Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (13 page)

“Not in this lifetime,” Irma laughed, then glanced at the entrance to Rudy’s Rides. She paused for a second, looking kind of sad, then turned for the emporium.

I hooked my arm through hers and turned her back to the bike shop. “Why don’t you come on in and visit for a while?” I said in my
little miss matchmaker
voice—or, in this case,
match maker-upper
voice. “Rudy has some new trail mix. You should give it a try; it’s killer.”

Irma fiddled with a strand of hair. “What if he throws me out?”

I gave her a little tug toward the shop. “What if he doesn’t?”

R
udy lined up the six ball for the far pocket, took one look at Irma coming through the door and missed the cue ball, the momentum of the shot and his cast throwing him off balance as he fell headfirst across the pool table. “I don’t think he wants to throw you out,” I whispered to Irma.

“Hi,” Rudy said to Irma, pushing himself off the table and smoothing out his Twain hair, which was never going to smooth.

“Hi,” Irma said.

Not exactly
Romeo and Juliet
, but it was a start. “We got information on the Bunny Festival,” I said to Rudy to keep things going.

“What Bunny?” Rudy asked, his eyes still on Irma. It was more
R and J
than I thought.

“Tell him what we found out, Irma,” I said, trying for more conversation.

“There’s a good chance Huffy and Dwight orchestrated the Bunny Festival. Huffy even called SeeFar
our
house and you look good, Rudy, really good. How are you doing?”

Bambino made a flying leap from the pool table to Rudy’s shoulder. Rudy didn’t even blink; his eyes were fixed on Irma. “Dwight likes money and money’s a big motivator and . . . and did you do something new with your hair? I like the color.”

Irma blushed. “It’s Adorable Apricot. Huffy and Dwight aren’t the only ones who could have done in Bunny—there’s Jason Bourne, and isn’t that the shirt I gave you a few Christmases ago? It brings out the color of your blue eyes, Rudy.”

This time Rudy blushed. “Speed could have done the Bunny Festival,” he offered, a little smile on his face that had nothing to do with murder. “He wants my shop, and Smithy wants my place on the town council.”

I’d heard my share of flirting at bars and restaurants, but flirting while talking murder suspects was a new one. I was about to tell them to maybe go get coffee when Fiona crept into the shop. She knocked into a row of bikes, and the racket of crashing metal on concrete snapped Rudy and Irma back to Earth—or as close as they’d get at the moment.

“Thought I heard your voice,” Fiona said to Irma. “Look, before you start throwing rocks at me, I’m here to make amends for being a traitor. I feel really bad about the peanut butter fudge thing. Our families have been friends for years, and I want to keep it that way. So here’s the deal: What if I help you come up with new fudge ideas? We can work on it together. I searched online for some recipes, and I’ll feature the emporium on the front page of the
Crier
to bring in business. What do you think? Am I forgiven?”

Irma dragged her gaze away from Rudy. “What fudge?”

Fiona held her hands out, palms up. “You look sort of funny—and what’s wrong with Rudy? I think he’s having some kind of attack. I think you both got something.”

There may be snow on the roof, even some dyed-apricot snow, but there was still fire in the furnace. Rudy hobbled over to help a customer studying the baskets of trail mix, and Fiona pulled a bottle of peach brandy from her purse and held it out to Irma. “Look what I got,” she said. “Dad left it behind in the bottom drawer of his editor’s desk. I brought it for inspiration. Dad said he always got the best ideas when he’d had a swig or two. Let’s go on over to your place and start cooking, we’ll do some small test batches.”

“I know what’s going on,” Irma said to Fiona, a twinkle in her eyes. “You’re worried that if your mother finds out about you buying Dutchy’s fudge she’ll come back here and beat you with a stick,” Irma said.

“It crossed my mind.” Fiona flashed a grin, kissed Irma on the cheek and they left out the back door, stepping over the cracked step.

I straightened the fallen bikes back into a neat row. Rudy put down the phone and turned to me. “Can you do a bike delivery to ShadyNook up on Huron Road? It’s for a friend’s nine-year-old grandson, but it’s not Huron Road on the bluff side or Huron that leads to Arch Rock, but Huron Road that winds up behind the fort. The founding fathers weren’t a creative lot with naming streets. Irish Donna is tied up at the Blarney Scone, and taxi delivery costs an arm and a leg and I’m already down one of those.”

