Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) (21 page)

“What the f…?” said Lucky, looking from Jane to the sandwich and back to Jane.

“Did you take a bite?” said Jane, out of breath. “Peanut butter, peanut butter, I smell peanut butter. Call 911, Tim!”

“Hold the phone,” said Lucky. “I am impressed, Jane Wheel, but no need to panic. Watch this.”

Before Jane realized what he was doing, Lucky snatched up the other half of the sandwich off the paper plate and took an enormous bite. He dropped the sandwich on the plate, chewed slowly, and held up his hands, palms up, in a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture. He then wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin he pulled from a desk drawer.

“What the hell?” said Tim.

Maurice shook his head. “I heard the stories, but I didn’t believe even you would be that deceitful, Lucky.”

“Who are you again?” said Lucky.

“Your set designer. I have a contract and I’m union. You can’t fire me, so don’t even start…” said Maurice, without raising his voice. His tone was evenly balanced between disgust and amusement.

“You’re not allergic to peanuts,” said Jane.

Lucky shook his head, taking another bite of the sandwich.

“So what about the show at the EZ Way Inn?” asked Tim. “He had a reaction there, right? After Nellie’s Lucky Duck?”

“Did you taste that shit?” asked Lucky. “Anybody’d have a reaction. Draino with a dash of soy sauce.”

“I give up,” said Tim.

“Well,” said Maurice,” the rumor is that Lucky fakes his allergies and a lot of other ailments because he likes the extra attention, is a bit of a hypochondriac, and he wants a convenient way to get out of uncomfortable or boring situations. Am I close?”

“You’re wasting your time as a set designer, Maurice, I ought to promote you to writer.”

“I make more than your writers, Lucky,” said Maurice, with a smile. “And since I’m with the production company you partnered with, you can’t fire me, remember?”

“Anybody else in the building?” asked Lucky.

Maurice and Tim both shook their heads. “We’re the last ones here.”

“Okay, you’re partly right, Necktie,” said Lucky. Maurice stopped him from christening him with a new nickname and reminded Lucky who he was. “Okay, Maurice, here’s the real story. I do need an excuse to get out of places sometimes. I have panic attacks, okay? Nobody wants to hire a comic or an actor who has panic attacks because they look a lot like stage fright. So once when I froze up backstage at some shithole club in Delaware, Brenda comes up with the peanut allergy. Starts screaming about somebody eating peanuts backstage. She whips out a fountain pen and pretends to give me a shot, then has somebody help me back into the dressing room. She shuts the door, finds me a Xanax, hands me a shot of Jack Daniel’s to wash it down, and we’re all good to go. I realize this peanut allergy is a good gig. Gets me out of things fast and who’s going to ask questions?”

“Do you make it a habit to hire people who have peanut allergies?” said Jane.

“No,” said Lucky. “You’re thinking about that kid. I asked him about it, what his reactions were like. And he gave me the fish-eye and asked me if I was concerned or if I was doing research. I told him a little bit of both. I wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“Your medical kit?” asked Jane, beginning to pace back and forth. “Real EpiPens and fake shots? Or fake EpiPens and fake shots?”

“Real EpiPens that we just empty. And then a fake shot. Brenda’s the only one who would ever touch the kit. I don’t have a “reaction” unless Brenda’s around. I wouldn’t have sprung it on you, Jane. Although you have proven your worth as a temp, that’s for sure.”

“You’re wrong,” said Jane, shaking her head.

“Nah, you were good. I think you would have saved me,” said Lucky, stuffing the last corner of the sandwich into his mouth.

“You’re wrong about your kit. Somebody touched it. Or they thought they did. Somebody picked up Sluggo Mettleman’s kit and stuck a three-leaf clover in it because he or she thought it was your kit. And if somebody had the kit and thought it was yours, maybe they messed with the EpiPen, too. If Brenda’s the only one who touches your pens—she’d know your kit from Slug’s even if they looked alike. So, whoever did it was either trying to embarrass you by proving you didn’t have an allergy, showing somebody that you didn’t really need the medication or,” said Jane, “somebody believed you did have an allergy and was trying to kill you.”

Lucky swallowed hard and Jane believed it was more than the peanut butter that stuck in his throat.

