Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) (2 page)

“It’s dry and clean and I got you space on the first floor next to two of mine,” said Tim.”You can drive right up to it, open the garage door, and visit your stuff anytime you want. From seven
AM
to ten
PM
. Except on Sundays when it closes at six,” he added.

Jane peered into the garbage bag. One lone flour sack pot holder lay at the bottom of the bag. Shaped like a pear and embroidered with a cheerful smile and long curly eyelashes that gave this 1940s handmade kitchen collectible a feminine, flirty air, it was lightly padded, Jane guessed, with a piece of old recycled wool sandwiched between the soft cotton fabric.

“How did you fall into that throwaway bag?” Jane asked the pot holder.

It was the second question she had asked herself—or an inanimate object—out loud.

Quickly she stuffed the cloth pear into a box where the tape was not totally sealed and snatched up the garbage bag. There were some old shirts and pants, Charley’s clothes he had left behind that he asked her to donate and get rid of. Okay, she could do that. After all, answering her first question, it wasn’t like she was a hoarder.

*   *   *

By the time the Wednesday showing of her Evanston home arrived, Jane had watched movers fill a large truck with trunks, luggage, and box after box of stuff that they drove off to Kankakee. Jane had already decided to let Tim receive the stuff on the other end while she stayed behind to wrap up some business at the bank and have lunch with her partner in the PI part of her PPI professional life, Detective Oh. Jane’s plan, after lunch, was to head home and pick up her dog, Rita, and head down to Kankakee. There she would be reunited with her boxes and cartons and bags and suitcases. And, of course, her parents, Don and Nellie. Jane would remain there through the weekend since the open house was scheduled for all day Sunday.

Melinda would shepherd the lookers, the gawkers, the curious neighbors, and one or two potential buyers who would descend upon her now sparsely furnished space. Jane could hardly believe anyone would find the house appealing without its character-building clutter, its rich textural personality, but according to Melinda, Jane had done a spectacular job of decluttering.

“A for effort,” she had announced when she made a quick inspection early on Wednesday morning. “Don’t forget to take all the family photos out of the den.”

Jane had showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a soft navy V-neck sweater. She grabbed her giant leather tote bag—what she referred to as her “just-in-case,” which held everything she might need …
just in case
—and prepared to leave to meet Oh, when she remembered that she hadn’t removed the family photos. Not wanting her grade to drop down to a B, she dashed into the now almost empty room.

When Charley left, his den became a resting place for old library items—book carts and card files—all of which Jane snapped up when a suburban branch moved its location. Jane thought she might find a good use for the comfortable trappings of a library, all worn and wooden, and they had given the room a cozy, if cluttered ambiance. Now that the den was emptied of all but a leather chair, ottoman, and lamp, strategically placed on a lovely old semiworn Persian carpet, Jane found herself a little breathless at how peaceful it looked. What did it remind her of? Oh, yes. A den.

She took all the photos off the built-in bookcases that flanked the fireplace. With only a few books remaining on the shelves, old leather-bound sets of Dickens and Alcott, books that felt as warm and soft to the touch as a pair of ladies’ kidskin gloves, and the brass lamp next to the chair turned down low, the room gave off such an appealing glow that it was all Jane could do to resist curling up in the old leather chair with one of the books. She steeled herself against the house love rising up in her and grabbed the photos, stuffing them into her “just-in-case.”

Whistling for Rita and giving her big dog a decent head rub before sentencing her to a few hours alone in the backyard, Jane threw herself into her car and pulled it around to the front. She sat parked in front of the house for a long look. Each red brick stair that led up to the oak front door held a terra-cotta pot filled with rust-colored mums. The window boxes were still filled, but the greenery was dying, spent from a summer of blooming. The stucco was in good shape and the stained timbers that framed the house, giving the illusion that the all-American four-square had English Tudor roots, were solid. It had been a good house and although waves of sentiment, feeling vaguely like the flu, washed over Jane as the years of Nick growing up, learning to ride a bike on the front side-walk, kicking a soccer ball into a net Charley had set up alongside the house, dashing out the front door to trick-or-treat dressed as a dinosaur or a gila monster flashed by in a slide show, making it hard to swallow for a moment, Jane wasn’t really sorry about selling the house. It was the right thing to do. It was time for a new family to plant flowers and to play catch in the yard. Charley had moved on and Nick was firmly launched.

