Braking for Bodies (8 page)

In my own personal preferences of island transportation, horses were one step behind bikes. The only time I'd ridden a horse was on a horse's rump behind Sutter with my arms around his rock-solid chest and bouncing up and down. Truth be told, I'd had dreams of Sutter, his chest and the bouncing-up-and-down part, but it did not involve being on a horse.

“Here you go,” I said, handing the reins off to Sutter as we stood in front of the ice cream parlor with carriages and walkers and bikes maneuvering around us. “And once again in case you forgot, you've got the wrong person in custody.”

Sutter let out a deep sigh and cut his eyes to Fiona. “I don't like this any better than you, and maybe you had every right to knock off this Peep guy. That should count for something in court.”

“Like twenty years behind bars instead of thirty?” Fiona wailed to Sutter, and then she said to me, “You'd better get to the bike shop. I put a
Be back in thirty
sign on the shop, but that was hours ago. You've got a business to run.” She grabbed my hand. “Thanks for believing in me.”

I stuck my tongue out at Sutter as the group of three headed down Cadotte, fading into the crowd of tourists enjoying the evening. Okay, the tongue thing was childish, I'll give you that, but I was ticked off and it
was the only thing I could think of to do or . . . or was it? The Yankee bike I'd dropped off earlier was still parked where I'd left it in front of the hotel. This was a sign from the gods of the wrongly accused to use my biking ability—or lack thereof—to make things right.

I kicked up the stand, climbed on Yankee and coasted down Cadotte. I didn't need a lot of speed; I just wanted to startle, not maim. I aimed for Sutter's derrière . . . I'd seen worse targets in my life, I can tell you that. I got closer and closer, gaining a little more momentum till my front tire made contact with Sutter's most excellent tush, propelling him forward.

“What the heck!” Sutter let go of Fiona and Shakespeare, using his hands to break his fall. I hit the brakes, then accidentally-on-purpose toppled over on top of him; the bike landed off to the side in the grass. And here again was another dream I'd had of me on top and Sutter underneath, but
not
in front of the Grand Hotel.

“Gallop!” I yelled at Fiona, her mouth gaping, eyes bulging as she looked on, nothing registering. She couldn't ride Yankee as her skirts would tangle in the spokes, so gallop was the escape of choice. Sutter struggled to get up, but my one hundred twenty-five pounds kept him pinned to the road. Okay, a hundred thirty but not a pound more, I swear.

“Shakespeare!” I yelled at Fiona and nodded at the horse. “Go! Now!”

Fiona grabbed for the saddle, flung herself up onto the horse and took the reins. “Thanks!” she yelled down
to me. Then Betsy Ross in full red, white and blue regalia with a flag draped across her shoulder thundered off into the sunset.

I rolled off Sutter and stared at the sky as a throng of tourists gathered around. “Are you okay?” A young blonde woman hunkered down next to Sutter, her foot in my ribs. She swept Sutter's hair off his forehead. “You poor thing.”

“This crazy woman here ran you down. I saw it all,” another woman added.

“Want me to call the doctor?” a brunette asked, her behind perched on my chest. Terrific. The female contingent of the Nate Sutter fan club was now in session. “You should arrest her, she's a menace.”

“That's the plan.” Sutter reached around the woman and grabbed my arm.

“What?” I protested as I sat up. “You can't arrest me for having a biking accident. Everyone has biking accidents around here. We are probably the biking accident capital of the USA.”

Sutter stood and hauled me to my feet, his face inches from mine. “I want to know what's going on now, no more excuses. There's a dead guy and I need to find the killer, got it?”

“This is part of the mystery weekend, isn't it?” Gabi asked, all excited, as she ran up with her iPhone taking pictures. “This woman ran into that dead body last night,” she explained to the crowd. “It stands to reason she's a suspect, and now the policeman just confirmed it.”

Gabi rubbed her hands together, a crazed look in her eye. “I'm going to win that free weekend at the Grand Hotel if it kills me.” She winked. “A little mystery humor thrown in free of charge.”

“See,” Sutter smirked. “Now I
have
to lock you up on suspicion of murder. It's all part of the game. After all, it's murder and mayhem week at the Grand Hotel, so put on your deerstalker hat and get used to it, Chicago.”