Rudy took my hand. “Ya know, at first I didn’t want you here ’cause I was a stubborn old man. Well, the age hasn’t changed, but now I don’t know what I’d do without you to hold the place together like you are. Sure hope that promotion you want is worth all this grief of poison ivy, painting bikes and trying to keep me out of the slammer.” Rudy did the guilty shuffle. “But can you give me a few minutes before you take off? I need a haircut.”

It was the eternal question of whether or not to stick my nose into a situation that was none of my blankety-blank business. Considering all I’d done since I got there was stick my nose in other people’s business, I went with it. “You have great friends,” I said trying to ease into advice I had no right to give. “Irma’s really nice, and she’s got spunk and not afraid to try new things, and you two would have a lot of fun together if you give her a chance and—”

“Irma’s the one that got away.” Humming, Rudy took off, a little spring in his crutch.

Wow, I’d never been
the one who got away
. Fact is my last experience of the male variety was with
the one who ran away
. Rudy headed off and I studied the stash of sad bikes in the shop, found a smaller one and tried to picture a kid happy to ride it. Like that was going to happen. I whipped out cans of black paint and found some yellow and a little bit of white. I painted Darth Vader on the front bumper and light sabers on the back, added the Death Star spaceship and R2-D2 and made the bike helmet more
Stormtrooper
than
my
grandmother made me wear this stupid thing
.

“You look terrific,” I said to Rudy when he bounded back into the shop.

“The terrific ship sailed about twenty years ago. Right now I’ll settle for decent.”

“Rudy, not only are you a terrific guy, you’re a total dude.” I kissed him on the cheek, then
Star Wars
on wheels and I headed for Fort Street. The neat thing about the island was that during the day the weather was warm to hot and at night you needed a jacket or fleece. That was the summertime, of course. From what I heard, in the winter, the place was Doud’s freezer times a million and everyone dressed like the Michelin Man.

No wonder they built a fort on top of this hill,
I thought as I headed up Fort Street. The enemy would take one look at the effort needed to get there and go find someplace level to attack. Sweating, with legs cramping, I pushed the bike, the island breeze the only thing keeping me from keeling over. I passed the governor’s summer home, took the next fork to the right and found ShadyNook, a blue clapboard in a cul-de-sac behind a privacy screen of tall yews. Privacy from what? This was a freaking island.

I parked the bike on the front part of the wraparound porch, then started back for town, noticing a line forming by the white picket fence at the governor’s abode. The plaque out front of the house said it was open for business. I guessed that when the governor of Michigan was here vacationing he didn’t appreciate people wandering through his domicile seeing him wearing PJs and sipping a Bloody Mary.

A tall, lanky guy in pleated khakis and a plaid bowtie stood guard at the door with one of those counting clickers in hand. He allowed a certain number of visitors in the house at a time, with no exceptions till Helen Levine pranced up the sidewalk, cutting in front of everyone. She said something to the guy with the clicker, flashed a smile, and her party of three passed straight on through.

Okay, so what were the rest of the people waiting in line? Chopped liver? This smelled a lot like
we
bluffies stick together
. I hated line-jumpers and I hated people who thought they were better than the rest of mankind. And there was the distinct possibility that maybe the bluffies were in cahoots with Smithy in framing Rudy

“Hi,” I said to the guy at the door as he finally clicked me into the lovely stone and wood home with views of the harbor and the Grand Hotel off to the right. “I’m a friend of Rudy’s, and if Smithy, the guy from the blacksmith shop, takes Rudy’s place on the town council, that’ll be just what the people living up here on the bluff want, right? Care to comment on that or the Bunny Festival?”

The guy dropped his counter. Okay, I could have handled that better but I was tired and running out of time to save Rudy. The tourists behind me stared, and the guy with the counter snagged my arm and tried to usher me down the steps, but I wasn’t in a budging mood.

“What do you think you’re doing, saying things like that?” he hissed. He caught the eye of one of his staff. “Call the police right now.”

“What’s this about a bunny festival?” one of the tourists waiting in line asked, with others smiling and nodding. “Somebody was talking about it over at Doud’s Market. Seems to be a pretty big deal. Is it going to be like the Lilac Festival? What’s the date? The kids will love it; we’ll have to come back. I gotta make reservations.”

“Will Bugs Bunny be here?” one of the kids in line asked. “He talks funny.”

I got up in the guy’s face. “Smithy taking Rudy’s place on the town council shifts the vote to the historic society. Maybe they got together with Smithy. Heck, maybe they planned the whole Bunny Festival?”