“So, Slug was murdered?” asked Maurice.

Jane shook her head again. “Not exactly murder, but if Slug’s EpiPen was tampered with because someone thought it was Lucky’s … it was malicious mischief to say the least. I mean he did recover from what happened in the Steak and Brew, so even if the pen didn’t do the trick, the paramedics got there in time. I heard that they found the peanut candy wrapper in his friend’s car and that caused the reaction that killed him. But if Slug hadn’t already been compromised, if he hadn’t left the hospital early,” said Jane, “who knows?”

“Somebody wanted to murder me,” said Lucky.

“Everybody wants to murder you, Lucky,” said Maurice.

“I think attempted murder by EpiPen or lack thereof is a pretty imprecise way of going after someone if you really want to kill them. I think it’s more likely that the person who was messing with your lucky stuff was trying to figure out some way to embarrass you or scare you. Whoever it was figured out that messing with the horseshoes and talking about you running out of luck was a better way to get to you.”

“Does everybody really know the rumor that Lucky fakes the allergies?” Tim asked Maurice, who nodded.

“Everybody I know around here. Malcolm takes credit for scripting Lucky’s life and after he has a few drinks, he likes to tell the tales.”

“Okay, somebody’s trying to mess with you, scare you a little with the superstitions, and maybe embarrass or expose you as a liar. Or somebody is playing a more serious game and tried to
murder
you or at least let you die? And now what, blackmail you? Same somebody? Two different people?” asked Jane, not expecting an answer. The threats against Lucky seemed curiously out of order.

“You boys got something more to do before we lock up?” said Lucky.

Tim and Maurice, taking the hint, headed back to the set to finish photographing the arrangement before leaving for the night.

Lucky didn’t try to answer Jane’s question. Jane could see Lucky looked exhausted. No amount of Botox could keep his face from sagging into a well-lined map. Jane stood and announced they should all call it a night.

“We need to call the police, Lucky,” said Jane. “At the very least, this is blackmail and blackmail is a crime.”

“Not yet,” said Lucky.

“You’re not thinking of paying any money?”

“Haven’t got much left. Besides, I don’t want to pay for what I can’t remember. But something else,” said Lucky. “I don’t want police involved for the same reason. What if I did something terrible? The note says ‘statute of limitations,’ which means I might have broken the law. I might go to jail for something. I can’t call cops in until I know what I did.”

“Or what somebody is trying to make you think you did,” said Jane. “How many people know you can’t remember most of your childhood?”

Lucky shrugged. “My therapist, you know, Belinda. And my assistant Brenda knows everything. Malcolm knows, too, and from what I gather tonight, that means anybody might know.”

“Do you have a security guard on tonight?” asked Jane.

Lucky shook his head.

Was he kidding? This was a guy who was so afraid of being swarmed by fans he faked a food allergy, but he didn’t hire security at the studio with all of this equipment, with access to his office?

“Tomorrow we hire someone. Either someone from your crew goes on all-night duty or we get someone from town. I’m thinking maybe someone from here; no ties to your production company might be the best idea.”

Lucky agreed that they would hire someone in the morning. In the meantime, Jane went around flicking on lights in various spots and turning on a radio that someone had at their desk. Might as well make the place look like someone was there 24/7. Jane also found switches for outside lights at the rear of the building and turned them on. No harm making the place look lived-in and watched.

Maurice and Tim were also parked in the side lot, so the four of them made a final sweep of the space, then left together, locking up after themselves.

Later, after driving Lucky back to the hotel, making him promise to stay put, carefully handling the blackmail letter with a handkerchief and slipping it into an envelope, Jane returned to her parents’ house and called Oh. Explaining everything that had happened since they had said good-bye in front of the Evanston house earlier in the day, Jane repeated her questions.

“Same somebody? Two different people?” she asked, hesitating just long enough for Oh to clear his throat. “But,” added Jane, before her partner had the chance to speak, “why would someone try to kill Lucky, then blackmail him? I mean you can’t blackmail a dead man, so if the object was blackmail money all along, it was someone who knew he wasn’t allergic.

