Soap on a Rope

by Barbara Silkstone

  “It’s uncomfortable to talk about.” Lizzy hesitated but then began in almost a whisper. “Grams once shared a secret with me. It concerned a performance by the Masked Dangler.”

  Lizzy looked around as if afraid to be overheard. “She described a thin masked man in tights who performed in the Starfish Cove arena. It was sort of a high-wire act without the wire.”

  Lizzy’s voice quivered. “Two women in black bodysuits strapped his ankles into a harness. The Masked Dangler was lifted by some sort of machine to the tippy top of the arena dome. He dangled there by his feet, head down, and arms spread wide.”

  “That could give you a killer headache.” I still didn’t get the connection.

  “Grams said at that point in the act the masked man was to fold his body at the waist, grab his legs, and work his hands up to his ankles until he was upright holding onto the rope with one hand. Then he’d lean over and unfasten the bindings on his feet.”

  “And this was memorable because?”

  “The Houdini-like trick was a record for the height of the dome and risk involved. I’m sure greater stunts have been staged but for Starfish Cove the dangle was huge.”

  The attendant called for boarding. There weren’t many passengers and seats weren’t assigned so we took the first ones, tucked our totes overhead and buckled our seatbelts.

  Lizzy turned away from me fixing her gaze out the window.

  “If you want to talk about your father, I’m here for you. If you want silence, I understand.”

  The passengers shuffled past, most carrying briefcases or laptop bags. The business of America rolled on. Everyday living was hard to comprehend when overwhelmed by personal tragedy. What was going through Lizzy’s mind? I lost my father when I was a teenager. That cold ache flooded my heart anew. Because of her relationship with her father, her pain had to be different but no less devastating.

  The attendant closed the door with a whomp! The plane engines began to wind. We taxied. The engines roared and we lifted off. “Our flying weather today is perfect,” the pilot announced. “Sit back and enjoy the flight. We land in forty-five minutes.”

  I leaned toward Lizzy. “Why did Grams tell you about this Masked Dangler and why such a secret?”

  “A combination of things but the shooting sealed the deal.”

  “Shooting? You mean people were getting murdered in Starfish Cove before I arrived?”

  “Not a murder but an attempt. Grams said at this, his final performance, while the masked magician dangled high, arms spread, entrancing the crowd, two loud gunshots broke the silence.”

  She fiddled with a strand of hair, twisting it into a curl and then letting go. Hair fussing was her substitute for smoking.

  “After the immediate shock of the noise wore off, some of the audience laughed. They thought it was part of the act.”

  She blew out a puff of air. “But the Dangler was bleeding. The arena crew quickly lowered him to the ground. People started running, stampeding over each other to get out of the place.”

  “You said attempted murder. What happened to him?”

  “He lived but the story haunted me. Other magicians hated the Masked Dangler. He exposed the secrets behind their tricks and hurt their careers. The police and the hospital kept his identity hush-hush for his safety.”

  “But now someone is challenging him to a showdown? He must be kind of long in the tooth to execute high wire stunts. Why would he care if his identity were disclosed now? He’s probably a harmless old man—maybe doesn’t even live in the area.”

  “The Masked Dangler’s not harmless. He’s an egomaniac who retired holding the record for arena-dangling. It’s the one award he dare not brag about.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Lizzy looked at me without answering then lowered her head. She continued to stare at her knees. “This is the secret part of what Grams told me. My father was that masked magician.”

  Dingler was the Dangler!

  Chapter 4

  The flight was as smooth as the pilot promised and we landed without incident. We went straight from the plane through the terminal to the parking lot.

  Lizzy’s VW bug, affectionately named Squeak—as in Bubble and Squeak—sat in the slot where we left it. We tossed our totes into the backseat.

  She handed me the keys. “You drive. “I’m not up to it.”

  I wanted to say, “Drive this round-fendered thing that I can’t possibly judge where the bumpers are?” Instead, I said, “No problem.” I cheered myself with internal talk about the easy drive to sleepy Starfish Cove where a traffic jam was as rare as steak tartar. No problem was probably an accurate response. My fingers were crossed.

