Sleight of Paw (30 page)

Maggie looked thoughtfully at me. “So, you want to do this alphabetically or by location?”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

She stuck the key in the ignition and started the car. “Nope.”

I was at a loss for words.

Maggie smiled as she backed out of the driveway. “Look. You’re right,” she said. “I think Marcus is an excellent detective, but he’s probably already handed the file on Ruby’s case on to the county attorney. It’s going to take more than just the possibility of there being another truck or even three to get Ruby out of this mess. This is a long shot, but it’s better than no shot.”

She glanced at my list on the dashboard. “We may as well go to the Brick first,” she said. “Did you bring a picture of Eric?”

I pulled a snapshot out of my purse. It had been taken at the library picnic. Eric was at the grill, squinting into the sun. I held it up and Maggie glanced at it briefly. “That’s good,” she said.

I’d heard that tone in her voice before. “You have a plan, don’t you?” I asked. Watching her, I could feel the energy as all the neurons fired in her brain.

“I have a couple of ideas.”

That wasn’t good. The last time Maggie had one of her ideas we’d ended up hijacking Roma and her SUV. Part of Maggie was laid-back and Zen. She truly believed that what you put out into the world would come back to you, positive or negative. She thought Matt Lauer from the
Today
show was sexy.

On the other hand, she could keep a secret better than anyone I’d ever met. And she’d seen every Dirty Harry movie Clint Eastwood had ever made, more times than even she could remember.

“Watch for the sign,” Maggie said once we were on the highway out of town, headed for Minneapolis–St. Paul. “The last time I was by, the B and the R were burned out in the sign.”

“So what I’m really looking for is the Ick,” I said.

“Probably in more ways than one.”

The Brick was a strip club. It was dark and loud and we had to pay a cover charge to get inside. Maggie put her mouth close to my ear. “Follow my lead and try to look uncomfortable.”

I was uncomfortable. There was a woman dancing on the T-shaped stage. At least she had all her clothes on—“all” being a hot pink, feather-trimmed bikini top and matching bottom. She actually looked like she was having fun. She did a slow twirl around the pole, and I caught sight of her face.

“I know her,” I said, grabbing Maggie’s arm. “She brings her little boy to story time.”

Maggie looked past me. “Yeah, that’s Jenna. She’s in my yoga class.”

“I didn’t know she was an exotic dancer.”

“She’s not,” Maggie said. “It’s amateur night. If we’re here very long you’ll probably see some other people you know.” She climbed on a stool and smiled down the bar at the female bartender.

I took the stool next to her and turned my back to the stage. There was a long list of people I had no interest in seeing in feathers and spike heels.

It wasn’t at all hard to follow Maggie’s instructions to look embarrassed. I kept picturing people I knew in town up on the small stage. Abigail. Lita. Rebecca. How would you look someone in the eye after seeing her swing around a pole while wearing next to nothing?

“You want wine,” Maggie whispered as the bartender approached.

“Hi. What can I get you?” she asked. She was about Maggie’s age, blond hair in a ponytail, serious dark-framed glasses, and arms that suggested a regular workout with weights.

“I’ll just have coffee,” Maggie said. “I’m driving.”

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” I said.

“No problem,” the bartender, whose name was Zoe, said. She put a basket of pretzels between us. I grabbed one and popped it in my mouth. If I was going to have to drink, I wanted to eat something.

The pretzel was good, crisp and lightly salted. The wine was not good. I had another pretzel.

Maggie had paid for our drinks and was talking to the bartender, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. I saw her eyes flick sideways a couple of times at my glass. I was guessing she wanted me to drink a little more or at least look like I was. I took a swallow and chased the taste with a couple of pretzels.

I wasn’t sure what Maggie’s plan was, but it didn’t seem to be working. I was tired, the music was too loud and I was afraid of what I might see if I turned in the direction of the stage. I was about to tell her this had all been a bad idea when she looked at me and said, “You got his picture?”

