by Duffy Brown
* * *
“The Blarney Scone has tablecloths and napkins, and the courthouse has folding chairs for the overflow crowd at the town council meetings,” Sutter said, jarring me awake as he hauled bikes into my bedroom, leaning them against the dresser. “This will work, I’ve done more with less. I mean some people have. Give Martha Stewart scissors, paper and a glue gun and she’d put together the Taj Mahal.”
“We don’t need no Taj Mahal here,” Angelo said right behind Sutter, dropping the Sesame Street bike at the end of my bed, making me jump and Cleveland and Bambino dive under the covers.
Angelo took out his cell phone and did the I’m looking for bars stretch. “Luka’s got a guy, the booze is covered, I’m checking now, should be on the next ferry. That Luka is something else, I tell ya. Rosetta’s making the ziti that’ll bring tears to your eyes, mostly ’cause of the garlic, not that I’m ever telling Rosetta ’bout the garlic if I wanna live to see my next birthday, and why are you sitting there in bed?” Angelo said, facing me, as Sutter headed back down the steps. “We got to get going.” He gave me a double take. “Scary hair, doll face. You might want to do something with that. You’re never going to snag Nate with hair like that.”
“What? Who says I want to snag Nate Sutter?”
“Everybody.” Angelo’s face split with a wide grin. “Fact is we have a pool thing going on. I got Friday night, three-to-one odds, not too shabby. Keep it in mind.”
“I’m not snagging anyone.” I grabbed Sheldon off the nightstand and Angelo headed out of my room. “It’s six AM,” I yelled after him. “There are bikes in my bedroom and Sutter referenced Martha Stewart, and not about her prison days. How does he know who Martha Stewart is, and doesn’t anyone sleep on this blasted island?”
Mother stumbled in. “We can sleep when we’re dead, dear.” She dumped a garbage bag on my bed, and pink, white and purple lilacs tumbled out around me. “Right now we have a wedding to get together, and these flowers need water right away. Where are your vases?”
“In the east wing next to the silver candelabra. This is a bike shop. So, you mean the wedding’s on, and where’d you get these?” I held up a lovely purple stem, the aroma straight from heaven as Sutter brought in Baby Ruth and Batman.
“The gardeners at the Grand were trimming the bushes and I took the off-falls. Aren’t these amazing off-falls!” Mother slid pruning shears in her pocket and winked at Sutter. He groaned and hustled down the steps, and Mother turned to me. “You’ve got cake.”
“Chocolate? For breakfast?”
“Wedding. You’re in charge of getting it here by five. We’ll do a small ceremony on the back deck overlooking the lake at sunset, then have an open house reception so everyone can visit after they close their shops and get off work. That gives Rudy and Irma a chance to visit with their friends. Booze goes on the workbench, food in the kitchen, dancing on the deck. This is all Angelo’s idea. He got the brainstorm about four this morning when he couldn’t sleep, meaning I couldn’t sleep, so he made us cocoa. He’s a pro at this sort of thing and he’s been handing out orders for the last hour.”
“Angelo puts together weddings?”
“He says it’s like arranging a sit-down but with a better outcome.” Mother held up her hands. “I don’t know what a sit-down is, but it’s working and I say we just go with it. Now about that cake, got any ideas, and you really do need to do something with that hair, dear. Oh, and I have four-to-one odds for tonight. You are the maid of honor and he is the best man. I think I’m going to win.”
“Mother!”
“Just a suggestion, dear, just a suggestion.”
Ten minutes later I parked a repaired Sherlock by the back kitchen door to the Blarney Scone and knocked. I needed a cake ASAP, and a cake was just a giant scone with icing on top, right? And if Irish Donna said one word about what odds she had on me and Sutter, I’d wring her neck.
“How do you feel about making a wedding cake?” I asked Irish Donna when she opened the door and the amazing aroma of things baking drifted out.
“How you be feeling about riding that bike of yours no-handed with a blindfold on?”
“That scary, huh? What if I tell you it’s for Irma?”