  The trip went as smoothly as the flight until we reached the Old Town section of Starfish Cove. Ahead on the right was Nelson Dingler’s six-story office building built when Old Town was new.

  Lady Fortune continued to smile on me as I spotted a vacant parking space in front of the entrance. We’d be up in Dingler’s apartment in a jiffy. Fortune’s smile turned to a snarl when I realized the space was not a pull-in space. I had to parallel park.

  Curbside parking was not one of my many talents—let alone in a car I never drove before. I glanced at Lizzy who hadn’t spoken a word since we left the airport. She stared vacantly at the dashboard. I wasn’t sure she even knew we’d arrived. I couldn’t ask her to park the bubble-like car. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head—the better to see the darn curb.

  I stopped next to the car in front of the vacant space, put it in reverse, and looked in the rearview mirror. I already had a line of three cars waiting for me to get out of the way. Where did they all come from? Did they lurk in alleys hoping for a good laugh at a non-parallel parker’s expense?

  The right rear wheel bumped the curb. I was in. I was about to congratulate myself on a job well done when I saw a third of the bug was still blocking the traffic lane and the line of waiting cars had doubled to six. A couple of drivers tooted their horns. Darn. I’d cut the wheels too sharply.

  I turned the wheel to the right, pulled forward, stopped beside the car in front of the parking space, and repeated the backing up routine. This time I ended up perpendicular to the curb with half of the VW blocking the traffic lane. The line of waiting cars extended nearly to the cross street. More horns blew.

  Was there a carnival in town, or a shell collectors’ convention? The cars were multiplying faster than bunnies in spring.

  A couple jogging on the sidewalk behind me stopped. The male jogger said, “Pull out again. I’ll direct you in.”

  Sweat soaked through my bangs. I brushed them aside. Utter humiliation. I’m from New York City. We don’t parallel park in the City. We have parking garages and valets—worth every penny.

  The female jogger got in front of the bug and held out her hands when she thought I’d gone far enough. I started backing up and looked in the rearview mirror. The male jogger behind me gave a signal by turning his hand in a circle. But what did he mean? A mirror reverses images. Should I turn the wheel the way his hand was circling or the opposite way?

  When I finished, the VW was again perpendicular to the curb. The line waiting now extended past the cross street, blocking the intersection. Horns started blaring from the cars at the intersection too. I pulled my sunglasses from the top of my head and covered my eyes hoping no one would recognize me.

  The male jogger trotted up to the female jogger in front of me and said, “This is all your fault. You stopped her too soon.”

  “My fault?” she said. “You gave her bad directions and the only reason you stopped anyway is because she’s pretty.”

  “The fact that she’s pretty had nothing to do with it. I just wanted—”

  “See you admit you noticed she’s pretty.” She pulled her belly pack from her waist

  and started whapping him with it.

  If they didn’t get some emergency family therapy they might add to the Starfish Cove body count.


  A heavy-duty woman charged off the sidewalk and thumped the male jogger in the shoulder. “You’re not going to abuse this woman while I’m around.”

  The female jogger whapped her with the belly pack. “Leave my man alone!”

  A guy the size of a rhino came out from between two parked cars and reached for the belly pack.

  The male jogger stepped forward. “Get away from her.”

  The blaring horns got so loud I could no longer hear the combatants, but I could see them jawing at each other, blocking my path. Please let me drive away. I didn’t care how far away the next parking spot might be.

  I tooted my horn twice. The quarrelsome crew stepped onto the curb their mouths still yapping. I looked over my shoulder, signaled to pull out, and slid the VW between the nearest cars as if it were a greased pig.

  Five parked cars down I saw a space. I sensed the collective groan from the drivers behind me. I had one shot to get it right. The VW cooperated fitting itself effortlessly into the spot. Okay, it was a space large enough for a tourist bus but still a minor miracle. I patted the dashboard as I shut off the engine. “Nice job, Squeak.”

