Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (17 page)

“I’ll think of something,” I said with a lot more conviction than I felt. “I have to help Donna deliver some scones, and I’ll be back soon. Hold down the fort.”
And if you see Nate Sutter, run.
I didn’t add the last part, but probably should have.

I did a quick change then headed for the white picket fence of the Blarney Scone. “You’re looking more and more like one of the Smurf people,” Donna said as she opened the back door. She gave me three long, white boxes and a threatening look. “Don’t drop these; they be some of my best work ever. Got a fine assortment made up and been baking like a banshee all night.”

“This is perfect.”

“You’re not the one up all night trying to bake with a broken oven. Good thing I’ve got another on order.”

“Sorry about the oven, but you need to have Jason Bourne come here to the Blarney Scone for a scone tasting. Say around eight o’clock tonight. There’s a good chance he had something to do with Bunny biting the big one and I want to look around his place. You can tell Bourne you’re trying a new recipe and want his input, with him being one of your best customers.”

Donna took a step back. “Blessed be Saint Patrick, you know that obituary piece we were working on the night you got here, now I’m thinking I’ll get a chance to use it. And how do you intend to get yourself inside Bourne’s house? The man’s got the place locked up like Fort Knox.”

“I’m working on that part. You’ll call Bourne?”

“He’s not one to be chatting on the phone, but he will pick up for me. Since we’re talking Rudy here, I’ll make the effort, since he took our part on the town council like he has.” Donna patted my cheek. “Ye best be real careful, Evie girl. Mr. Bourne’s a mighty private person, and if the man catches ye . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Does Rudy know your next of kin to be contacting?”

T
he scone delivery was at the top of Crow’s Nest Trail, better known to me as the steps from hell. Drenched in blue-tinged sweat by the time I got there, I went around the side porch of the huge Victorian to the gardens in the back. Tables with white linens dotted the grass, the whole place decked out in late-summer red and pink geraniums, purple asters, dahlias, yarrow, coneflowers and the like. My mother’s garden was not as elaborate as this, but close. I wondered how the parents were doing in Paris? Stupid question—everyone did great in Paris.

“There you are,” a maid in a white apron grumped as I came inside the kitchen. She snagged the boxes out of my hand. “I need to get things set up, we’re running late. Grab that silver tray with the pink doilies and get the napkins and for God’s sake don’t get blue on them.”

I followed Grumpy outside, put down the tray, then headed back to town. Instead of taking the steps, I turned toward SeeFar, hoping to catch Angelo between the butterfly lecture and Pilates. I needed to see if Angelo and I were still on for tonight and to let him know that Donna had a plan to get Bourne out for a few hours.

I opened the squeaky gate and cut across the grass. I didn’t see Angelo, but Dwight was surrounded by a small crowd of shoppers and a collection of boxes, furniture, a few rugs, tables with books, framed pictures and a set of old china. Nurse Jane Porter had two ugly lamps picked out, Doc Evers hauled off a brass coat rack, Speed pawed through a box of photos and Smithy test-pedaled a stationary bicycle. Jason Bourne had a box of paperbacks tucked under his arm and was haggling with Dwight over the price of a nice-looking tie—the perfect accessory for the well-dressed hit man—as Huffy stormed her way up the sidewalk.

Everyone pretended to be consumed with the sale, but no one really wanted to miss a word of “You got me into this, you creep, and it’s all gone wrong and you’re going to make it right if it’s the last thing you do, Dwight Harrington.”

“But sweetheart, we can work this out, I swear it’s going to be okay.” Dwight put his arm around Huffy and took cash from Jane Porter for the ugly lamps.

Huffy wiggled away, eyes on fire, lower lip in a pout. “You said we could be together and have things our way, and now you’ve gone and ruined it all. No house, no money. How could you let this happen? My father knows what’s going on and he won’t let you get away with this.”

Huffy got on her bike and pedaled off down the road, leaving Dwight looking pale and sick as Smithy paid him for the stationary bike.

“Huffy’s been after Dwight since Helen and I bought the Merry Widow six years ago,” Ed said, coming up behind me, a bunch of pictures tucked under his arm. “And now when those two could finally be getting together, Dwight goes and loses it all. He’s one of those guys always after the fast buck, and this time it bit him in the butt. I keep trying to tell Ed Junior that hard work gets the job done. He needs to be more like Abigail. She’s got her head screwed on right, a real go-getter.”

