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

  I disconnected. “An attorney? The Bunny Festival happening and Dwight doing the happy dance and him contacting an attorney aren’t coincidences. If we start poking around the Bunny Festival, Dwight could festival us. There’s money and murder, and things could get ugly. This is serious stuff we’re dealing with here.”

  Irma’s eyes widened to cover half her face. “I hadn’t bargained on that.” We started down the steps to town.

  “So you’re rethinking the bookstore?”

  “I’m thinking I should call Winslow and ask a bunch of nosy, irritating questions about Bunny’s estate and Dwight’s finances.”

  I stopped Irma on the first landing and put my hands on her shoulders. “Because you have a sudden death wish?”

  A smile hung at the corners of her mouth, and she patted my cheek. “Because I’m going to tell Mr. Winslow, Attorney at Law, that I’m Rita Delong and own a fudge shop right here on Mackinac Island and that Dwight owes me a ton of money and I want it now that he’s getting SeeFar and that I know everything.”

  “Dwight will blow a gasket.”

  “And he and his attorney will come looking for Round-heeled Rita and Dutchy,” Irma said, hiking up her dress and doing a little jig right there on the landing. “Those two thought they could mess over me and I’d roll over and play dead. I almost set my shop on fire, of all things. Well, I’m not dead anymore, and a little grief is just what Rita and Dutchy deserve. I’m so clever I scare myself.”

  “There’s a little glitch, oh Scary One,” I said to Irma as we tackled the next flight of steps. “You have to make the call from Rita’s Fudge Shoppe. Chances are good Winslow has caller ID.”

  “So you go buy a pound of fudge and borrow the phone and make the call,” Irma said to me when we got to the bottom of the steps. “Easy as pie.”

  “I just did pie and nearly broke my neck.”

  Irma waved her hand, shooing off my objection. “All you do is ask Winslow how much SeeFar is worth and say you’re Rita and that you’re getting tired of waiting for your money and intend to take legal action of your own to get it. Winslow tells Dwight someone’s after his money, and Dwight goes after Rita and Dutchy.”

  “Winslow will show up all right. The one thing a lawyer hates more than anything is the threat of another lawyer on his turf,” I said as we cut across a grassy park, where a big bronze statue of Father Marquette was looking out at the harbor. “I need to get Rudy off the hook, and you want to sic Dwight on Dutchy and Rita. I guess it’s worth a shot.”

  “Now you’re talking. It’s another gift from above.”

  “Meaning God works in mysterious ways?”

  “Meaning I’m from Minnesota and God helps those who help themselves.”

  A thundering boom rocketed over our heads, my heart jumped out of my chest and I dove under a white concrete bench by the Father Marquette statue and waited for the Canadians to attack. I peeked up at Irma. “I think that’s God saying we should forget this.”

  Irma turned toward the fort perched up on the hill and put her hand over her heart as a bugle played I hate to get up, I hate to get up, I hate to get up in the morning—least that’s what we sang to the tune at Camp Wichicaca when I was in junior high.

  “It’s ten o’clock and the Boy Scouts are raising the flag like they always do at this time,” Irma said as I left my bunker. “Three o’clock is a busy time at the fudge shops with all the day tourists buying fudge to take back home. It’s a perfect time to get to the phone and call Winslow.”

  “Rita or Dutchy will overhear what I’m saying. The shop can’t be that big.”

  Irma swaggered toward the emporium. “Not to worry, dearie,” she called over her shoulder. “That those who help themselves part I mentioned involves planning a little distraction to take care of things. All you have to think about is making that phone call.”

  * * *

  This is why people run off to the wilds of Alaska, I decided as I pushed the bike down the street to finally retrieve the paint cans I had left at the dock. They didn’t have to run after killers to keep their jobs, share closets with hit men and deal with lawyers.

  Rita’s Fudge Shoppe sat at the next corner pimped out in pinks and chocolate-brown with a matching striped awning across the porch. A big front window let tourists watch a burly guy flipping fudge on one of those marble-top tables. Dutchy? He looked like Irma’s Dutchy, with his bad hairpiece, fake suave manner and smile that didn’t reach his eyes. How could Irma fall for this guy? Then again, how could I fall for Tim the superjock? That he slept on NFL sheets and our honeymoon— which I assume he went on himself after dumping me unceremoniously on our wedding day—involved taking in two Chicago Bears football games should have been a dead giveaway I was not his top priority.