“Chicago!” It was Sutter, and how’d he get here so fast? I turned around to Detroit cop on horseback, just like some Wild West movie, except in this case the damsel was
causing
the distress.

Sutter slid from the saddle like a man who knew one end of a horse from the other, flipped the reins over the fence, jumped the pickets and tromped my way.

“She’s a menace,” the counter guy bellowed, jabbing his finger at me. “She’s upsetting everyone.”

“She’s not upsetting us,” a man in a ball cap with three happy kids in tow said to Sutter. “She’s telling us about the Bunny Festival. We’ve heard talk in town but we don’t know when it is.”

“Will Rabbit from
Winnie the Pooh
be there?” asked one of the kids. “He’s my favorite rabbit ever.”

“What about the Velveteen Rabbit?” asked a mother with a toddler in her arms. “The kids will have a good time with this. They can dress up and be in the parade.”

“The Energizer Bunny with his drum is so cute,” a teenager said.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing a Playboy bunny,” a twenty-something guy quipped.

“Get her out of here!” The guy with the counter stomped his foot and pointed his bony finger at me.

Sutter had on his
Detroit cop
face. There was no standing my ground this time, so I followed him. He climbed on the horse and held out his hand. “Put your foot in the stirrup and get on. You’re wasting my time; I’ve got to get back.”

“Ya know, I’m not that crazy about horses. No turn signal, no brakes.”

“Think of it as a convertible.”

I swallowed the rest of my lament, gave him my hand, and instantly found myself perched on the back end of a horse. Of all the places I wanted to be, this was not one of ’em.

“H
old on,” Sutter ordered.

“Where’s the seat belt?”

In answer, Sutter took off, and I grabbed for the only thing available . . . him! I flung my arms around his middle, my boobs rubbing up and down against his back, my butt smacking against horse butt, jarring every bone in my body. “I just bit my darn tongue back here. Slow down.”

“I’m not going fast. Feel the rhythm of the horse,” Sutter yelled.

“What rhythm? Ya’ think this is Arthur Murray, and watch that tree, there’s a kid up ahead and you’re too close to the edge of the road and you took that corner too fast and I’m sliding off this thing.” And how did Sutter get to be so blasted ripped for a guy over forty! Didn’t guys go to pot after forty? Where was the beer gut?

Sutter pulled to a stop, pried my arms from around his chest and looked back at me.

“Dear God, are we there yet?” I asked.

“Where’s
there
?”

“How the heck should I know? You’re the one driving this thing.”

“We stopped ’cause I couldn’t breathe from your death grip. Did you have to sit so close? And you’re a freaking back-saddle driver.”

I socked his arm. “A horse’s rump isn’t all that roomy and I didn’t want to be back here and you were the one galloping like a madman down that hill. Was it to scare me? ’Cause it worked.”

“It was a trot.”

I socked his arm again for good measure, then grabbed the waistband of his jeans, not paying one bit of attention to his trim waist, and slid down one side of the horse’s rounded rump, dropping to my knees. While I was down there, I kissed the grass, glad to be on it again.

“Very funny,” Sutter said, peering my way. “I got a call coming in from Detroit. I wasn’t expecting a nine-one-one from the governor’s house saying that a woman with a ponytail and rash was causing trouble. Gee, who could that be?”

“Get a nine-one-one from anyone else? There may have been a slight misunderstanding over at Rita’s Fudge Shoppe earlier with Dwight and Huffy. Doesn’t it seem a little off that they didn’t call the police to complain about it?”

“You mean to complain about you?” Sutter’s mouth tightened. “My mother wasn’t in on this, was she?”

“Of course not.” I looked down to check if my pants were on fire. “But maybe they didn’t call because they didn’t want to get the police involved in what they got going on.”

I got closer to the horse than I wanted to be. “I think Dwight and Huffy could have planned and carried out the Bunny Festival. With the furry one in hibernation, Huffy and Dwight are free to do the
happy ever after
thing and they get the house and the money and Winslow makes it work. Huffy was adamant about that house. They are up to something.”

“Who’s Winslow?”

I buried my face in my hands, muttering, “You’re missing the point. There are other suspects out there.” Except Sutter had Rudy as his prime suspect, and unless I had something more than theory to show him, he wasn’t flipping his opinion. “How’s my cat?”

“What cat?”

“You’re impossible.”

