Braking for Bodies (9 page)

“It's Irma.” Rudy wiped his hands on his red apron with
The Good Stuff
scripted in white across the front. “She's been at the brandy cordial fudge since six.”

Rudy led us inside to an old CD player blaring “I'm Gettin' Married in the Morning” from
My Fair Lady
and Irma twirling around the adorable yellow-and-white shop that had the marble tables used for making fudge on one side and soda-shop-style tables and chairs on the other side.

“She got this way from fudge?” Mother asked, giving Irma a worried look.

“That brandy bottle in her hand might have spurred things along.” Rudy hooked his arm around Irma as she swept by to try to slow her down, except Irma snagged Rudy and pulled him along into the dance.

“I love this song,” she belted out in time with the music. “But it's never going to happen. Nope, there's no church or anything else for me and my man Rudy here. We're doomed.”

She took a swig from the bottle and burped. “My dress is out there in the great unknown, probably shipped off to somebody else somewhere, and I'll never get it back on time; the Butterfly Conservatory has the plague, and now Reverend Lovejoy has no more love or joy and has been hospitalized for an overdose of Viagra. Seems his twenty-something wife wanted more than just a senior moment.”

Mother looked at me. “Irma doesn't have a wedding dress or venue or preacher?”

“It's a sign,” Irma singsonged. “A big fat flashing sign that I'm not supposed to get married. I've been done in by a drunk clerk, aphids and a little blue pill.” Irma took another swig, her eyes glazing over.

Rudy pulled the bottle out of Irma's hand and passed it off to me as she swung by on another dance twirl. “Nonsense,” he cooed to Irma. “We're getting married, we'll figure this out.”

On the next go-round I grabbed one of Irma's arms and Mother snagged the other. “You're ruining my fun,” Irma protested. “And right now there's not much of it, I can tell you that.”

“And there's going to be even less when the hangover sets in,” I added. With one of Irma's arms draped around each of our shoulders, Mother led the way to the back kitchen. Rudy opened the door to rows of white cabinets, crisp floral sunflower curtains at the window and two big vats of fudge bubbling on the ginormous gas stove. Little curls of steam escaped over the edge of the pots, and the scent of rich chocolate wafted through the kitchen. Rudy pulled out a chair at the wood table set for breakfast and we plopped Irma down, with Rudy holding her upright.

“I'll get coffee.” I grabbed the carafe from the maker as Mother said, “I don't think there's enough caffeine on the whole island to sober her up.”

“Sober?” Irma hiccupped. “Who wants to be sober at a time like this?” She whacked a spoon on the table.
“I want a dress, I want to dance, I want to get married!” Suddenly she lurched forward, landing face first in the plate of waffles.

“Holy moly! Is she okay?” I asked Rudy as he bent over her.

“Sleeping is all. Soon she'll be snoring like a grizzly and if we wake her she'll have an attitude to match. She's been up all night since she got the Viagra phone call. I think it's the stress that's got her in a state.”

Mother held up the brandy bottle. “That and half a bottle of cherry cordial.”

Rudy took off his apron and draped it around Irma's shoulders. He turned her face to one side and wiped a drip of syrup from her nose. “You know, I wanted to elope, but we both have so many friends on the island it didn't seem right to just run off like that. I hate to drag you two into this since you're so busy trying to help Fiona out of her mess.”

“Fiona said she spent the night here.” I grabbed a waffle from the stack in the middle. “Did she tell you anything about who might have done in Peep? Does she have any leads at all? 'Cause I'm running close to empty in that department.”

Rudy opened two of the white wood cupboard doors to reveal pictures taped to the inside. The Peepster was on one door with Madonna and Idle Summers taped under him; dishes and cups and saucers sat on shelves in the back. The other door had a picture of Zo. Rudy looked from one to the other. “Last night we tried to figure out what's going on, and to keep things straight
we came up with the fudge shop version of a murder board. It's sort of a murder cupboard. Dead guy and suspects on one side, and as we eliminate people we put them on the other side. Fiona said Zo had an alibi. She might be a pain in the backside and
liking
us all to death around here, but she's out as a suspect. That Madonna person had to be plenty ticked that her husband's shacked up with Zo, so we think she's a suspect big-time.”