  I wanted to find fault with Irma’s plan of getting Winslow on the island, but Dwight was a prime candidate for the Bunny Festival, and with a little luck this would bring his motive for murder front and center. Least it was a start to finding the real killer. To pull off easy as pie part two I should case Rita’s shop to see where the phone was, if I would be overheard and, the most important part, whether Rita gave out free samples.

  I parked the bike, then blended into a group of tourists close to the plate glass window watching Dutchy toss in handfuls of nuts and chocolate chips to the long loaf of chocolate fudge on the table. He flipped the gooey concoction onto itself, making it smaller and smaller as it cooled on the marble surface. Behind the counter a woman with a phone trapped between ear and shoulder waited on customers.

  Aha! There was a phone with one of those curly cords—a landline to prevent dropped calls from the less-than-terrific island service. I opened the door to Rita’s Fudge Shoppe as a woman barreled out without looking up, her scarf-covered head bowed low. She collided right into me and I grabbed her arm to keep both of us upright. She had one of those deer in the headlights looks on her face when our eyes met. “Fiona?”

  “Chicago? What are you doing here? Drat! Look, you can’t tell Irma you saw me,” she blurted, hiding the pink and brown bag behind her back and scooting me off to the side of the wood porch so customers could get by us.

  “Irma’s been friends with the family for years, but since Big and Ugly inside here ran off with her recipes,” Fiona went on, “Irma’s fudge has tasted like nut-covered hockey pucks, or worse, if there is worse. My niece just loves peanut butter fudge and I send her some once a month as a special treat. You won’t say a word to Irma, will you? Promise?”

  I did the zip across my lips routine and gave her a wink as I started off. But before I could, Fiona grabbed my arm to hold me back. She whipped out a book with the words My Little Princess scripted in pink across the front. Oh for joy, I knew what this was all about—it was the proud-grandma ritual, which was obviously now also the proud-aunt ritual. It was the displaying of the cute little kid pictures and the expected oohs and aahs from the peanut gallery, meaning me. I’d seen more than my share of brag books at work and beyond. Take me out and shoot me.

  “Here’s Kimberly on her fifth birthday,” Fiona said with a big smile as she flipped open the book. “Isn’t she cute?”

  “Ooh.”

  “This one’s on her new Disney princess bicycle that I sent.”

  “Aah.”

  “Kimberly’s in Florida thanks to Bunny and her mouth. If she hadn’t interfered, Smithy and Constance would still be married and Kimberly would be here on this very island with her daddy, where she belongs, riding her cute little bicycle.”

  Okay, don’t shoot me just yet. What was this all about? “Smithy and Constance?”

  “Smithy is my brother, and he married Bunny’s daughter, Constance.” Fiona’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Bunny never thought Smithy was good enough for Constance. Kept telling Constance she could do better, and then what do you think happened? Two years ago Constance divorced Smith
y for some real estate tycoon vacationing here. Smithy hasn’t been the same since, so quiet and keeping to himself. Everyone can tell he’s upset, even the horses.”

  “He’s a vet?”

  “Blacksmith. He’s been the historic interpreter and blacksmith over at the blacksmith barn since he got out of high school. His herb garden is the only thing saving him. I keep telling him to put his place on the island garden tour, but he won’t have any of it. He’s shy and sweet and sometimes just a big kid at heart. I think that’s why dad gave me the Town Crier when he retired, so Smithy would have family around. That and Mother probably talked him into it hoping I’d find a husband from the tourist trade. She’s desperate. I’m thirty-five and wear a purple hat, and mother sees cats and crocheting in my future.”

  “From my brief but painful experience with almost-marriage, cats and crocheting is the way to go.”

  And that was true enough, but the part about Constance, Smithy and Bunny was news—big news. Not of the Town Crier variety, but good old island gossip that gave me another candidate for my I hate Bunny list. Smithy had no use for the woman, with her ruining his marriage.

  Fiona headed off to interview performers for the jazz festival and it occurred to me that if Smithy or Dwight could have done in Bunny, what about the others who had it in for her? And there had to be others; the woman was a pain in the butt, just like Doc said. But I was a fudgie, an outsider, so the locals wouldn’t talk to me about anything more than what time the ferry left.

  * * *

  “And what bear did you tangle with?” Rudy asked, staring at my knees as I parked the bike piled with paint cans, some dangling off the handlebars. Both doors to Rudy’s Rides were wide open this morning to let customers and sun inside—not that there were any customers.