“And,” she continued, “there are so many people who might want to murder Lucky. He is not beloved by his staff or by anyone else as far as I can tell. And as far as blackmailing him? I’m not sure he really cares who knows he’s got a made-up story. Wouldn’t he have fired Malcolm a long time ago? Malcolm tells everything he knows to just about everyone he meets.”

“Mrs. Wheel, I believe you just said something that is true and not true at the same time,” said Oh.

“You can’t blackmail a dead man? That’s true,” said Jane. “So what’s not … oh. Unless the dead man is Herman Mullet. This is about something Lucky did as Herman Mullet.”

“Have you read the book by the memory expert yet? The one Mr. Miller is so fond of?”

“I’ve just skimmed parts of it,” said Jane. “Lucky has visited her as a therapist so he quotes her a lot and I have read her other books.…”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” Mrs. Wheel. “I’m just curious about what she says in terms of fact-finding. I have good resources at my disposal, but Lucky Miller seems to have money and could hire someone who also has resources to investigate his past.”

Jane agreed and after hanging up, she remembered that Lucky made a big deal of wanting to find out what Nellie knew. Why not just look up a few records? Jane flipped through the numbers in her phone until she got to
W
.

“And this is why you don’t ever push
DELETE
,” said Jane out loud, clicking on the number for Mary Wainwright.

“Jane Wheel?” Mary answered the phone by reading her caller ID. “What a great surprise! Are you in town for the community theater auditions?
Music Man!
Can you believe it? Do you think I’m too old for Marian? Chuck isn’t even trying out for Harold Hill, he’s going right for the mayor which I think is a shame, since he has a lovely voice and you don’t really need to dance if you’re Harold, I mean, you just sort of have to march and prance … oh and maybe he’s in the ‘Shipoopi’ number, do you remember? Because then I guess you’d have to be able to learn some steps and between you and me, he has two left feet. What’s up?”

Jane had no idea how to answer Mary, an old high school friend who was now the only real estate broker she knew in Kankakee. They had had an odd, and according to Mary, “curiously bonding” experience in a recent community theater production, but Jane wasn’t eager to reprise. She decided to come right to the point, since she guessed that Mary wasn’t really all that interested in her take on who should play Marian the Librarian.

“Mary, can you look up a few houses in Kankakee and tell me the history of their ownership?”

“Sure,” said Mary, switching to a much more professional voice just in case Jane happened to be a client. “Addresses?”

Jane gave her the addresses of the houses Lucky had pointed out as the ones he might have lived in. She was able to convey a certain amount of urgency and that got her out of a longer conversation. She did promise to have coffee with Mary soon, but conveniently did not mention she was in town indefinitely. If Mary thought Jane still lived in Evanston? All the better.

“I knew you’d come back. Everyone comes back,” said Mary right before she hung up.

Jane could hear Don and Nellie’s voices coming from their bedroom. Since they had never been the kind of parents who discussed things out of her earshot or her brother, Michael’s, Jane was surprised to hear the low gravelly mutter of voices discussing something privately. Although Nellie never gave up any secrets of her own, she wasn’t shy about saying anything that popped into her mind—unfiltered and uncut—in front of her children. She was especially free with opinions and advice, most often negative and uninvited.

Jane left the bedroom hallway and quietly entered the dark kitchen. Switching on the light, she began rummaging for anything fast and filling. When had she last eaten? She saw the containers in the refrigerator from Beatrice’s fancy picnic neatly lined up on the shelf. Right, she had lunch in Evanston but it was hours and hours ago. She removed all of the cartons and started opening them, adding bread and cheese to her buffet. She poured iced tea and once again noted there was a bottle of expensive champagne looking like a stranger in a strange land on the top shelf. She picked it up and this time, saw the tag attached to the neck of the bottle.
Happy Anniversary
read the tag. And it was signed
Carl.
It was September. Her parents’ wedding anniversary was in the spring. Jane had sent a card and flowers, hadn’t she? Had the bottle been here the last time she had scrounged in this refrigerator? Hard to believe she’d miss seeing a giant bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

“Why do you keep staring at the bottle?” asked Nellie.

Jane shook her head and replaced it.

“Are you and Dad hungry? I assume you had dinner,” began Jane.

“When you assume you make an ‘ass out of u and me,’” said Nellie.