Soap on a Rope

by Barbara Silkstone

  I scrunched my face for Lizzy’s benefit. Where Jaimie was concerned it was easier to pretend to go along.

  “Now back to old Nelson Dingler. How can you not think of money at a time like this? Your father owes you make-up money and I don’t mean in a cosmetic way. He treated you shabby. When’s the reading of his will? I’ll go with you to be sure you get your share.”

  Jaimie Toast was all heart. No soul—just a heart—of stone.

  She rummaged through the lip gloss display oblivious to the looks Lizzy and I exchanged. “Rumor is Nelson committed suicide, hung himself.” She snuck a look at us gauging our reaction.

  “They’re investigating.” Lizzy said. A knot appeared under her cheekbone as she clenched her jaw.

  “So Miss Olive, you and your special friend, Officer Kal, tag-teaming this one?”

  Jaimie could be amusing at times—this was not one of those times. I stepped behind the counter, tucked my tote underneath, and proceeded to cut her off. “Lizzy just lost her father. Have a little respect. Are you here to buy or to snark?”

  She breezed past my dig. “Word on the street is you’re out of lavender soap. I guess just a jar of your magical cream will do. By the way the director of the Golden Aches Spa wanted to know what I was using on my face. He thinks it’s nothing short of a miracle.”

  She glanced up and down the counter top. “Hey! Where’s your mirrors?”

  Not about to tell her we’d been shoplifted, I said, “We sent them out for sanitizing.” It was a fibberoo but she believed it.

  “Makes sense.” She leaned over the counter turning her face right and left to catch her reflection in the glass top. “I do look good. You should consider talking to this guy from the Golden Aches. He could put you on the map.”

  “Thanks, but we’re on the map in Starfish Cove and for now that suits us!”

  She plunked down a credit card, while Lizzy packaged her cold cream. “If it wasn’t suicide and if—I’m just saying if—someone bumped off Nelson, I’d look at the sharks vying for his seat as Commodore of the Yacht Club. Need I remind you every robuggy who held that post has died in office? Just saying. Those who ignore history are bound to get killed—or something like that.’”

  Robuggy? Alice in Wonderland would have envied Jaimie’s vocabulary.

  She took her pink package from Lizzy. “Chip and I are thinking of having a housewarming in April. Keep the month open cause we haven’t picked the date yet.” She grabbed her bag by the handles and wiggled her manicured fingers. “Toodle-loo! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  That left the field wide open.

  She swanned to the door bumping into Nancy Nemo who barged into the shop like a bull. The owner of Crabby Nancy’s Fried Fish didn’t favor Jaimie with a greeting but then again, Nancy wasn’t big on hellos, goodbyes, or anything in between.

  Our new customer stomped to the counter. “I’m here for a jar of your cold cream. My face is cracking like an over-fried hushpuppy—must be from being out on my boat. Bound to get worse,” she spoke in rapid fire. “I’m thinking of sailing to Nevis Island. Plan on being gone for six or eight months. Better give me two jars.”

  Nancy gave Lizzy a smirk. “Dave’s going to have his hands full running the restaurant without me.” She lowered her voice, looked to the right and then the left. “Anyone else here besides you two?”

  “Just us.” Nancy had confided in me in the past. Though considerably older she brought out my maternal instincts. She could do with psychological sessions and a facial, but I wasn’t about to volunteer for either. The sailing restaurateur could be bull-headed and scary at times.

  “I heard about Nelson Dingler,” she whispered. “Peculiar way to knock somebody off.”

  Obviously Nancy’s rumor was more accurate than Jaimie’s. I said, “Any rumors about who did it?”

  She shook her head. “More worms in this killing than a bait box. But I’ll leave it up to you gals—seeing how you’re the ones with the Sherlock Holmes reputations. One piece of advice—keep in mind the turnover of Yacht Club Commodores is like flipping fishcakes—fast and furious.” She laughed but then converted her chuckle into a cough.

  “Sorry Lizzy. I wasn’t laughing about your father.” She leaned in so close her nose almost touched mine. “There’s one guy you need to keep an eye on. Rex Marchmain. He hired a bodyguard last week and kicked off his campaign this morning. He’s looking to replace Dingler as Commodore.”