Donna’s green eyes danced and she clapped her hands together, making a little white cloud of flour puff out around her. “Blessed be Saint Patrick, now you’re talkin’, me dear. Come on in, we’ll give it our best shot. I’ll get in some extra help to mind the shop so Shamus and I can get cracking. That husband of mine, old goat that he is, does a buttercream icing guaranteed to put a smile on your face and an inch on your waist.”
I helped Donna hunt cake pans stuffed back in a cupboard as Shamus rooted through recipes in an old Red Wing shoebox. When I measured out a tablespoon of salt instead of a teaspoon, they tossed me out of the Blarney Scone just as Sutter was heading in.
“We got a cake,” I told Sutter; the two of us were standing on the back wood stoop as yelling spilled out from the kitchen window. “Well, maybe we have a cake. How’s it going on your end?”
“Bikes are stored in your upstairs, over at the fudge shop and in your mom’s office. Mother and Angelo are painting Rudy’s Rides; hope you like honeysuckle yellow. I’m here to beg table linens from Donna. Last time I checked on Mom, she was hyperventilating and Rudy was fanning her with a copy of the Crier.”
“Think we’ll make it.”
“I’ve been through worse. You should have seen MarySue Hollingsworth and the Rose Room at the Hilton and the swan ice sculpture that melted into a big dick . . . ens of a mess. Spread the word that the wedding’s on and it’s potluck like we do for the Christmas bazaar.” Sutter headed inside with me staring after him.
I got the potluck part, and spreading the word was a done deal with Irish Donna onboard, but my brain was still back at MarySue and the Rose Room. What happened at the Rose Room? I would have liked to see that ice sculpture, and that Sutter even knew the Hilton had a Rose Room boggled my brain. Was it a shoot-out to end all shoot-outs, and was that what happened to Sutter’s leg?
“Buongiorno, Evie,” Molly yelped as she ran up to me. “The Grand Hotel just called and they got a guest swilling vodka, dancing on the tables and singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ I tried to figure out how to say all that in Italian, but I don’t have enough time. Anyway, she’s giving the place a bad name; it’s the Grand Hotel, not the Heartbreak, and people don’t pay the big bucks up there to hear about getting dumped. Nate’s knee-deep in getting that wedding together and I got to mind the office. This gal says she knows you and keeps yelling things to the waiters like just do it, I’m lovin’ it and good to the last drop. That last one she used when polishing off the vodka and demanding more. I got to go, I have four slow cookers brewing up Italian wedding soup for tonight and I got to keep an eye on it. Arrivederci. Oh, and just so you know, I have next Monday at five-to-one odds, so you and Nate can take your time getting it on.” She kissed me on both cheeks and hurried off.
I couldn’t talk. I could barely stand and it wasn’t because of the odds thing going on. Only one person I knew would rattle off ad slogans like casual conversation. Abigail? Here now? Except the Abigail I knew never did alcohol; she said it clouded her creativity and impeded her work ethic. I knew I’d have to face Abigail sooner or later, but deep down I’d hoped some urgent work would keep her in Chicago and she’d send an office staff person to the wedding in her place.
I could ignore Abigail, let the Grand fend for themselves, but she’d find me sooner or later, and maybe I could even convince her to go home! I climbed on Sherlock and pedaled for the Grand. It was a lovely day for a wedding. Not too hot and a slight breeze off the lake, and I had to admit that as much as I hated Abigail being here, Rudy would love it. I needed to suck it up and forget that Abigail was the boss from hell. Besides, this was different; she wasn’t my boss. She couldn’t drive me nuts and
maybe she’d just be one of the girls, right?
I’d done the snatch-and-grab version of getting dressed and my hair looked more rat’s nest than coiffure, so I made for the back entrance. The big refrigerator had been picked up for recycle, leaving more room to park bikes. I headed up the stairs and stepped around the long reception desk, festooned this morning with vases of pink and purple lilacs. They were nice but not as nice as the ones Mother had brought home. Did the woman know how to pick flowers or what? When I got to the lobby I could hear someone bellowing—no way could this be labeled singing—“My Kind of Town.”