“Abigail has no life.”

“Ed Junior could do with a little less of a life. A Ferrari? Where’s that money coming from? What’s he thinking? Not about business, I can tell you that. He’s driving me crazy. But then I’m the one who spoiled him, so I can’t complain. I just need to help him out once in a while to make things right, or so Helen keeps telling me.” Ed glanced around at SeeFar. “Maybe the new owners will make this place right and put some more money into it. Bunny had the roof done last year, but the outside could do with a paint job.”

Speed walked up and slapped Ed on the back old-buddy style. He had a smile on his face that was more teeth than
I’m so happy to see you
.

“I’d like to buy those pictures from you,” Speed said, pointing to Ed’s eight-by-ten glossies. “They’re of me when I used to cut Bunny’s grass a long time ago. We were great pals, and she gave me a lot of encouragement when I was just getting into cycling.”

Ed pulled out an article from the
Crier
. “Bunny kept this with the pictures. It says right here that she gave you the name
Speed
from the way you sped around the island so fast it was like you had a motor on your bike. You were destined for greatness even then.” Ed held out a pen. “I’d love to have you autograph the pictures. I’m hanging them in my den. Great local interest.”

“I’ll give you five hundred bucks for ’em.” Speed reached for the pictures and Ed pulled them back. “A thousand,” Speed added. His smile got tighter, his eyes darker, all pretense at friendliness gone. “I want to put them in my shop. Bunny promised me those pictures and never got around to giving them to me. They are some really fond memories.” Except Speed sure didn’t sound fond; he sounded pissed and mean and maybe a little desperate.

Ed held the photos a little tighter. “I’m sure you have other pictures you can put in your shop—like the framed one of you in
Sports Illustrated
that you got up at the Grand the other night, and . . .” Ed let the rest of the sentence hang; Speed was already halfway across the yard.

“Helen would kill me if I gave these up.” Ed glanced at one of the pictures of Speed in his early teens, all lean with sun-bleached curly hair, alongside a young and pleasant Bunny. It was hard to imagine Bunny pleasant.

“While I’m here I’ll get Helen some of those books I saw earlier in an L.L.Bean box by the folding table,” Ed added. “I think Helen has a thing for steamy reads. I found
The Highwayman’s Revenge
hidden in a copy of
War and Peace
on our bookshelf
and
The Duke’s Decadent Proposal
in
The Comedies of William Shakespeare
. I know I sure didn’t put them there.” Ed laughed. “I read a few pages, and
wow
. The back cover says the author’s a Vegas mystery woman who tells all. Surprised the books don’t set the house on fire and . . . and they’re gone.”

Ed nodded to the folding table. “They were right there in a box. I didn’t see anyone check them out with Dwight.”

“Must be another closet reader.” My brain fogged over with images of the four-poster and the moon, and was that Sutter coming up the walk?

“I’ve got to go,” I said to Ed. “Don’t let Speed fast-talk you out of your pictures. They’ll look great on your wall.”

*   *   *

When I got
back to the shop, it was after five and Rudy had himself balanced on a bike right at the front door. He had his one crutch lying across the handlebars, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

“I’m gonna ride down to the VI and have a walleye fish sandwich for dinner and onion soup, and chips, I’m dying for some chips, Those fat ones that make a big crunch when you bite into them.”

I put myself smack in front of the bike to block Rudy’s way. “You’re hungry, I’ll make you dinner. You can’t ride to the Village Inn. You’ve got a broken leg, remember?” I rapped the cast with my knuckles to emphasize my point. “See, no bend, stiff as a board. You can’t pedal. Big problem.”

“I got one good leg left . . . Actually, it’s my right.” Rudy laughed, his eyes not focusing. “A little crutch humor. All I need is one leg.” Rudy waved his hand. “Out of the way, Chicago, I’m on a mission here. Irma, that hot little number, brought over some fudge that she cooked up all by herself today. Best fudge I ever had.”

“Must have been the brandy fudge. You’re drunk as a skunk.”

“I could really do with a KitKat. I love KitKats—and did I mention chips?”