The walk to the police station took about five minutes instead of the usual ten. I tried to think of something clever and disarming to say but came up empty. Instead of going right in, Sutter detoured to the side of the building to park the bike. Shakespeare was already there at the watering trough with a feed bag of oats and chomping merrily away.

“Yeah,” I said to Sutter, “that Fiona girl is a master killer all right. A real menace to society.”

Sutter led me into the newly painted white clapboard building that was multifunctional with the courthouse above and police station below. It was the island's one-stop-shopping version of justice; you could get arrested and sentenced without having to go outside.

“Hey there, Evie.” Molly greeted me from behind her desk as we walked into the station. “Are you okay? Poor Fiona. This is such a mess. What are we going to do?”

Sutter stopped dead and glared at his sergeant. Molly blanched white. “Uh . . . I just heard that Fiona might be in a bit of trouble, is all.”

“If I find out you're harboring Fiona in any way, you won't be a sergeant for long. Got it?”

“But why is Evie here with you? I don't get it.” Then Molly's jaw dropped and she jumped up and wedged herself between Sutter and me, spreading her arms wide in protective police mode. “This is crazy. You can't put Evie in jail!”

“Wanna bet?” Sutter hauled me around Molly and continued down the hall past his office door with his name stenciled on the frosted glass. I looked back to Molly, who was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“You know,” I said to Sutter. “This is not Detroit, this is Mackinac Island. Everyone here, all five hundred full-timers, every man, woman and child, loves Fiona to pieces. She was the Lilac Queen three years in a row, Miss Fudge for two years, keeps folks' dirty laundry out of the
Crier
and prints every anniversary, birthday and wedding. They will all lie for Fiona and hide her under desks, in pantries and in attics and you—”

“The mean old Sheriff of Nottingham?”

“If the jacket fits. You will not find Fiona until she wants to be found.”

“Think about this: She has a busted lip, so not everyone loves her.” Sutter pulled up in front of the jail cell and opened the door. I knew this moment was coming no matter how fast I talked, but gazing into an actual jail cell was downright terrifying. The closest I'd come to being behind bars was when I was a kid and Mother gave me a time-out on the steps and I gazed
at the TV through white wood railings. Life was tough back in Chicago.

Holy freaking crap, this was the real deal! “You can't put me in jail, and I can't tell you anything about Fiona 'cause whatever I say will make her seem even guiltier.”

“Ever stop to think maybe she is?”

“Heck no!” I swallowed. “You're really going to lock me up? I have a business to run, cats to feed, I'm the maid of honor for your very own mother's wedding!”

“And I'm the best man, remember. Rudy will feed the cats and lock up the shop.” Sutter put his face in mine. He smelled of something woodsy and spicy and really-ticked-off cop. “You've lied to me, hidden evidence and led me down the garden path.”

“It
is
the Lilac Festival.”

His eyes bulged, little capillaries threatening to pop, his face red as the stripes in Betsy's flag. You can only push a Detroit cop so far.

“Now!”

I stepped across the threshold and Sutter slammed the iron door shut, the metal-against-metal clang jarring clear through to my fillings. “I'm in jail! I'll get you for this.”

“You're threatening a cop?”

“I'm threatening
you
.” I grabbed the bars. “You locked me up.”

Sutter ran his hand around the back of his neck. “As you just said, this is Mackinac Island. There are cotton sheets on the bed, which happens to have a pillow top;
the chair is from the new Pottery Barn catalog and there're hardwood floors; and the Yankee Rebel serves the meals. It was written up in
Midwest Living
. This isn't the Black Hole of Calcutta.”

“You'll be sorry,” I growled, acting all brave and self-assured and feeling kind of sick inside. But hey, if Martha Stewart could handle prison, so could I, right? Sutter turned and walked down the hall. “You're leaving me all alone?” I tried really hard not to whine.

“Dinner's in twenty minutes. It's roast beef, mashed potatoes and Caesar salad. I think you'll make it.”

I sat on the teal upholstered chair with cream-colored accent pillow and took a deep steadying breath. Sutter was right in that the place was nice and the expected food delish and way better than the Cheerios I'd probably have had for dinner back at the bike shop. But jail was jail.