“For the love of God, do something,” Penelope pleaded as she raced up beside me. She clutched my arm tight and propelled me toward the dining room with its white tablecloths, elegant green and white striped chairs, vases of lilacs everywhere and the crazy lady on top of the center table using a saltshaker as a microphone.
“People are arriving for the wedding on the porch and reception in the Terrace Room, we need to get things ready for the lunch crowd, the busboys are going nuts and this is gearing up to be one of our busiest days of the year. Get rid of her! We’re in the hotel business, and that means renting rooms and making money, and who in the heck is this person? She says she knows you from your days in Chicago and that you’re besties.”
Penelope seemed her usual self this morning; the two of us were bonding against the crazies who invaded the island. There were no incriminating looks my way or suspicious stares. Maybe she’d bought the dropped bagel story I dished out yesterday morning when she found me in the employee room? Maybe she really did think it was a deer in the bushes outside the condo? And maybe pigs fly. Penelope wasn’t that stupid, and she had something going on that brought in cash, lots of it. This morning she was playing it cool to try to cover her tracks? Heck, that was what I would do too.
“If you could just shut her up, I’d be eternally grateful.” Penelope hurried off as Gabi and the Crusaders hustled into the dining room. “It is true,” Gabi gasped. “This is a new suspect.” Gabi nodded to Abigail, who was starting in on “Heartbreak Hotel,” round two, as the rest of the Crusaders crowded around.
“She has to be a suspect,” the tall corpse guy chimed in. “She’s way too over the top to just be a guest here.” He pulled his yellow notebook from his back pocket. “She’s singing about a heartbreak, and maybe that’s her motivation. I got it, she was having a fling with Peep and he wanted to end it. That’s a heartbreak, all right.”
The shorter Crusader guy added, “Then Peep came here to the Grand Hotel and she followed and knocked him off? Or is she just a red herring?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I think she’s here for a reason.”
“Yeah, like to drive me nuts,” I said under my breath.
“From the looks of it, she’s driving everyone nuts.” Gabi wrote in her notebook. “We need to find out more about her.” Gabi made a sour face. “The one thing we know is that she’s not a singer. With a little luck she’ll be the next one to get polished off and put an end to this god-awful racket.” The Crusaders trooped off and Abigail’s gaze landed on me.
“Evie? Evie Bloomfield, is that really you?” Abigail’s eyes focused on me. She flashed a lopsided grin and scrambled down off the table, losing one of her sensible two-inch heels as her navy skirt slid up to her thighs. Her long blonde hair slid out of the bun, and she had raccoon eyes from smudged mascara.
“Abigail,” I gushed. Well, I tried to gush, I really and truly did, for Rudy’s sake. Abigail and I hadn’t had a warm fuzzy relationship back in Chicago, more glacial ice and scratchy wool. “Let’s get you to your room.” I smiled sweetly and ushered her toward the elevators. “You need to freshen up. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“I’m fresh enough. Let’s get us to the bar, and what sounds nice is a lot more vodka.” She laughed then, her lips wobbling as a tear slid down her cheek. “Oh, Evie, Evie, what am I going to do? Things are just terrible. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I pulled Abigail into a chair at a vacant table. “No, no, you got it all wrong. This marriage is a really good thing; your dad’s happy, and you’ll love Irma. It’s going to be great, just give it a chance.”
“Irma who?”
“The bride?”
“Whatever.” Abigail waved her hand in the air. “Dad’s always happy, and it’s me we’re talking about here. Evie, I’m never getting married.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to.”
“I met this guy . . . tall, rich, connected.” She sniffed, more tears trailing down her cheek. “Did I mention that he was rich? He left me, Evie. Roberto ran off with that digital designer person in the art department. Suzie or Sally or something S. Why would he choose her?”
Because Sarah is sweet and cute and fun to be with, I added to myself.