“Listen to me, if you take off on this bike, you’re going to kill yourself, and then Abigail will kill
me
.” I grabbed the crutch then hoisted Rudy up, the bike toppling over with a crash. Rudy wobbled and leaned on me, all one hundred and whatever pounds, plus cast, and together we did the hop-shuffle back to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine the alcohol content in fudge being enough to make someone this blammed. I wasn’t cook of the year by any stretch, but I’d made enough Christmas fudge with Mother to know that too much liquid—too much of any liquid—made for really soupy fudge.

I plopped Rudy in a kitchen chair and he banged his fist on the table. “Chips.”

“What if I make pork chops?”

“Lots of chips.”

It was like dealing with an inebriated two-year-old. I got out turkey bacon and eggs and repeated the Hangover Therapy 101 lesson that I had laid out for Irma. I cooked up breakfast for dinner so there’d be something in Rudy’s stomach to sop up the alcohol.

“Here,” I said, putting the food in front of Rudy. “Eat this, all of it, and don’t move from this chair, and no bikes. I’m going to check on Irma.”

“Give my little cutie-pootie a big old smooch for me, okay?”

“I’ll let you handle that one.” I headed out the back door and across the deck, which was still splattered with blue paint from when I dropped the roller when Angelo showed up. I cut over to Irma’s, where I could hear some Bob Marley blaring inside the shop.

Who knew alcohol in fudge could be so potent? I gripped the doorknob, prayed for strength and cut through the kitchen to the main room, where the bass was vibrating so hard on “Three Little Birds,” my teeth hurt. An old turntable with big speakers was set up on the display case. People sat on tables, legs dangling, eyes not focusing, arms in the air, swaying back and forth and singing along—or slurring along, depending on how zonked they happened to be.

Irma shuffled about passing out Doritos and Fritos. The majority of the people in the shop were on retirement road, and they were all three sheets to the wind, thanks to that senior discount Fiona had mentioned earlier.

“Come on in, the water’s fine, dearie,” Irma yelled over the din of off-key warbling. She gave me a big wave and a lopsided smile. Dishes of fudge were making the rounds, everyone helping themselves and sending their cholesterol and sugar levels through the roof.

“No Woman, No Cry” filled the room to cheers and more swaying. I wasn’t exactly a wallflower, and never in a million years had I seen myself as someone who got in the way of a good time, but this was it. If I didn’t break up the party, people would start passing out on the floor. I pulled the plug on the music and climbed on top of a table to wolf whistles, catcalls and shouts of “Show us what you got, baby!”

“The party’s over,” I yelled.

That got me boos and hisses and a pummeling with junk food.

“You are all wasted. What would your kids say if they saw you all like this?” Did those words really come out of my mouth?

“We don’t give a flying fig what our kids say,” a guy in a red and blue plaid shirt called out. “We’ll just cut the little bastards out of the will.”

Giggling filled the room, and two women fell off the tables. Everyone thought it was the funniest thing ever, so it was followed by more giggling. It was like being back in junior high.

“We need more chips,” someone called. “More chips, more chips, more chips” was chanted through the room at brain-numbing decibels. But the good news was that I could do chips—and that would get everyone out of here!

“Follow me to the best chips in town!” I found Bob Marley’s “Kaya”
on my phone, cranked it, jumped off the table and started a swaying line out the front door. I headed for Horn’s bar, holding Sheldon over my head, with the band of mellow oldsters pied-pipering behind. I figured Horn’s knew how to handle drunks better than I did, and maybe they could sober them up. Right now it would take all the coffee on the island to sober them up. How could this happen from fudge?

When I got back to the bike shop, the cannon up at the fort boomed the six o’clock warning, Taps floated out over the island, marking the end to another day in paradise, and I found Rudy facedown in his bacon and eggs, snoring. Some days in paradise were better than others.

I half dragged Rudy to the La-Z-Boy to sleep it off, then headed for the shower to get fancied up for my eight o’clock date with Angelo. I dressed in breaking-and-entering black, twisted my hair up and pinned it in place. I added black eyeliner ’cause I hadn’t been on a date in months and needed to keep my makeup skills honed. I left Rudy a note saying there was a sandwich in the fridge and that I’d be back around ten, then locked the shop up behind me.