Mother poured herself coffee and sat on the edge of the table. “Okay, I get that Peep's the guy on the right with the bleached hair and gold chains and women were fighting over him. But why? That's hard to believe, but since my husband left me for big boobs and a feathered behind, what do I know. I recognize Madonna and Zo from the Seabiscuit fiasco, but who's the gal in sequins with the microphone in her hand?”

“That's Idle Summers.” Rudy took a chair and snagged a strip of bacon. “She and Fiona knew each other out there in L.A. Fiona says Peep had something on her, and he could have ruined her singing career that had just started to take off. She's performing up at the Grand. That gives her motive and opportunity for knocking off this Peep guy.”

“But we know it's not Madonna,” I chimed in. “She was talking to Sutter when Peep bit the big one, so she's out.” I unstuck Madonna from the suspect side and taped her under Zo on the non-suspect side.

“That just leaves Idle Summers, so I guess she did it?” Rudy checked on Irma, then poured himself a cup
of coffee. “Fiona said that Peep kept all his damning information on a cell phone and she's looked all over for it. I wonder what Peep has on Idle? If we find that phone, we've got Idle Summers dead to rights, or,” Rudy added in a quiet voice, “we find out something that adds to Fiona's guilt. What if that happens? So far everything we uncover makes Fiona look guiltier.”

“That's because we don't have the whole picture.” Mother studied the board. “And whatever is on that cell phone is backed up on a computer somewhere, and my guess is it's not here on the island. Finding that phone will give us an idea who else he had on the ropes, and we can add them to the suspect list.”

Mother took a pen from her purse and made a question mark on a paper towel. She taped it under Peep's picture. “We don't have the phone, so we need to put the pieces together that we do have. Fiona and Idle are blackmail victims. If Peep was on the run, no one would look for him on a tiny island in a fly-over state, so that could be the reason he came here. What was he like on the ferry dock?” Mother asked me.

“Drunk, obnoxious . . . and nervous. Yeah, he was really nervous. He told Fiona to call him Perry and not Peep because you never know who's around. And he told Zo to lower her voice. He said he had on his down-low look.” I shrugged. “I can only imagine his out-on-the-town look.”

We all turned back to Irma, who was mumbling, “Wedding dress. I do. Damn the pill.”

“Oh boy. Come on, sweet pea.” Rudy helped Irma
to stand and put his arm around her middle. “Let's get you upstairs to sleep it off.”

Rudy and Irma shuffled toward the back hallway, and Mother said to me, “Did anyone look suspicious when you and Fiona were on that dock?”

“Peep and Zo had top billing in the suspicious department, and I was busy picking up Irma's wedding dress that turned out to be the wrong dress. I did go back to meet the next ferry to see if the dress was there, and I bumped into Sutter. Madonna came in on that second ferry, so Sutter knew what was going on with the wife/secretary scenario. Do you think maybe Sutter has information that we don't, something important about Peep? Something he's not telling us? The rat.”

Mother gave me her
is the Pope Catholic?
look. “One of the joys of being a cop is that they're connected to other cops and they all know stuff that they don't share with the rest of mankind.”

“At least not voluntarily they don't share. Maybe I could have a go at the involuntary part. We need to find out what Sutter knows, and you can't get involved or it's bye-bye attorney license. Lucky for me, there's no such thing as a painting-a-bike license.”

Mother put her hands on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye. “Evie, dear, going head to head with Nate Sutter may not be a great idea. You already spent one night in the slammer, and it's my guess there is another jail cell that's for the drunks and troublemakers on the island and it does not have cotton sheets
and fresh scone delivery. You're fast approaching troublemaker status, and how do you know the killer didn't find the phone and is already gone?”

I could tell Mother about me getting shoved into oncoming traffic, but then she'd worry. The good part of being pushed and shoved meant that someone was starting to sweat, someone besides myself, that is.