  Hmmm. Two rumormongers back-to-back tying it to the commodoreship. Maybe it was worth considering. “Was Marchmain buddies with Nelson? There was no sign of forced entry.”

  Nancy snorted. “Lizzy grew up around these would-be Commodores. Did you ever see any two of them get along? Buddies? Hah!”

  “They’re like feral fish,” Lizzy said. “They’d devour each other if given a chance.”

  “Exactly. No love lost. But keep an eye on Rex as I won’t be here to help you. I saw him at the marina this morning. He hired a commercial artist to design a new logo for the back of his yacht with the word Commodore written in gold below the medallion. Pretty cocky.”

  “So you’re really taking off?” I asked.

  “Sure am!” Nancy said. “Getting outta Dodge before the would-be Commodores turn the Yacht Club into the OK Corral. I thought about having a T-shirt made that said No Interest in Being Commodore, but heading out to sea will be better for my health.”

  “Are you going to be safe sailing by yourself? Isn’t Nevis Island somewhere out in the Caribbean?” Lizzy frowned. “This is pretty sudden news. How long have you been planning this adventure?”

  “I’ll be hunky-dory. Running a restaurant leaves you with a craving and it ain’t for fried fish. I hunger for peace and quiet. Yesterday it hit me. I’m not getting any younger. If I don’t go now, I may never make it.” If she smirked any harder her lips would pop off.

  “I’ve left papers with my lawyer transferring Crabby Nancy’s Fried Fish to Dave if I’m not back within a year. Only thing—Dave can’t change the name of my place. There should always be a Crabby Nancy in Starfish Cove. Other than that, it’s his from the barstools to the iced tea spoons with access to the bank accounts and the bills.”

  “Dave never mentioned anything to me. He doesn’t know does he?”

  “He’s about to find out. Don’t warn him. Let me have the pleasure of telling him.”

  She gave Lizzy a wink. “You’re going to see even less of him, now kid. He’s gonna be working those tight buns off.”

  While Nancy blathered and Lizzy’s eyeballs spun I wrapped two jars of cream in separate sheets of tissue and slipped them into one of our logoed bags.

  Nancy ferreted in her purse, pulled out the largest roll of bills I’d ever seen. “Traveling money.” She laid down two fifties. “Be well, ladies!” The queen of fried fish grabbed the pink bag and zipped out the door.

  “Well I never expected that!” Lizzy said.

  We had just enough time to close our gaping jaws when Grams blew in moving faster than the Road Runner with Wile E Coyote on his tail.

  She held two pieces of paper in her green-gloved hand. She slammed them on the counter. “Step one in nailing him!”

  Chapter 11

  Grams pointed her finger in the air. “The challenger’s stage name is Harry Whodunit! He might be a newbie magician out to make a name for himself or a serial challenger.”

  She dropped her purse on the counter and scrambled onto a stool. She separated the papers. “This is his ad copy and this one is our standard advertising form. He thought he was smart paying cash but his prints should be all over these.”

  The lady did dress to impress. This time she resembled a leprechaun in a teal and emerald mini dress, black tights, green gloves, and black orthopedic shoes. Her reporter’s fedora was pulled down low over her red-rimmed eyes.

  “We need to give these to the cops to see if they can match any fingerprints.” She favored me with a stern look. “Did Kal’
s clowns get prints from Nelson’s place?”

  “They dusted like crazy.”

  “Good!” she pushed her hat back on her head. “Got a little plastic bag? I’ll put these papers in it.”

  I grabbed a bag meant for samples and slid it across the counter.

  Grams slipped the ad forms inside the bag.

  “We’ll have to tell Kal,” I said. “Why we want to process these for prints. He’s not going to do it without a reason.”

  “Make up something. You’re trained to persuade people!” In her excitement she slipped off the stool but scampered back on. How many coffees had she swigged since breakfast?

  Persuade Kal to run a comparison of prints found in Nelson’s apartment with a Silverfish Gazette ad copy and order form—but not tell him why? I could improvise with the best of them, but nobody was that good.