“I own the company,” Abigail demanded, pounding on the dining room table, making the tableware and glasses jump and nearly overturning the vase of flowers. “I’m the boss. You understand what I’m going through, not that me getting dumped is anything like you getting left at the altar. Gads, nothing could be more humiliating than that. I don’t know how you manage to go out in public after that fiasco. I’d have to dye my hair and move to Alaska, though living here is about the same as Alaska, I suppose, maybe worse. Did you go into therapy? Of course you did, you poor pathetic thing.”
Abigail grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “You and I, we’re not getting any younger, Evie, and our biological clocks are ticking, can you believe that?”
“You . . . you want children?”
“Children?” Abigail’s brows shot up and she added another one of those hand waves to shoo away such an idea. “I’m talking Botox, liposuction, lifts, tucks, implants. Least I can afford it. You? I don’t know what you’re going to do, and are those crow’s feet around your eyes, and do I see freckles? You poor thing! Freckles, what are you going to do about those?”
“Look for a bottle of olive oil; it’s been known to put an end to an annoying problem.”
“Olive oil? Really?”
“It’s a proven fact. Let’s go to your room and order room service with lots of coffee; you’ll feel better after coffee.”
Abigail stood, holding on to the table for support. “I do have a nice room with a lovely view. I had to pay extra for it when I got here, but that nice receptionist switched me from a crummy room to an expensive one.”
“That’s great. Now you can get some sleep and rest up from traveling.” And being on a bender. “You’ll want to be at your best for the wedding. You know, there’ll be a lot of really good-looking men there, think of that. Maybe you’ll meet someone new and he’ll whisk you away, far, far away.”
Abigail brightened. “You do have rugged men, those outdoor types who can build a bridge with a knife and a toothpick. The strong virile hunks.” Abigail made a growling sound. “One of the maids here said the police chief is a real hottie. I got to meet him. Nothing’s better than a man in uniform.” She flipped back her hair and jutted her chin. “You know, I feel better already. A sultry island affair is just what I need to perk myself up.”
“It’s Michigan, not the Bahamas.”
“So we’ll have to make our own heat. I’m getting together with that cop guy and having some fun tonight, you can count on it.”
Abigail strutted over to the elevators and got on as Madonna got off. A waitress in a smart black dress with crisp white apron hurried my way and handed me an envelope with Evie scrawled across the front. “This was left at the front desk. Penelope said to look for the woman with messy hair, no makeup, denim capris and skinned-up knees and elbows.” The maid gave me the critical once-over. “You win, or lose, depending on your point of view.”
The maid took off and I tore open the envelope and unfolded a piece of hotel stationery: If you want to know what’s going on around here, Annex 1 in five.
“Hey,” I said to Madonna as she strolled past. Okay, Madonna wasn’t exactly an armed guard, but right now another warm body was better than nothing. “Can you help me out? Actually I think we can help each other out.”
Madonna did sort of look like Madonna today if you squinted a little and added forty pounds. I pulled Madonna off to the side and showed her the note. “This person might know who the killer is. What do you think?”
“I think that you didn’t get the memo. Fiona’s the killer.”
“There are other suspects, and the police aren’t going to release Peep until they are absolutely sure they’ve got the right person behind bars. Let’s see where this takes us. It could help you out.”
“I need to find Zo, little harlot that she is. My lawyers are trying to reach her. If she thinks she’s getting anything from Peep’s estate, she’s crazy, though she does get to keep the condo he bought her, the creep.”
Madonna started off, and I snagged her arm. “I thought you wanted to solve this murder as fast as possible, get back to L.A., read the will and live happily ever after. I need you because this sounds like one of those movies where the stupid girl goes up the dark stairs looking for the killer and the audience is yelling, Don’t go, dumbass!”
“It’s the Grand Hotel, not Psycho. You’ll be fine.”
“Tell it to the guy cooling his heels at the medical center. I’ve had enough close calls lately and I know you’re looking for Zo and . . . and, you know what, I think this might be Zo.” I tapped the note. “I think she might have done in Peep. It fits, it really does. I should have thought of this before; it’s perfect. And now I’m getting close to the truth and she wants to do me in too.”