“I try.” Sutter put the horse in gear, leaving me once again staring at the business end of a large, undiapered animal.

I went into Doud’s and got cereal, milk, eggs, Doritos and other essentials of life, then headed for the checkout desk. “Did you hear about the Bunny Festival?” the gal in the green apron at the cash register asked.

“I did,” I said in a loud voice so everyone around me could hear. “I was up at the governor’s house this afternoon and the tour guide up there, the one in khakis and a bowtie is in charge of the festival all by himself. He volunteered right there on the spot to head it up. Said he wants as much input as possible with suggestions and plans so he can make this the biggest and best event this summer. Just let him know what you have in mind. Call him anytime day or night to talk as often as needed.”

In light of my latest experience with Mr. Bowtie, I felt I had a right to add some excitement to his life like he added to mine. If there were a conspiracy between Smithy and the historic society, my encounter at the governor’s house would light a fire under someone’s behind, and chances were good someone would let something slip.

I lugged my grocery bags out the door and ran into Irish Donna coming down Fort Street with not one huff or puff on her lips. She took one of my bags. “Let me help ye with that. I was just dropping off scones and would be glad to lend you a hand. After the day you’ve had over at Rita’s Fudge Shoppe and up there at the governor’s house ye must be a pooped pup. ’Tis good to see you’re sharing that dark cloud you got going on with people who truly deserve it around here.”

“Guess I’m not making many friends these days.”

“Odds are running two to one over at the Stang you be winding up in jail before Rudy gets himself there, but I got twenty bucks that says Rudy’ll beat you.” She winked. “I know about the cloud, ya see, and figure you got one foot on a banana peel. I’ll be the one winning the betting pot at the Stang and me and lovely Shamus can afford that trip to Florida when the weather goes right to the dogs up here.”

“So glad I can add to your vacation enjoyment, but didn’t you just push the lovely Shamus over a rocking chair up at the Grand for flirting with that cute little blonde?”

“He looked right handsome sprawled out on the floor if I do say so. Didn’t even mash the rose in his lapel.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“’Twas my favorite color rose off my prize bush.”

When we got to the bike shop, Ed was holding the door, and Rudy was balanced on one crutch tightening the hinge, a straw hat on his head to keep off the sun. “You look more like Tom Sawyer than Mark Twain,” I said as I ferried the groceries back to the kitchen.

“The place is falling apart around my ears.” Rudy picked up another screwdriver. “This is paying the price for putting off those spring repairs. Ed here’s been trying to fix a few things, sawed off the bottom of the door here so it wouldn’t stick. He’s a handy guy to have around.”

“The way I see it, ye be shut down any time now,” Donna chimed in. “The shop is looking sad, it is, and it doesn’t matter to the town council if ye be Mark Twain or that Tom Sawyer person.” Donna paused, a new glint in her green eyes. “Unless we can be making it matter. What if we do a little Tom Sawyering of our own?”

“Build a raft and sail the Mississippi?” I said, taking over hinge duty from Rudy. With a house full of lawyers, someone had to know how to put more than an appeal together. “The way things are going around here, it’s not a bad idea.”

“I was thinking more like we can be painting the place up and having it look like fun and get the tourist kiddies in on the act, just like Tom Sawyer did when painting the fence,” Donna offered.

“And if the town council gives us grief,” Rudy added, sounding a lot happier than he did a minute ago, “we can say that over there at the Museum House they’re having Native American basket making for the kids and at the Biddle House it’s weaving and sewing classes. All the fudge stores do a class now and then. We can paint this place by making it look like history coming to life. Make it into a tourist attraction, since Twain did indeed stay here and give lectures about his books.”

Ed snorted. “Never going to work. Unless it’s some kind of phone, pad or screen, kids’ll never go for it, and Tom Sawyer painted a fence, not a shop. I’m telling you, the only way out of this mess is to get Abigail here and find a good attorney.” Ed held up his hands defensively. “Not that I’m calling her. Rudy here put the kibosh on that idea. But she needs to know what’s going on with her own father.”

“I’ll sketch a picket fence on the front of the shop to make it all look like part of the book,” I said, adding another screw to the hinge and trying really hard not to think of Abigail showing up. “And it doesn’t matter if the kids buy into the painting idea or not. Fact is, it’s better if they don’t; we’re just using them and the Sawyer idea for a cover. We can get more done around here without them in the way. As long as it looks like we’re doing Twain, we’re good to go.”