  Lizzy rubbed her temples. “He had to know he was too old to climb out of a dangle.”

  Grams nodded. “The Masked Dangler had a lot of enemies. Even if Nelson took the challenge seriously, he had more sense than to risk a dangle.”

  “Okay,” I said. “We agree it wasn’t an accident while he prepared for the Dangler challenge. What did Harry Whodunit hope to gain by issuing it? The unmasking of Nelson in some way we don’t understand yet? Or a shot to break into the big time by default when the reigning dangling master didn’t show?”

  “You think my father’s death didn’t have anything to do with Harry Whodunit?”

  Grams shook her head. “I don’t know how but this challenge is connected to Nelson’s death. It walks like a duck and quacks like a murder.”

  “Running an ad doesn’t mean this Whodunit guy set out to kill Nelson,” I said. The whole thing felt more like a goose chase than a duck walk.

  “I have to find Harry Whodunit! I owe it to my son. Any word from the medical examiner?”

  As if on cue, the bell over the door jingled and Kal walked in. He locked eyes with me. Something was up.

  “Hello, ladies. I… I…” He blew out his breath and looked at the ceiling.

  “Just let us have it, sonny!” Grams turned on the stool so her back was braced against the counter.

  Kal sighed. “The M.E. confirmed his initial diagnosis. Nelson was alive when he hung himself by his heels. He suffered a massive stroke as the blood rushed to his head. He went instantly and didn’t suffer. I still don’t know how he was able to pull it off.”

  Grams squinted at Lizzy and then at me—warning us to button our lips.

  “It’s possible he did it to himself manually,” Kal said. “He could have lassoed the chandelier, dropped the rope, tied it around his ankles and pulled himself up.”

  Grams barked. “Even when he was a whippersnapper dangler he didn’t have that kind of strength!”

  “A whippersnapper dangler?” Kal stared at Grams. “Dangler? You mean that prank ad in the Silverfish Gazette?”

  “Senior moment,” she muttered, covering her mouth with her hand.

  If Kal had been a cartoon character, a light bulb would have come on over his head. He said, “Grams, you’re not being straight with me. Your son was the Dangler who was being challenged. Finally this crazy scene makes sense. He was training for the showdown. Foolish thing for a man of his age and in his condition to do and it cost him his life.”

  “He waited years to become Commodore of the Yacht Club,” Lizzy said. “He wouldn’t fall for a trick like that challenge and risk what he finally achieved.”

  “But he did,” Kal said. “His ego was legendary. He couldn’t help himself.”

  Grams turned and slipped the plastic bag containing the ad copy and the agreement into her purse. Clearly any chance of cooperating with the police was out the window now that Kal was convinced it was an accident and Grams was certain it was murder.

  You could have heard a cotton ball drop, the silence was deafening. Kal’s next question might be the deal breaker. We’d have to tell him about Whodunit. Grams returned to her previous position with her back against the counter and her purse held tight.

  She and Kal were about to square off. In this corner, weighing ninety pounds and claiming homicide—

  Just in the nick of time an angel arrived in the form of Ruth Reynolds, one of our best clients. She was my excuse to step away. If Grams didn’t tell Kal about Harry Whodunit, she’d be withholding an important piece of evidence. I wasn’t into guilt by association.

  I elbowed Lizzy and raced around the counter to help Ruth. My partner stepped on the backs of my ballet shoes with her clunky wedgies as she fought to distance herself from Grams and Kal.

  Lizzy whispered in my ear. “If Grams doesn’t tell Kal about Harry Whodunit, I don’t want to be a part of her fib by omission. Eventually he’s going to find out and be madder than a wet rooster.” She raised her hand as if shooing a fly. “I want nothing to do with those two—not now.”

  “Ruth! How lovely to see you!” I gushed.

  Lizzy grabbed a basket of under eye cream from the nearest shelf, and inserted herself between our client and me. Her sales spiels were an art form.

  While Lizzy swung into high chat with Ruth, I went into eavesdropping mode. Grams and Kal, although speaking intensely, were keeping their voices down and I could only hear snippets of their conversation. Grams insisted on robbery leading to homicide while Kal was convinced it was a dangling accident.