The picture. I’d put it back in my purse. I pulled it out. Maggie took the photo from me and slid it across the bar. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Did you see this guy?”

The bartender studied the picture, then looked up at Maggie. “What did he do?”

“Well,” Maggie said, holding out both hands. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

I felt my face getting red. I ducked my head, took another drink and followed it with pretzel.

Zoe smiled knowingly and looked at Eric’s photograph again. “No, he wasn’t here. It was very quiet last Wednesday night because of that auction.”

She gave me a look of . . . pity? Sympathy? I wasn’t sure which. Then she turned to Maggie. “He wasn’t here. Is that a good thing?”

“Maybe,” Maggie said. “But everybody has to be somewhere, so maybe not. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem,” she said. There were a couple of guys at the far end of the bar, trying to get her attention. She grabbed another basket of pretzels and headed toward them.

Maggie picked up her coffee cup, drained it and set it down again. She looked at my wineglass. “You want one for the road?”

I grimaced. “No. I think the windshield-washer fluid would taste better.”

“Let’s go, then,” she said, slipping out of her seat.

We were halfway to the door when Maggie caught my arm and said, “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.” She was gurgling with laughter.

I put a hand up to the side of my face. “I’m not looking.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm away from my cheek. “If you don’t look I’m going to describe what I just saw in teeny, tiny detail.”

I took a quick look at the stage. Then a longer one. Then I grabbed Maggie’s sleeve and dragged her out of the Brick so fast she tripped over a step and almost landed in a heap of snow in front of the building.

“So was it?” she asked, one arm wrapped around a railing post so she could get her balance.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Probably. I think so.”

She started to laugh. She laughed so hard her feet started to slide on the icy parking lot and she had to wrap her other arm around the stair post. From a distance she looked drunk.

I glanced back at the building. I could hear the music—Bon Jovi belting out “You Give Love a Bad Name”—and I could still see the dancer in my mind’s eye. A black corset, fishnets, heels and a harlequin feather-trimmed mask, all worn by Mary, the kickboxing grandmother who worked at the library and hand-made all those luscious pies for the Winterfest supper.

Because it was her. The mask didn’t hide enough of her face. Maggie was still laughing, hugging the stair post like it was a giant teddy bear.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “I work with Mary. What am I supposed to say when I see her tomorrow? Nice corset?”

“Well, it was a very nice corset,” Maggie laughed. “Where do you think she got it? Not around here.”

I started for the car. “I’m not asking her, so don’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t think you were such a prude, Kathleen,” Maggie said as we got in the bug.

“I’m not a prude,” I said. “And what people do for fun is their own business. It’s just that Mary was the last person I expected to see in a strip club. She’s someone’s grandmother.”

“She looked hot,” Maggie said. “All the kickboxing means she’s in great shape. Why shouldn’t she flaunt her booty once in a while?”

I glared at her. “Thanks for putting that image in my mind.”

One thing was for sure: When I saw Mary at the library tomorrow I wasn’t going to ask her how her evening went.

W
e repeated the process at the next bar, The Hilltop, only with a waitress and with the same result. Now that I knew my role as cuckolded girlfriend, I played it up a little, looking morose and sighing. Apparently Maggie thought I was turning it up a bit too much. She elbowed me in the ribs. Hard.

It didn’t matter. The place had been deadly quiet Wednesday night and Eric hadn’t been in.

At Barry’s Hat, which was more of a jazz place than a dive bar, Maggie charmed the male bartender. It was a side of Mags I’d never seen before. I couldn’t exactly figure out what she was doing. It was nothing blatant.

The guy had gone from businesslike to goofy in about three minutes. By now I had the wronged-woman routine down pat. When Maggie pulled out Eric’s photo, all I had to do was think about the quick glimpse I’d gotten of Mary starting to undo the laces on the front of her corset, and my cheeks burned.

We weren’t any luckier at Barry’s Hat. The smitten bartender even had one of the waitresses look at the picture. No one remembered seeing Eric on Wednesday night.