Time for Jane to move on, too.

*   *   *

Jane walked into the Deadline Café at three minutes past noon, almost exactly on time, but, of course, Detective Bruce Oh was already sitting at a table by the window, He rose slightly as Jane approached and she smiled at him, wondering if younger men were learning to do that, to stand when a woman came in the room or, as in this case, approached the table. Why would they? Who would teach them? She felt a little panicky that she had never mentioned it to Nick, that maybe he should stand when a woman enters the room, then wondered if women today wanted men to stand. Would everyone have been better off if no one stood for everyone or everyone stood for everyone?

“… and so I ordered the tea. I hope you don’t mind,” said Oh.

Oh looked at Jane, and realized that she had been carrying on one of her conversations with herself when she arrived at the table.

“I ordered a pot of Earl Grey, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh. “Would you prefer coffee?”

“Tea’s fine,” said Jane, glancing at a menu, but fully aware that she would have a veggie club sandwich, which is what she always ordered at the café.

Tossing the menu aside, Jane looked her partner in the eye.

“We’ve known each other for a few years now,” she said, stirring a packet of sugar into her tea. She always drank her coffee black, but loved to load up her tea with sugar or honey and as much lemon as a waitress offered. “And I think we…” Jane hesitated, hoping Oh would read her mind as he frequently did and bail her out by finishing her sentence.

Oh, however, never finished her sentences or anyone’s, even if he could read minds. “Listening, Mrs. Wheel, is a lost art. People will always tell you more and tell you precisely, if they are allowed to tell you themselves.”

Jane took another sip of her tea, admiring the mismatched vintage cup and saucer that the café used.

“We’ve been through a lot together, and I think you and I, we should…”

“Hey, Jane, want the club?” asked Lissa from behind the counter.

Jane looked at Detective Oh, who nodded.

“Two,” said Jane, holding up two fingers.

She had thought about this conversation for several days. Since she would be going to Kankakee and staying over the weekend she knew she wanted to say it now, before she left town, and get the hard words behind her.

“We both know we have a special rapport and I…” said Jane.

“Extra pickles?” yelled Lissa.

Jane nodded, but then saw that Lissa was, as usual, doing four things at once and not looking in Jane’s direction. “Yes, pickles,” said Jane.

“Perhaps,” said Oh.

“Yes?” said Jane. He was going to bail her out after all.

“You should just say it, Mrs. Wheel. Perhaps we are of one mind.”

“We usually are, don’t you think? And that’s why I think, we should begin…”

Lissa set the plates down in front of them. Their sandwiches were perfect, giant slabs of whole wheat bread, with avocado, cheese, tomatoes, sprouts and cucumbers, and smoked tempeh.
Fakin Bacon,
one of Jane’s favorite food groups. Once she took a bite, the moment would be lost forever, since beginning a sandwich like this was a commitment. One bite and all serious conversation would be lost to shredding and swallowing. That was true for Jane, anyway. Oh was deconstructing his sandwich and, using a knife and fork, managing to consume the components with his usual grace.

“It’s nothing,” said Jane. She shook her head. There would be other opportunities to have this discussion. In fact, what she had been about to say wasn’t even important. Jane was going to simply suggest that they call each other by their first names. A simple request, perfectly appropriate for their friendship, their business partnership. Why did she find it so difficult to simply say,
Please call me Jane?
As she looked at Detective Oh, his knife and fork held aloft over his plate, his dark eyes staring frankly into her own, she smiled. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to say it because she liked the way he called her
Mrs. Wheel
.

Looking down at her plate piled high with her most favorite lunch in the world, she realized she had completely forgotten to eat breakfast. She picked up her sandwich and took an enormous bite.