I kissed Mother on the cheek. “Just a guess on my part, is all.”

Mother folded her arms and gave me her
Mother knows all
look. “And I don't believe that for a
second.”

“W
here do you want these?” a porter asked me as he lugged three suitcases and a garment bag into the bike shop. It was noon and I hadn't seen Mother for three hours. What was she doing back there in her half-finished office? Finishing the place off herself?

“How about I give you ten bucks to haul all this stuff upstairs and into the bedroom?”

“How about I give you twenty bucks and I drop them here and leave?”

Just what I needed in my life, a sarcastic porter, and I didn't even get the twenty bucks. I wheeled the Nancy Drew bike I was working on to the side to let the paint dry and put a bicycle bell on the workbench with a note that said
Ring for Service
beside it. “Hey,” I said
to Bambino and Cleveland as they gave me a disapproving stare that said
this is no way to run a railroad
. “Most people around here are honest and won't steal my bikes, and even if they do take one out for a spin I'll get it back. What are they going to do with the thing, pack it in their suitcase?”

I crossed the sun-bleached deck that had a terrific view overlooking the harbor and passed through the back door of the bike shop to the front door of Mother's office/apartment. There was also a paved walkway that led to the office from Main Street.

Soft swells lapped at the rocks some ten feet below, and a seagull swooped down perching on the railing. Winters here sucked, no doubt about it, but summers were spectacular.

“So, how's it going?” I asked Mother as I opened the glass-paned door that still needed a second coat of paint.

Mother shoved her hair out of her face and brushed dust from her skirt. “What do you think?” She spread her arms wide, taking in a piece of plywood across two sawhorses, boxes of nails stacked up for chairs and two trouble lights hanging down from the exposed rafters. “I'm calling the place Law Office 101. 101 is my official address on Main Street—if we ever decide to use addresses around here—and it sounds simple. People get tired of legal mumbo jumbo, and they get frustrated and don't trust anyone. I'm changing that. I know our beloved city council deems no construction between May and October when the fudgies are peak
season, and they take it serious. In fact, the town council fined the company that painted the courthouse for not getting the scaffold down, but at least I ordered furniture. I went with cream-colored bookshelves and desk, celery upholstery, cantaloupe accents and a wet bar in the corner.
Therefores
and
whereases
are a lot easier to take with a Bloody Mary in your hand or a kick-ass cappuccino. Nothing's getting delivered till the end of the week, so I have to improvise for a few days. Besides . . .” Mother gazed around. “I kind of like this look, and the place smells fresh and clean.”

“With a hint of sawdust.”

“There is that.”

A
bing, bing, bing
came from inside the bike shop. “Sounds like you have a customer,” Mother said to me. “I'll go with you. I need to change and take a walk around town to reacquaint myself with the place and let people know I'm open for business.”

“And that business includes a certain Italian stallion?”

Mother batted her eyes Carman style, fluffed her hair and twitched her hips as she followed me to the shop. We cut through the kitchen with cats one and two perched on the windowsill, Cleveland arching his eye and sporting his
I want tuna now
expression.

“Are you here to rent a bike?” I said to the man in khakis and blue polo with a notebook in his hand. “Or are you part of the Grand Hotel murder mystery group looking for the killer? For the record, I didn't do it.”

The guy was sixty-something, with intense green
eyes, a friendly smile and monk-style hair, balding in the middle. He held out his business card to Mother and regarded me as a glob of wallpaper paste. “I'm Walt McBride with the
Town Crier
. I'm not here about that Peep guy, and I'd like to do an interview about the new law office that you're opening up.”

“You're Fiona's dad?” Mother asked, shaking Walt's hand and taking the card.

“We're trying to help Fiona,” I added. “Have you seen anyone on the island that you met when you were out in L.A.? Maybe someone followed Peep here and did him in. I'm Fiona's friend and—”

“You and the rest of this island need to butt out,” Walt said in a low growl, all signs of friendly gone. “Fiona was done with that guy. He came here and crossed the wrong person, end of story. He was rotten to the core, and I'll take care of Fiona; she's my daughter and . . .” Walt's voice trailed off as two customers strolled in. “Just mind your own darn business.”