  I slid closer to them. Would Grams tell him about Harry Whodunit?

  “I don’t recall seeing an ad like that in the Silverfish Gazette,” Grams said, her words dripping with innocence.

  “Aren’t you in charge of advertising at the Gazette?” Kal said.

  Grams pushed her fedora down over her brow. “What does it say on my hatband?”

  “Reporter.” Kal took on the tone of a child answering the school principal.

  “So don’t be asking me about advertising.” Her hat settled over her eyes. “Why don’t you just skidaddle?”

  Kal turned to me. “Before I forget, I’d like a bar of your lavender soap.”

  His request came out of nowhere. He’d once bought a jar of cold cream for his mother but other than that...

  “We’re out of lavender soap,” I said. “Come back next week and we’ll have a new batch ready.”

  He cut me a suspicious look. Without a farewell, he turned, nodded at Ruth, and strode across the shop.

  “I’ll be back!” He didn’t slam the door but he didn’t close it quietly either.

  Grams slipped off her stool, grabbed her purse, and headed to the back room. Beads of sweat dripped from under the brim of her hat.

  I waited for Lizzy to finish up with Ruth Reynolds. Sales required a certain amount of theatrics of which my partner possessed more than her share. “Our creams are handmade…shortly before you buy them. You can feel confident they haven’t been sitting on a shelf.”

  With smiles and good wishes Lizzy sent our Ruth off carrying two gift jars of magical cold cream for her nieces plus a fistful of business cards.

  “I assume Grams and Kal didn’t reach an accord,” Lizzy said.

  “It looks like she expects her posse to be ready to ride.”

  Chapter 12

  Grams paced from one corner of the shop to the other punching her gloved right fist into her left palm. “It’s almost noon. Can’t you close early? If this Harry Whodunit is any good at magic he’s gotta know we’re on to him. He’s liable to skip town.”

  “How do we find this guy?” I continued to humor her. “I didn’t see an address on the ad copy or form.”

  “We can pick up his trail at the Magician’s Hat!” Grams pointed an index finger in the air.

  “The Magician’s Hat?” Was she having another senior moment?

  “Don’t look at me that way, Olive! It’s an old theater where the tricksters hang out. Like Elks or Moose—the illusionists congregate in the Hat.”

  “How come I’ve never heard of this Hat?” Lizzy raised one brow. “I thou
ght I knew all the real estate in and around Starfish Cove.”

  “The magicians have always kept it a secret. You, like almost everybody else, think it’s a welfare facility for the Sheet Metal Workers and Hair Dressers Union. It’s been here since the Depression. Being magicians they can come and go as they please.”

  That was a little hard to swallow. A secret lasting for decades in this little town? I said, “How do you know about it, Grams?”

  “From Nelson. When he was a boy, he did the Boy Scout thing and helped an old magician cross the street. When the guy learned he was fascinated by magic, he took a shine to him and introduced him to the men at the Magician’s Hat. When I questioned him about where he was going every day after school, he told me but made me promise to keep the secret.”

  “Is that how Father knew how the illusions were created? The ones he exposed?”

  “He kept a journal. I saw it once. Loaded with private information, codes, and ciphers.” Tears welled in her eyes. “That’s how he made his fortune. I tried many times to stop him. My son the blackmailer.”

  “Blackmail!” I blurted.

  “They’d pay up or he’d expose their specialty illusions. Your average magician doesn’t make much money, but Nelson siphoned what he could get—a few hundred here, a few hundred there. He’d have them leave the cash in different places. They never knew who they were paying off.”

  “I thought Nelson just went about ruining careers—willy-nilly.”

  “He did that also—as the Masked Dangler. At each dangling performance, he’d reveal the secret of one of the common tricks that are part of every magician’s show. This earned the Masked Dangler the hatred of every magician.”

  Lizzy leaned on the counter, twirling a lock of her hair. “Did my mother know about his slimy career?”

  “Nelson was long finished with blackmailing, as well as dangling when he met your mother.”

  She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose with an unladylike honk. “Nelson hit pay dirt when Silas Lamb took him under his wing.”