As we were standing up to leave, the bartender asked, “Have you tried the after-hours club back that way?” He pointed the way we’d come. “The Drink,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Really creative name. Your guy might be doing his drinking there.”

He gave Maggie directions and she gave him a smile that probably made him forget his own name for a moment. “Come back in sometime,” he said.

“I just might,” she said.

“Where did you learn to flirt like that?” I asked.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was just talking.”

“Of course you were,” I said, pulling on my gloves. We hadn’t found out anything about Eric, but I’d had an educational night. I’d learned that Mary had some smooth moves as a stripper, and Maggie had some smooth moves period.

“You want to go check out this Drink place? We’re going to pretty much be driving by it, anyway.”

I leaned my head against the back of the seat. “Why not?”

The parking lot of the Drink was jammed with cars. Maggie squeezed the bug in at the end of a row. I hoped she’d be able to back it out when we were ready to leave.

The Drink was noisy, smelled like smoke and bodies and was jammed with people. Maggie scanned the space.

“How are we going to do this?” I shouted.

She turned toward me but kept her eyes on the people dancing and drinking. “I don’t know.” Then something caught her eye. She started to smile. “This is going to work,” she said. “This is going to work just fine. Come on.” She started making her way through the crowd.

I kept my eyes on the back of her head and followed. She stopped beside a young woman with hair the color of lime Jell-O and a nose ring. “Jamie?” she asked.

The young woman, whose little apron marked her as a staff member, turned. When she saw Maggie, her face split with a huge grin. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Maggie tipped her head toward me. “Helping a friend.”

After Barry’s Hat she’d put Eric’s photo in her pocket. Now she pulled it out. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Was he here?”

“What did he do?” Jamie asked suspiciously.

“It’s more like who,” Maggie said. She looked from the waitress to me and back again.

Jamie looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry.” Then she took the picture from Maggie. “He was here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. He was a good tipper and he got really, really drunk.”

Maggie and I exchanged looks.

“But he wasn’t with any girl. He came in by himself.”

My heart sank.

She gave me an apologetic half smile. “He seemed really nice. Way nicer than his jerk of a friend.”

Maggie held up a hand. “Wait a second. I thought you said he came in by himself.”

“He did,” she said. “His friend was waiting for him.”

“What did the friend look like?” I asked.

“He was cute.” A guy two tables away snapped his fingers at her. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she called. She turned back to us. “Like I said, cute. Bit of stubble, dark hair all slicked back in a ponytail and one of those jackets sailors wear.”

Maggie looked blankly at me.

“A peacoat?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s it. But he was a jerk. Figured he knew way more than me because I’m just a dumb waitress. And he stiffed me on a tip.”

“Thanks, Jamie,” Maggie said. “Any time you want to come for a few classes, they’re on me.”

She gave Maggie a one-armed hug. “Thanks. I might do that.”

Finger-Snapping Guy was at it again. Jamie made a face. “Your guy’s nice, you know, for what it’s worth.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks.”

We elbowed our way back out and slid across the parking lot to the car.

“How do you know her?” I asked Maggie.

“Jamie? She was in my tai chi class last winter. She has great balance. I think her hair was blue then, though.”

I waited while she negotiated the car out of the cramped parking spot before I said anything else. “Any idea who the other guy was?” I asked.

“No,” Maggie said. “I was hoping you did.”

“Problem is, whoever it was doesn’t even have to live in Mayville anymore. All Susan knew was that Eric used to be our mystery guy’s sponsor.”

Maggie nodded. “Stubble, a ponytail and a peacoat isn’t much to go on.”

“Maybe Roma will come up with something as far as the trucks,” I said.

“What if you just laid it all out for Eric?”

“He won’t tell Susan who he was with,” I said. “What makes you think he’ll tell me? And when I did talk to him I didn’t get anywhere.”

“What kind of support group is this where you can cover for someone who’s committed a crime?” Maggie asked, flicking the switch for the heater up a notch. The inside of the car began to get warmer.