“Never going to work, I tell you.” Ed checked his watch. “I have to meet Helen and the most boring house guests on the planet Earth for a sunset cruise. They’re Ed Junior’s potential clients. They do some big ads on TV and Lord knows he needs the business. And this is one way we can keep writing off that boat as a business expense.”

Ed patted Rudy on the back. “It’s going to be okay, pal. I didn’t get you out to this rock to wind up visiting you in the slammer. We’ll figure this out together.”

Ed headed for the docks, Donna went off to make an apple-walnut scone delivery up on the West Bluff and Rudy did his
worry, thump step
pace with Bambino perched on his shoulder. “I should have stayed in Chicago,” he said. “I never had all these problems in Chicago.”

I packed up the toolbox. “You had wind, dirt, noise, crowds. And if you’d stayed there, you wouldn’t have met Irma.”

“Or broken my dang leg, though I like your take on the situation a whole lot better than mine.” Rudy absently petted Bambino and nervously bit at his bottom lip. “So what do you think I should be doing about Irma? I’m not too good at this courting thing.”

“Uh, you’re talking to someone whose fiancé chose a baseball game over the altar. Now, if you want ideas on how to totally tick people off, I got that one covered.”

A few more customers frequented the bike shop to pick up trail mix and not rent bikes. With no business, Rudy closed early to watch
Big Brother
and see if Alex finally got kicked off. I volunteered to make a cat food run, since we were running low—and I wanted to take a bag to Sutter’s house as a reminder that yes, he did have a cat!

A big harvest moon hovered at the horizon, casting a wavy ribbon of gold across the lake, and Fiona wobbled out of the emporium glassy-eyed, blouse untucked, sequin hat in hand. “How’s the great fudge challenge going?” I asked.

“After two glasses of peach brandy anything tastes good. That stuff is gross. Hope it tastes better in the fudge we made up and I can redeem myself with Irma.”

Fiona leaned against the lamppost, gulping in fresh air, and Sheldon beeped from my back pocket, heralding a text message. My gut clenched, my jaw tightened and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. “It’s my boss,” I said to Fiona. “I can feel her vibes all the way out here. I think the woman sleeps at the office and eats from the vending machines.”

I pulled out my phone and read,
Ev, need Clawson files.

“She calls you Ev?” Fiona asked, reading over my shoulder. “Least Peephole knew my name.”

“That she remembered the first two letters of who I am is a huge improvement. Usually I was
hey, you
. Think I should tell her that Rudy’s doing great and not to worry?” I weighed the options of my being struck by lightning for lying my ass off versus Abigail coming here to check on her dad. “I’ll chance it.”

Fudgies and locals were sitting on blankets at Marquette Park to enjoy the view while a jazz quartet at the gazebo did a decent version of “Moon River.”

“It’s a perfect night,” Fiona sighed, a breeze drifting off the lake. “Except for the little fact that there’s a killer on the loose and the wrong guy’s set up to take the fall. Got any ideas what to do about that problem?”

“I can’t imagine that Sutter is absolutely positive Rudy did the deed when I have so many doubts. Sutter has to know more than he’s letting on, don’t you think?”

“I could poke around at the police station and see what’s going on,” Fiona offered. “Molly the desk clerk’s got a weakness for strawberry smoothies.”

“Maybe I should poke around his house.”

Fiona’s eyes widened to cover half her face. “Now that’s a really great idea. I’m in.”

“What happened to talking to Molly?”

“Are you kidding?” Fiona straightened her hat. “This is investigative reporting right here in front of me. Who would have thought? Sweet. So what are we looking for?”

“For openers, a cat Sutter doesn’t know he has. If Sutter’s around, we’ll try reasoning with him about Rudy. If Sutter isn’t there, we’ll snoop and see if he has any suspects he’s not telling us about. He’s hiding something, and with his office at the police station not really being his, I think he’d keep notes or whatever at his house till he was sure.”

“There’s something I don’t get,” Fiona added. “What’s a Detroit cop—a detective, no less—doing here for months on end? Usually we get retired cops wanting a free vacation to fill in when we need it.”

“Maybe Sutter just wanted to visit his mom for a while?”

“You really think that’s it?”

“Heck no.”

Fiona and I stopped at Doud’s and bought two bags of cat food, two slices of pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, two flashlights, and two bottles of OPI nail polish—that’s Berry Daring and Flashbulb Fuschia. We paid at the cash register, ogled some hottie’s cute behind, then headed out into the night.