So, what did anyone else do in this situation? Sleep? Cry? Sing “Jailhouse Rock”? Tunnel with a spoon? My singing ability was nonexistent and I didn't have a spoon, so I pulled out Sheldon and hit speed dial.
“Mother!”

“R
ise and shine, jailbird, it's morning!”

Dazed and confused, I bolted upright and jumped out of bed to see Mother standing at the foot of my bed. “Did . . . did I miss the bus?”

“And that's been the topic of conversation in our family for years, dear, but such is the life of an artist.” Ann Louise Bloomfield, aka Carman, unlocked the cell door and handed me a mug of coffee. I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn't dreaming. “Mother? Is it noon already, and how'd you get the key?”

“I remembered that Molly's a pushover for strawberry smoothies, and I paid a college kid a hundred bucks so I could have his seat on an earlier flight. I caught the first ferry. It's not every day my daughter winds up in the slammer.”

Mother took a sip of coffee and sat in the teal chair, and I plopped down on the edge of the bed. The caffeine ignited my brain cells and I remembered where I was and why. As for Ann Louise, she was still in her Chicago lawyer mode of perfectly pressed black skirt and white blouse. Her brunette hair seemed longer since I last saw her at Christmas back in Chicago, and today it was pulled into a silver clip with the natural curls combed into submission. She wore a light touch of Chanel makeup, matte lipstick, barely-there perfume and sensible black shoes.

This was the flawless mother I had known for all thirty-four years of my life, until Ann Louise came to Mackinac last year and morphed into Carman. Then she went shopping for a red dress, black lace and a man . . . a once-upon-a-time gangster-type man. And parents wondered why their kids wound up in therapy.

Mother settled back into the chair. She pulled protein bars from her purse and handed over the blueberry crunch. “So why are you incarcerated in this hellhole?”

I peeled off the wrapper and took a bite. “Fiona's accused of murder,” I said around a mouthful of crumbs, with more dropping onto my wrinkled black shirt. “I waylaid Sutter so she could get away and find the real killer, and I wound up in here 'cause Sutter didn't agree with my waylay tactics. Fiona knows the island better than I do, so she has a better shot at finding the killer. Everyone loves her and they'll hide her
till she figures this out. She should be okay and Sutter won't find her, you can bet on that.”

“Really.” It wasn't a question, it was a fact. A smile tipped the corner of Mother's mouth. “So a graphic designer outsmarted a Detroit cop.”

“Yep, I did.” I noticed the twinkle in Mother's eyes and suddenly didn't feel quite so cocky. “Maybe I outsmarted him?” I stopped eating the bar. “Okay, what did I do?”

Mother took a bite of her bar, not one crumb daring to mar her silk blouse. She waved her hand around the cell with the door standing wide open and us sitting and chatting. “Evie, this is not the way a normal jail is run. There are usually locks, big ones and guards, mean ones. There's no morning coffee with Mother. You were set up, dear. A certain policeman—who we all know and love, though some of us are amazingly slow at figuring that part out—considered there was a good chance you'd call me once you got in here. He knew I'd be living with you till my office is done, and even then I'll be a whopping ten feet from your back door. I'm not exactly the Terminator, but more of an extra set of eyes, and Fiona has the rest of the island looking out for her.”

“You're babysitting me?”

“Nate Sutter is aware of the fact that those who kill once have no trouble repeating the deed to keep from getting caught.” Mother sipped her coffee and gazed at me from over the rim of her mug. “Anything happen to
you or Fiona to give the man the impression you might be in harm's way?”

“Someone did kind of push Fiona down the steps.” I sat up straight and stiffened my spine. “That rat! Sutter knew I wouldn't let Fiona go to jail and that you'd come.” I wagged my blueberry bar at Mother. “Instead of going through all this drama, he could have just said, ‘Evie, you smart intelligent girl, you've got to be real careful.'”

“And of course that would do the trick, just like the last time you went hunting for a killer. Picking locks? Breaking and entering? Nearly winding up as flotsam in Lake Huron? Any of this sound familiar?”

“He could have tried.”

“And he could have banged his head against a brick wall and gotten the same response.”

