not breaking a sweat. We could have taken Huron all the way around to Truscott Street, like Irish Donna and I did last night in the buggy, but it added twenty minutes to the commute. There were two directions on the island, up and down, and one was a heck of a lot easier than the other.

  “These houses have some view,” I wheezed, staring out at Mackinac Bridge, boats bobbing at their moorings and rooster-plumes of spray behind the ferries whizzing fudgies to the mainland under a bright blue sky.

  “And they sure pay dearly for it, I can tell you that.” We continued on up the road, one massive cottage bigger and grander than the next, with wide verandas, curved porches and flowers galore. We passed a cluster of concrete planters, purple and white petunias spilling over the top like a waterfall. We stopped in front of SeeFar, Fiona and her horse cart pulling up right beside us.

  Fiona was a skinny Tina Fey, minus makeup. She leaned down from her perch, the sunlight bouncing off the purple sequins, a healthy blush to her cheeks—an obvious perk of driving a convertible around town and hunting island stories.

  “If you’re calling on Dwight,” Fiona said, “I was up at the Grand doing a piece on Condé Nast Traveler naming the hotel one of the five top resorts in the US and I saw His Sleaziness shoveling breakfast like he was King Tut on a throne. The man’s already zonked and told the waiter he intends to spend the whole day celebrating. If you want my opinion, I think Dwight’s a little too overjoyed about the Bunny Festival. He’s got a finger or toe in this somehow, I just know it.”

  Fiona nodded to Irma. “Hey, I know,” she continued. “Since there’s a good chance he orchestrated the Bunny Festival, maybe you can get him to orchestrate Dutchy. After the way that jerk double-crossed you, he’s due a festival of his own.” Fiona stared at my Band-Aids. “New fashion statement? How about a lift back into town?”

  Thank you, Jesus! I started to climb on board, and Irma yanked me back. “We could use the exercise.”

  At this rate I was going to die of exercise. Fiona gave a little wave and flicked the reins, and hooves plodded off down the hill. “But . . . But we had a ride,” I said to Irma, trying really hard not to whine.

  Irma sat on the steps in front of SeeFar, staring blankly out at the water. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “They all know about Dutchy. I’m the laughingstock of the island. I’m like one of those people on Judge Judy that you want to slap silly because they’re so brainless. I’ve made some bad decisions, and there’s no way to fix things now. I’m just going to burn down the emporium and be done with the place.”

  I parked beside Irma. I’d had similar thoughts about Abigail’s ad agency until Grandpa Frank, my own personal cheerleader since I was old enough to hold a crayon, gave me a pep talk on not caving in when times got tough. It was my turn to pep. “Light the match and Dutchy wins. You don’t want him to win, do you? You’ve got to be strong. So what if you can’t make fudge? There are already a bunch of fudge shops here. Do something that people will notice, and then they’ll forget about Dutchy. Something new and different—like maybe open a bookstore. That’s it, everyone loves bookstores, and there’s no cooking.”

  I could almost see little gears churning behind Irma’s intent gray eyes, a slow grin rippling across her face. “I think you’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Bunny winding up in the bushes is new and different around here, ev
en better than the chili duel. Rudy’s not guilty of the Bunny Festival, but someone sure the heck is, so I’ll find out who.” Irma gazed skyward and folded her hands. “I feel so much better now; better than I have in months. I can help a friend, a really, really good friend who I haven’t been all that nice to, and do something exciting for a change.” She gave me a hug. “Thank you; you saved me.”

  “Can’t you get saved with a bookstore?”

  “We already have the Island Bookstore.” Irma took my arm and hauled me to my feet. “We’ve got to step on it while Dwight’s off getting drunk as a skunk. We all know he owes people money, so he might have it written down somewhere. If it’s a lot of money, that’s motive for him wanting this house to sell off.” Irma lowered her voice. “I think he did the old girl in; now we just need proof.”

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and held my hands out like a school crossing guard. “Waitaminute. We cannot break into someone’s house.”