Mother hooked her arm through his and added a lovely smile. “I'd just love to chat with you. Let's take this interview over to my office for some pictures. The main entrance is out the front door and we take the path alongside. I'm having a sign made; it should be here soon, and aren't the lilacs just lovely this time of year?”

Mother could disarm a nuclear bomb with that smile. More than once that silky voice had swayed a jury, calmed a store clerk or saved me from getting expelled for cheating on an algebra test. Art history I
aced, but show me
x
and
y
and ask me what train gets to the station first and I'm doomed.

Walt and Mother sauntered out the door, and I gave the customers a tour of bikes available for rental. Inventory was low, but the Spy Kids bike and the Hardy Boys returned earlier were now clean, checked and back on the road. That was the key, I realized. Keep the bikes rented.

“Hey, Evie the place is bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard,” Angelo said, coming into the shop as a customer left with the new Nancy Drew bike. Angelo had on a black polo and black pants, the color of choice of retired Detroit mob guys. Angelo and his sister moved to the island last year when their Detroit family sort of commandeered SeeFar, a cottage up on the East Bluff. Angelo considered Mother a dish, treated her like a queen and was just what Mother aka Carman needed after the Paris encounter of a feather kind.

“Angelo!” I gave him a hug. “When did you get back on the island?”

“Hey, kid. How's tricks?” Angelo flashed me his million-dollar smile. “Rosetta and I got here a week ago and you know how it is, settlin' in always takes longer than ya think. And now my nephew Luka's come to visit. He couldn't take another Detroit summer with all the smog and traffic, if you know what I mean.” Angelo cut his eyes from back to front of the shop.

“Mother's not here. She's out on the town to promote her new law office, which is code for she's out looking for you.” I checked for customers, then stepped
closer. “If you have a minute, I could use your expert advice and counsel.”

“Meaning you got a situation?”

Angelo was my situation go-to guy. He knew all about situations and helped me out from time to time because I'd saved his beloved Meatball of the canine variety and not the spaghetti variety from the hooves of oncoming horses. Last year Angelo taught Fiona and me how to pick a lock that desperately needed picking, how to avoid security cameras and how to make a great cup of hot cocoa and sneak in extra marshmallows. “I need to break into jail.”

Angelo rocked back on his heels, his dark eyes dancing. “I gotta tell ya, kid, that's a new one on me. Where I come from they're trying to stay out of the joint, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm not exactly breaking into jail but into Sutter's office that's across from the jail. I can do the lock on his office door, but I first have to get inside the station. I think Sutter knows something about this Peep guy getting murdered here on the island, and at the moment Fiona's headed for the most wanted poster over at the post office. She didn't do it, but the evidence is stacked against her, and sometimes there's more going on than evidence.”

Angelo stroked his chin. “Meaning you know something Sutter doesn't?”

If I told Angelo about me and Fiona getting pushed into harm's way, he'd shut down and tell me to get lost. Putting me in harm's way was not going to happen.
“You know Fiona, she's a terrific reporter and one of the good guys,” I continued. “She's innocent and she's kept you and Rosetta and the family out of the
Crier
. There were no stories of
Detroit Family Invades Island
or
Detroit Family Takes Over SeeFar
, right?”

“You're doing the guilt trip routine on me? That's playing hardball, kid, and I'm betting it's something you learned right from your mother.”

“Maybe a little.”

Angelo tried to hide a grin as he ran his hand around the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I like Fiona, and I could tell something was bothering her; she had a look about her and didn't finish her beer at the Stang the other night. Fiona always finishes her beer. I can't see her pulling the plug on some guy no matter how big a jackass he is.”

Angelo grabbed a pen and my Hello Kitty notepad and drew a box. “The courthouse has cameras here and here.” He drew two circles. “So going in the front door's not gonna work. Getting in through windows is harder than getting in through doors 'cause you can't pick them. Personally, if I didn't have arthritis in my left knee, I'd climb the scaffold around back.” He made some
X
marks on the other side. “The place got painted a month ago and you can get in through the upstairs windows. No one ever locks second-story windows and there are some big pine trees for cover. Take that old elevator that's in the courtroom down to the police station on the first floor and badda-bing badda-boom, you avoid the cameras and you're in.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at Angelo.