Molly hustled down the hall, a pink smoothie mustache decorating her top lip. “I've got to leave. There's a disturbance down at the Seabiscuit Café. Zo and Madonna are at it again over that Peep guy, and this time there's a food fight. At least the tourists think all of this is part of the mystery weekend, and the pictures winding up on Facebook aren't giving the island a bad name. The whole thing looks more like a tourist attraction. Go figure.” Molly smiled at Mother. “Nice to see you here again, Carman. I made a fresh pot of coffee, and Irish Donna should be delivering scones any time. Key to the cell is on the hook in the office, and I'm locking up the place. You two can just enjoy your visit this morning. If you need me, my cell phone
number is on my desk
if
you can get any bars on your phone.”

Molly hurried off, and Mother arched her left eyebrow.

“All right, all right,” I conceded. “This isn't jail. This is the Holiday Inn with iron bars and better food.”

“Zo? Madonna? Peep? What in the world?”

“It's the Hollywood invasion, and since Molly left the cell door open we should follow her. Zo's the mistress/secretary, Madonna's the ticked-off wife and Peep's the dead guy those two are fighting over alive and dead, though God in heaven only knows why. Maybe we'll find something out at the food fight; my guess is Madonna and Zo know more than they're letting on. Fiona can't show her face in public, but we can.”

Mother finished her coffee, then ran her fingers through her hair, setting the shiny curls free. She undid two blouse buttons, then rolled up her skirt, shorting it above her knees. She redid her lipstick in cherry red. “Ta-da!” She held her arms wide. “Carman lives.”

“And I look a mess.” I brushed the crumbs from my shirt and tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Everyone knows you've been in jail and that you're trying to help Fiona. You look . . . heroic.”

“A year ago you would have insisted I change before we go out in public.”

“A year ago I was married, a snob with a new boob job, and did everything by the book. Look where that got me: a rotten divorce, my ex now married to Miss Ooh La La Skinny-Pants and suing me for alimony.”

Mother closed the jail door and I hung the cell key on the wall hook next to the other one. I looked at the cell, then reclaimed the key.

“A little souvenir of your life in the big house?” Mother laughed.

“The way things are going, and they aren't going all that well, I might wind up in here again. The next time it might not be so pleasant with doors open and local scone deliveries.” I walked over to the Pottery Barn chair and stuffed the key between the seat and the back. “Insurance.”

“That's my girl.” Mother patted me on the back and I locked the police station behind us, and we started down Market Street. The temp hovered in the high sixties as we headed for the Seabiscuit. I filled Mother in on the Hollywood hellions and how it involved Fiona. “You really got the fudgies buying into the fact that there's a murder mystery weekend going on?” Mother asked me. “How'd you get Nate Sutter to fall for that one?”

“It was either go along with it or he'd have to tell everyone there was a murder at the Grand and this island would be a ghost town for the rest of the summer. I figure the killer is still on the island because he or she needs the missing phone. Whoever it is has done a bang-up job of framing Fiona.”

“Meaning they know Fiona. This isn't a chance murder, Evie; it's a setup, a smart person who knows Fiona had motive and opportunity. They polish off Peep and Fiona takes the fall. Or,” Mother added, a
thoughtful look in her eye, “maybe they didn't know Fiona at all, but having her around when they knocked off Peep was a happy accident. Fiona might be nothing more than a convenient patsy.”

“You're not making this any easier, you know.”

“Murder never is, dear.”

Most of the little shops along Main were still closed at eight AM, but a few restaurants were open for breakfast. A crowd including Gabi and the Corpse Crusaders had their noses plastered to the plate-glass window of the Seabiscuit while yelling and screaming spilled out the open door, polluting the island peace and quiet. I elbowed my way past picture-snapping tourists outside and inside to Madonna and Zo squared off in the middle of the horse-themed restaurant. Molly stood between them, arms outstretched to keep them apart, and she was decorated with breakfast shrapnel. Was that part of a Western omelet on her shoulder?

“You're crazy, you know that,” Madonna bellowed. “I'm burying him in the family plot back in Iowa, and that's all there is to it.” Madonna hurled a sticky bun at Zo, and it landed on top of Molly's head. If it hadn't been sticky it might have passed for a fashion statement.