  Once the parade of unreasonably irate drivers passed by, I popped out and ran around to the passenger side, opened the door, and shook Lizzy’s shoulder to get her out of her trance. She looked up and said, “We’re here already?”

  “Yeah, it was a piece of cake.”

  Chapter 5

  My heart became heavy as I followed Lizzy into the building. Her father leased out the first two floors to the Pocket Change Bank. The next three floors were mostly single-practice lawyers’ offices and a group of gynecologists. Nelson’s apartment took up the entire sixth floor with his private rose garden on the roof.

  Lizzy pushed the button marked Penthouse.

  A few months earlier Dingler received a jolt to his ego. With the help of some men in weird T-shirts, Irma—wife number four—ran off taking with her all his furnishings including his treasured original painting by Frederick Remington. All accomplished while he was playing golf—Dingler, not Remington.

  The haul amounted to a sizable take, especially for a brief marriage. Rumor was the furnishings became Irma’s down payment for membership in a religious cult. According to Grams—also the source of the rumor—the members believed they were cosmically connected to a sister planet in one of the astrological constellations.

  Probably no more absurd than Puff immersing herself in physics.

  The elevator lurched to a halt on the sixth floor.

  A crime scene tape decorated the cream-colored door of Nelson Dingler’s residence. Lizzy knocked twice, then we stepped hesitantly into the huge living room—dining room combination with its polished stone floor. Gold was the dominant color. The overall effect was a honey-amber glow.

  More of the yellow crime scene tape streamed about as if the room had been toilet papered. Fingerprint powder dusted the floor, the furnishings, and even drifted down from the high vaulted ceiling. The forensic team must have run amuck.

  Kal stuck his head out the open doors directly across. “Here in the kitchen!”

  We walked into a room that reflected Dingler’s inner self. Plain white counters and matching enameled cabinets, not a wall decoration or personal touch in sight. Also no coffeemaker, toaster, juicer, or other usual small appliance. Irma must have run off with everything that wasn’t bolted down.

  Grams sat at a square four-person table. The tiny birdlike lady appeared half her normal size. She wore a bright pink retro dress, with a string of pastel beads around her neck and no gloves. She dabbed at her red swollen eyes with shaky hands. When she saw Lizzy she struggled to get up, catching her foot on the chair leg.

  Kal caught Grams before she fell. He passed her to Lizzy’s embrace and both women broke into tears. After a bit of sobbing, a lot less than Peroni-style mourning, we all took seats around the table. Kal’s part-time assistant Robbie set a glass of water in front of Grams then stood in the corner watching us—concern on his young face.

  Death’s aura draped itself over me. A chill inched up my spine.

  Grams bobbed her head at Kal and said in a choked voice, “Please tell the girls what happened.”

  He cast a kindly look at Grams before turning his attention to Lizzy. “We’re here rather than the station because your grandmother has been through enough.” He paused. “Your father is in the medical examiner’s care.”

  A nicer way of saying he’s on a slab in the morgue. I trampled over his considerate words. “You said something on the phone that didn’t make sense—the cause of death was unnaturally natural?”

  Lizzy pulled her chair close to Grams and put her arm around her.

  “Grams found him hanging by his feet from the chandelier in the dining room.”

  “Let me tell it!” Grams said, giving her nose a short blow with a soggy tissue. “You’re takin’ too long.”

  She struggled from Lizzy’s grip and refolded her miniature hands on the table. “I was working with Ivy at your cold cream shop when I got a call from that busybody assistant of Dr. Hudson’s—the one who saw those cult nuts helping Irma carry off all of Nelson’s things.”

  Grams took a deep breath and continued. “She said there was a heck of a racket coming from his apartment. Sounded like an argument. I called Nelson. He didn’t answer his cellphone. He wasn’t at the Yacht Club and they said his boat was in the marina. I hightailed it down here to check on him. No matter how old your child is, he’s still your child.”

  She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I have a key for emergencies—never thought I’d live to use it. I opened the door and found my son hanging from the dining room chandelier by his feet. Someone had tied his ankles and hung him upside down like a dead goose.”