  “Holy crap! Forget my knees, what’s with the red smear across your chest. Should I call nine-one-one?”

  “Primer. Knocked the dang can with my cast and scared the heck out of poor Bambino. He landed in the paint and then on me.” Rudy pulled the black cat with red whiskers, tail and paws from the side pocket of the pool table. Snarling and hissing, Bambino stuck his tongue out at Rudy; I swear, he really did. Rudy said, “After six treats I’m still in the doghouse . . . make that the cathouse.”

  “And you’ll be lucky if you can afford that,” some slick-looking spandex guy said as he pedaled up to the storefront on a racing bike. An entourage followed, all in matching black and poison green spandex suits and helmets. “I’m going to redo this whole place when I take it over,” he pontificated, as much to the crowd as Rudy. “Or maybe I’ll just level the place and start over with a building with a lot of chrome and windows that look out onto the harbor. This place has some view—the only thing it’s got going for it.”

  “That view’s mine,” Rudy said, as Bambino leaped onto the pool table.

  The guy sat back on his skinny seat, designed to give a permanent wedgie. He parked his hands on his scrawny hips, the rest of his gang assuming the same attitude. “You got problems, big problems. You’ll sell, you’ll have to.” He gazed around like he already owned the place. “I’m starting the Speed Maslow Challenge, a three-day race along the Michigan coast, and this will make a perfect Speed Maslow training camp to talk strategy and nutrition. I’ll make it my headquarters.”

  “In your dreams,” a girl in short-shorts said, weaving her blue bike to the curb. She was tall and lean, with thighs of steel and a perfect peach-shaped butt. Wow, I so needed to get my flabby apple butt on a bike . . . even though I might kill myself in the process.

  “You’re not buying Rudy’s Rides, I am,” she said. “I’m calling it Huffy’s Hut—my coffeehouse where cyclers on the island can chill. I’m putting a massage clinic in the back and we’ll do yoga overlooking the harbor. A place to decompress and get away from the big city.”

  Speed curled his lip at the basket strapped to the front of Huffy’s bike. “Your bikes are second-rate and your place has been losing money since I moved here last year; everybody knows it. You can’t afford another shop. What are you going to do, have Daddy buy it for you?”

  “And all those fancy steeds at your shop are putting you in the poorhouse,” Huffy scoffed.

  Huffy jabbed Speed in the chest with her index finger, and Rudy jabbed his crutch between Speed and Huffy. “Take a breath, you two, this is my bike shop, and it’s staying my bike shop.”

  Speed gripped his handlebars, his knuckles blanching white, the vein in his neck throbbing. “You’ll come begging me to buy this place, Rudy, and I might not be so generous then. You got medical bills, and there’ll be attorney bills.” Speed pedaled off with his army in tow, the long black and green line snaking its way up Main Street.

  Huffy gave Rudy a mean-girl look. “Too bad for you that Bunny got herself festivaled, but the rest of us here in town are glad it happened. And just so you know, I don’t need my father’s money to buy you out. I’m doing just fine on my own now. Your shop is as good as mine, Rudy—get used to it.”

  “Don’t listen to either of them,” I said to Rudy as Huffy propelled herself down the street. “This is an eight-mile island. We’ll find the chairman of the Bunny Festival. In fact, I’d say those two are prime candidates. And how in the world does someone get the name Huffy?”

  “It was her first bike, and word has it she used to park it in her bedroom every night.”

  That seemed like a really stupid thing to do, but then, superjock parked in my bedroom for almost a year. Huffy made a better choice.

  “Speed and Huffy are harmless,” Rudy added. “They’re all talk. That’s what people do around here, Evie: talk a lot.”

  And Rudy was a teddy bear in a cast who thought the best of everyone. Maybe Abigail was adopted. “Why don’t you take a few hours off and go to the Stang? You could do with a break, and you might find out who had an interest in our local furry little mammal presently on ice. Bars have a way of making people loosen up and say stuff they normally wouldn’t. Keep your ears open, see what you can find out and I’ll hold down the fort for a while here.”

  “Twain says, The best way to cheer yourself is to try to cheer somebody else up, so maybe you’re right. I’ll call Ed. He’s always ready for a game of euchre, and he’s been worrying about his son. The guy’s not exactly Mr. Industrious, and Ed still owns a chunk of the ad business. I tell you, with kids you’re always worrying about something.”

  “You worry about Abigail? Trust me, she’s doing great.”

  “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 peo
ple 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.

  He 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?”