“Iowa?” Zo roared, her eyes bulging. She flung a half-eaten jelly doughnut at Madonna, hitting Molly on the shoulder. “The Peep, my wonderful Peepster, should be buried in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where, like, so many of those he wrote about are buried!”

“Wrote about? Give me a break!” Madonna scoffed. “Try dished dirt and fabricated lies. Peep made their lives a living hell. If you bury him there they'll all turn into zombies, dig him up and toss his bony alcohol-infused carcass onto Santa Monica Boulevard and hope the buzzards eat his liver.”

“He, like, made their lives interesting!” Zo added. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, they all griped and complained, but he, like, kept their names in the limelight. Deep down inside they all loved him, and that's more than I can say for you.”

“Enough,” Molly said, as a sausage link smacked her across the nose. “I'll toss you both in jail for disturbing the peace if you keep this up.”

“And jail's where she belongs.” Madonna glared at Zo. “
She
killed Peep, I know she did. He wouldn't marry her and she popped him one on the head.”

“That's a lie. Like, I was out biking. I even have an alibi!” Zo pointed to me. “She saw me riding around, so I was nowhere on that porch to push my poor Peep off.” Zo swiped away a tear. “We all know you're the one who killed him.” Zo jutted one hip. “You just couldn't take it that he liked me better than you.”

Madonna flipped her hair from her face, leaving a smear of jelly. “You were nothing but an easy roll in the hay, and there's no way
I
could have knocked off Peep 'cause I was having dinner. If I'd hit him with the olive oil bottle, I would have the oil all over my white suit, and I love that suit. Besides, I was arguing with Officer Sutter when they found Peep in the bushes.”
Madonna pointed to Sutter hustling through the door. “The hotel clerk called the police when you and I were arguing, remember? So, you little tramp, that makes the police my alibi. Beat that one.”

“Everybody shut up!” Sutter bellowed, and joined Molly center stage. “Here's what's going to happen,” he said, grabbing the sleeve of Madonna's gold jacket in one hand and the back of Zo's pink fleece with the other. “You two are leaving this place right now with me, and the next time there's Peep combat I'm locking you both up in the same cell and not opening it till Christmas. Got it?”

“Oh, this is fantastic,” Gabi squealed, and she scribbled in her notebook with all the onlookers nodding in agreement. “Best mystery week ever. The whole island's involved, it doesn't get better than that.” She held up her iPhone. “I've been retweeted fifty times and got seventy likes on my Facebook page. I'm viral!”

“This isn't a game!” Madonna stamped her foot. “Don't you get it, this is for real.”

Gabi grinned. “You all are amazing actors. I think you should win awards. We'll have a big dinner when this is over and get trophies and ribbons and maybe roll out a red carpet like they do at the Oscars,” she added, as the crowd nodded in agreement.

“Red carpet,” Sutter mumbled, his eyes starting to cross. “The show's over, folks.” He ushered Hollywood one and two toward the door and turned to a waitress with
Mable
on her nametag. She looked startled and
totally flustered. Actually she sort of looked like . . . Holy cow!

“Is that Fiona?” Mother whispered to me as Sutter said to the waitress in question, “You need to get a mop and broom. Do it now. People are watching.”

Fiona/Mable bent down and started scooping up breakfast carnage, and I scooted down beside her and picked up two wilted sausage links.

“What are you doing?” I whispered as Sutter and company disappeared out the door.

“Getting information like you are,” Fiona whispered. “How'd you get out of jail? And go away, you're ruining my cover.”

“Molly left the door open. I hid the spare key in case I wind up in there again, and you have plastic red braids left over from Irma's Raggedy Ann Halloween costume. The blown ship has sailed.”

“I spent the night at Irma's and it was either Raggedy Ann or an orange pumpkin.”

“You should have gone with the pumpkin.”

Mother yanked me to my feet. “We need to go. People are staring.”

“Do you think Sutter knew it was Fiona?” I asked as I followed Mother outside and the two of us headed toward the bike shop.

“My guess is Detroit's looking pretty good to him right now, and is that Rudy waving to us from the front porch of the Good Stuff? He looks sort of frazzled. It's a morning of frazzled. And to think some people come here for a vacation.”

Mother and I waved back, and Rudy's wave got a little more frantic. His wild gray hair stuck out as if he'd been hit by lightning, and his eyes were about the same.