“Hey, it's all right there in the
Crier
. I got myself one of the online subscription things for when I'm wintering in sunny Detroit so I can keep abreast. Always got to keep abreast, kid. The town council went and fined that painting company for not getting the scaffold down in a timely manner on account of that maintenance ordnance they got in place. Every day it's up they're fined, and the money they collect gets the elevator up to code. Ya see, some of the fudgies can't be doing the steps when they visit our historic buildings, so they use the elevator. Sutter's office might have a deadbolt, so it'll take time to crack once you get in.”

Angelo cut his eyes back and forth, slid a thin black wallet from his pocket and pushed it across the workbench.

“You carry it with you?”

“Old habits die hard, and if your mamma finds out about this conversation she'll string me up by my you-know-what, so you gotta be careful. If no one's in the clink overnight, the office is unattended between midnight and five, and all 911 calls go to Sutter or that cute little sergeant who likes strawberry smoothies.”

“That was in the
Crier
too?”

“Not the smoothie part. I kind of got my eye on her for Luka. He's one of those engineer types and not good with the ladies, if you know what I mean.”

I had no idea what an engineer for
the family
did, but some things were best left alone. I pocketed the
wallet and Angelo patted me on the head as a customer strolled in. “We're done here, doll face.” He winked and headed for the door.

A grandmother wanted a basketball-themed bike for her grandson visiting next week and a chemistry bike for the granddaughter. I'd nearly flunked chemistry in high school, but between Sheldon and Google I'd figure it out.

Two ladies came in saying Penelope from up at the Grand told them about the pink and purple lilac bikes I had ready to rent. I wrote up the rental agreement, made a mental note to thank Penelope for the business and then grabbed the ringing phone as felines one and two ambled in from the kitchen. They jumped up on the pool table and I spotted something under Cleveland's collar. Was he playing with the dryer sheets again? It was a piece of Hello Kitty notepaper from my Post-its in the kitchen. Fiona? Who else would send me a
message by cat
? This was what happened on an island of spotty cell phone reception and a BFF on the lam.

I hung up the phone and started for Cleveland to get the note as Sutter came in the door. “So, where is Fiona? I need to talk to her now.”

Sutter took up a pool cue, chalked the end and sailed the five ball to the corner pocket, neatly avoiding the perched kitties. From where I stood I could see the note but Sutter not so much. But if meow one moved . . .

“It's not my turn to watch Fiona.” I had to say
something to keep his attention on me or the pool table, and not the cats. “I've been busy,” I added as he sank the nine ball in the side pocket. “I rent bikes, remember? Lots and lots of bikes, and aren't you busy too? I bet someone's trying to break into a house as we speak, or a kid's shoplifting gum over at Doud's Market. Maybe you should check things out there.”

“You're trying to get rid of me, Chicago?” Sutter circled the table to the right. If he went for the ten ball he'd see Hello Kitty clear as day. If I suspected the note was from Fiona, so would he, and who knew what was in it. Something like
I'm guilty and running off to Brazil
would not be good.

“Six ball, corner pocket,” I blurted. “I'll bet you a beer at the Stang you can't make it.” A beer and a dare . . . no man could pass that up, right?

“What do you know about Idle Summers?” Sutter asked while leaning over the table, stretching the soft worn denim of his jeans nicely over his backside. Oh boy. I hadn't counted on this being part of making the six-ball shot. Feeling a little dizzy, I tried to swallow, failed, then plopped down in Rudy's old wicker chair and swiped the drool from the corner of my mouth. Well, dang. The guy might be over forty but he had the best butt on the island, no doubt about it. The regular female contingent at the Stang had voted on his and other local butts of the male species one cold February night when we needed something to warm our bones. Nate Sutter won best ass by a landslide.