  Lizzy handed Grams a fresh tissue. She took it and pressed it to her nose.

  “My son was no angel. Matter of fact he was a beast, but even a beast didn’t deserve this. His face was blue.” She let out a long sigh. “I tried to lift him a bit, so maybe he could breathe. I didn’t have the strength but I knew when I touched him that he was gone.” She let out a long sigh.

  “Grams called me,” Kal said. “Robbie and I arrived within minutes. But Mr. Dingler had indeed passed. The M.E.’s initial diagnosis is a stroke caused by the blood rushing to his head.”

  “Unnaturally natural,” I said.

  Pieces came into focus like one of those dot pictures that you have to stare at to see. I held my tongue not wanting to betray Lizzy’s confidence. Nelson Dingler dangled to death. But why would he hang his old portly carcass by his ankles in his dining room? Practicing his trick to answer the challenge?

  Kal said something, but the hamsters in the wheel of my mind were racing and his words failed to register. Did Nelson Dingler’s death have anything to do with the ad in the Silverfish Gazette? He didn’t tie his own ankles together, lasso the chandelier, and then hoist himself up twenty feet—or did he?

  “Did anyone in the building see anything?” I asked. “It would take muscle or magic to lift him that high.”

  “Nobody saw or heard anything,” Kal said. “That’s why I need to know if you have any ideas, Lizzy. I’d ask you if your father had any enemies but…”

  “Do ducks quack?” Lizzy said. “Sorry Grams.”

  Grams put her hand over Lizzy’s. “It’s okay sweetie. There’s nothing you can tell me about your father that I don’t already know.”

  As much as I wanted to ask about the magician’s challenge in the Silverfish Gazette, my lips were sealed by my promise to Lizzy.

  But Kal needed to know in order to catch the killer. How could I steer him in the right direction without betraying Lizzy and Gram’s secret?

  Chapter 6

  Lizzy sat with her arm around Grams, neither crying but their eyes were moist. I stepped behind them, scooched down, and put my hands on their shoulders “I’m so sorry.”

  I kissed Grams on the cheek. “If t
here is anything I can do.” Cliché but timeless. I couldn’t bring Nelson back, but I could help find his killer.

  Standing up, I beckoned Kal to follow me. Lizzy and Grams were lost in their silence. We slipped out of the kitchen. I said, “As your unpaid, unofficial investigator and criminal profiler can I inspect the crime scene?”

  He hesitated and shrugged. “Your thoughts about the scene are where your involvement stops. Dingler was a big deal in this town and I don’t need you amping up the media.”

  Hmmm, was he a little testy because of the Silverfish Gazette coverage of the last Starfish Cove homicide? That was months ago. He should have recovered by now.

  He led me through the apartment. We left a trail of footprints through the fine fingerprint powder. The stuff was everywhere.

  I fought back a sneeze. Even the Magoo brothers—Starfish Cove’s befuddled forensic team—weren’t this sloppy.

  When we reached the open-plan dining room, I noticed a tall ladder marked Starfish Cove PD standing against the wall but didn’t comment on it. “What’s with all the powder? The Magoos?”

  “Yes. No. Sort of.” Kal’s face reddened. “I helped make the mess. Tim climbed their ladder to dust the chandelier while Tom went to their van to get a hand-vac they left behind. Tim forgot to take the powder up the ladder with him and asked me to toss it to him.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. It was the largest container of the stuff I’ve ever seen. I forgot to check the screw-on lid before I pitched it. He didn’t catch it cleanly. It smacked the top rung, the lid popped off just as the air conditioner kicked on and blew powder throughout the apartment.”

  I got the giggles. If he ever heard about my parallel parking traffic jam, I had a counterpunch.

  “Hey! It’s not that funny.”

  I got myself under control and said, “What’s your theory?”

  “You’re here to tell me what you think, not vice versa.”

  “If you keep this up, I’m going to demand a twenty percent raise.”