*   *   *

Jane was on her way to Kankakee one half hour before the showing of her house was to begin. Driving through Chicago in the early afternoon was painless. Light traffic, a clear day, and although Jane couldn’t quite see forever, she could see the Chicago skyline as perfectly carved into the blue sky as one could hope. Curving and swerving into, and then around the city, taking an almost straight line south to Kankakee, Jane felt that she had driven the I94 to I57 route so often, her car could autopilot her to Kankakee.

This was an oddly carefree trip. Jane wasn’t rushing to put out any fire set by Nellie, she wasn’t flying down to fix any of Tim’s problems, she wasn’t being lured into a fake murder mystery that all too often turned real when she hit Kankakee County. Nope. This was just a girl and her dog heading down to visit her hometown on a clear September day. This would be the perfect visit. She had left her house in order, the realtor would host the open houses, and Jane wouldn’t be there to mess up anything between today’s showing and the weekend open house. Her packed treasures had already arrived in Kankakee, several hours ahead of her. Tim would supervise the unloading into the storage locker. Her son Nick had her on speed dial—
an archaic expression if ever there was one,
thought Jane. What was today’s smart phone equivalent? Detective Oh could take care of any little thing that came up at their office. Over the summer, the initial gloom and doom of Charley’s departure had lifted, Jane’s adjustment to this new chapter in her life was complete, and by golly, life was, or at least could be—no,
would be
—good. Jane turned on the radio, hoping some oldie would come on so she could sing along and make this little moment complete.

“Uh-oh,” said Jane out loud when “Love the One You’re With” came on.

Singing along, Jane started planning. There was an auction scheduled for the weekend. It was taking place at a farm just west of Kankakee and it was a complete household. The farm equipment would be sold out in the barns and the house would be turned inside out, its contents displayed under tents out in the yard. Tim had been invited in early to look at a few of the antiques and he had advised sending two of the pieces out to special sales for the best prices.

“But there’s plenty for us, Janie. How long since you’ve been at a country auction?”

Too long,
thought Jane.

Even Nellie had seemed welcoming when Jane told her she was coming for a long weekend.

“Yeah, I guess it’s okay if you come. Bringing the dog?”

That was practically a welcome-home banner strung across the lawn in Nellie language!

Speaking of banners, or thinking of them, as Jane was, she saw something flapping in the breeze on Court Street as she made her way through downtown Kankakee. Held taut by wires across the street from the courthouse, there was a bright yellow banner.

“Maybe there’s a big church rummage sale this weekend, Rita,” said Jane, feeling like everything was going her way. Maybe this would be her first visit to Kankakee where nothing terrible happened. Her parents would stay well, she wouldn’t discover any new relatives, no skeletons would be unearthed, no beams would fall on anyone, no one would discover an old body, an old theft, an old forgery, no poisonings would occur, no nail guns would be fired, and no schemes to liven up Kankakee would be hatched by Tim. Maybe she would go to an auction and find a box of vintage pottery, a bag of Bakelite bangles, and, for good measure, an old sewing box with a sterling silver thimble case. Maybe this would be her lucky weekend.

Jane stopped at the red light and looked over at the banner.

LUCKY KILLED THEM IN LAS VEGAS!

Jane could see from where she sat at the light, there was another banner planted on the parkway a few buildings down.

LUCKY KILLED THEM IN BRANSON!

“What the hell does that mean?” Jane asked. Rita pulled her nose in from her window and turned her head to Jane. She looked as puzzled as her mistress. On the next block was another banner.

NOW LUCKY’S GONNA GET KILLED IN KANKAKEE!

Maybe some football player from a rival team? Was there some big game? Would they actually allow the kids to put up signs about being killed?

KANKAKEE’S FAVORITE SON’S COMEDY ROAST

TAPED LIVE—IN KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS!

Under the words of this next banner was a caricature of a man with a cigar in his mouth, a pouf of black hair and a toothy grin.

“Well, Rita, that must be Lucky,” said Jane, and added, “whoever the hell he is.”

Jane was at another stoplight, staring at this last banner when her phone rang.

Jane clicked it on speaker to answer.

“Are you driving, Jane? Pull over,” said Melinda. Jane could hear her chewing something crunchy.