  Irma waved her hand in the air and grinned. “You are such a city girl. There’s no locked doors around here, and we’re simply making an unannounced neighborly visit to see how Dwight’s getting on since his mamma’s gone to that great town council meeting in the sky and isn’t it too bad Dwight’s not home and we’ll just have a look around to see if we can help.” Irma ducked under my arm and hustled toward the back door before I could stop her.

  “It’s locked! There must be something really juicy inside.” She pointed to an open window on the second floor. “I’m wearing this skirt. You climb the trellis and take a look. Easy as pie. We don’t have to worry about neighbors ratting on us. I have a get-out-of-jail-free card. My son’s the police chief around here, least for a few months.” Irma sighed, a proud twinkle in her eyes. “He’s such a handsome boy, and so polite. I taught him that.”

  Of course her son was the police chief. What did I expect? My black cloud must be the size of Texas. Detroit cops did not have polite in their job descriptions, and sonny boy didn’t get those scars from writing parking tickets. Plus I was already on his poop list for standing up for Rudy. “If something goes wrong, it’ll be my butt in the slammer. An island can never have too many bookstores.”

  Irma harrumphed. “Isn’t it the code of the universe that if you save someone you owe them whatever they want?”

  “I think it’s the other way around.”

  “Well, close enough.” Irma squared her shoulders, bunched up her long skirt into her waistband and stomped toward the rickety-looking trellis.

  “All right, all right, I’ll do it. I came to help Rudy, and this is a good place to start.” And I really had to save my job. “You’re on lookout. Throw a rock at the window if there’s trouble.” I grabbed the first rung of the trellis and glanced back to Irma. “So what am I looking for?”

  “Something suspicious.”

  “That would be us.”

  At least thorny roses weren’t growing up the trellis, but some leafy plant instead, and it was the only thing holding the slats to the house. One plank gave way under my foot, then another, splinters floating to the ground, me holding on by my fingertips.

  “This is so much fun,” Irma stage-whispered. “I never do things like this.”

  “It’s not exactly a night on the town where I come from either,” I whispered back. I grabbed the edge of the gutter and shimmied onto the roof. I crawled on scraped knees, thinking ouch, ouch, ouch every inch of the way. I stuck my head in a window to find an unmade bed, an overflowing ashtray and a half-finished bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila on an antique dresser next to a copy of Playboy. Miss August smiled up at me in all her natural glory with G. Winslow and a phone number scribbled across her boobs. Next to it was Tiffany 1-800-HotBabe. When I got back to the cycle shop, I would be scrubbing my eyeballs.

  “Well?” Irma called from below.

  “Dwight’s a horny slob.” I swung a leg around, lost my balance and tumbled inside, landing in a pile of dirty laundry. If Rudy was guilty after all this, I’d draw and quarter the man myself. A large unopened envelope from The Seniority, whatever that was, sat next to the Playboy along with a black one-hundred-dollar chip from Caesars Palace. I pulled out Sheldon and added Winslow’s number. Tiffany’s digits were branded in my brain for all eternity.

  I yanked out dresser drawers full of neatly folded clothes thanks to mamma Bunny—I sure couldn’t see Dwight folding anything. There were more unopened envelopes with Urgent stamped across the front. The guy needed a master course in fiscal responsibility, sometimes referred to in the real world as a job.

  Four other bedrooms were bare, two freshly painted, and Bunny’s bedroom was at the end of the hall with Queen Anne style furniture and old photos giving me the evil eye of what are you doing here. If I could find canceled checks that would prove Bunny was paying for Dwight’s lifestyle, that would help explain the motive of why he wanted her—

  A door closed downstairs, an off-key whistling of “We’re in the Money” drifting up to the second floor from below, making Irma the worst lookout on the planet. I crept back down the hall toward Dwight’s room and the open window, the floorboards creaking under my right foot.

  All movement and whistling from below stopped. A beat passed, then footsteps sounded on the stairs, the top of a bleached blond, bad comb-over popping into view. I took another step with another creak as a hand closed over my mouth, propelling me backward into a closet. A shaft of light slicing through the crack between the door and the jamb cut across a man: fiftyish, fedora, cunning eyes, wearing a leather jacket. He made the shhh sign with his finger to his lips, and we sank deep into the shadows of mothballs and coats.

  Footsteps got closer to the closet. I tried to come up with some story as to why I was in here with a guy in a fedora when I heard a loud pounding out at the front door.

  “Dwight?” came Irma’s muffled voice. “Are you there, sweetie? I saw you coming up the walk. Dwight? I’m here to comfort you in your hour of need. That’s what neighbors do around here. Let me in.”

  Slurred four-letter words filled the hallway, followed by retreating footfalls. I let out a lungful of air and turned to my fedora-wearing rescuer, but . . . but he wasn’t there. Gone? How could he be gone? This was a freaking closet. I pawed through winter clothes. A ghost? Ghosts didn’t smell like cigars and a touch of mint, did they? Secret passage? I bet this old house had a lot of secrets.

  I eased out of the closet and tiptoed to the open window, keeping close to the side of the room, hoping for more solid construction where floor met wall. I took Sheldon from my back pocket so as not to crush him, then butt-scooted across the roof through gravel that had never made it to the window, rock-throwing not being Irma’s strong suit. I climbed/fell down the trellis, skulked through the neighbors’ backyards, and met up with Irma on the sidewalk by the giant flowerpots with the purple petunias.

  “Let me tell you,” Irma groused as we headed for the steps leading to town, “Dwight is nasty and rude and practically threw me out of the house. Can you believe that? I was there to comfort him.”

  “You were there to break into his house.”

  “That’s beside the point, and he sure didn’t know about it. The only thing that boy cares about at the Bunny Festival is winning the jackpot, and what he deserves is nothing but the booby prize.”

  And he had that sitting right there on his dresser. “Do you know a guy with a fedora and a leather jacket?”

  “Jason Bourne. He lives two doors up in the green and yellow cottage.”

  “Jason Bourne, like in The Bourne Identity? I don’t think so. This guy was more Robin Williams.”

  “We all just gave him the name and it sort of stuck. When he goes off island, he always has his silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist and wears a leather jacket. Sometimes he even wears a wig and fake mustache.” Irma dropped her voice. “He’s a hit man. He leaves the island and is gone
for a few days, then comes back. He always has money and doesn’t do any work and gets a mean look in his eyes if you ask what he’s got going on.”

  “A hit man? Really?”

  “Irish Donna delivers him scones every Tuesday and Friday. Once he had to take a call and she got a chance to nose around and saw that silver briefcase right there in the hall. About peed her pants.”

  “Well, Mr. Bourne was inside Bunny’s house hiding in the closet with me.”

  Irma stopped, her eyes huge. “Get out of town.”

  Oh, if only I could. “If he is a hit man, maybe someone paid him to orchestrate the Bunny Festival. But why was he in her closet hiding out? And surely a hit man could come up with something a whole lot better than cutting a bike cable.” I held up Sheldon so Irma could see the screen. “I found this number on Dwight’s dresser.”

  “Two three one is a Mackinaw City area code. Probably another sleazebag; they all hang together like on that Breaking Bad show.” Irma grinned. “I never said sleazebag before, and it’s thanks to you.”

  And your son’s going to hang me up by my thumbs. “Since Dwight had the number written down, my guess is it’s new to him, not a friend’s number.”

  “Cell phone reception around here is the pits, but give it a try anyway. Maybe we’re in one of those hot spots fudgies are always looking for. Yesterday I saw a guy hanging off Arnold’s ferry dock looking for bars, and I’m not talking the drinking kind.”

  I punched in the 231 number and hit speaker. A sweet voice on the other end answered, “Hollister and Winslow, Attorneys at Law.”