Don motioned for Jane to look at the pages with him and she stepped to his right so she could see the contents of the envelope. The first paper was a living will, specifying that no heroic measures be taken. After the living will, the pages were all stamped COPY and there was a note saying the originals were all on file in the lawyer’s office. The second page was a letter that must have been dictated by Carl to the lawyer since it was signed and witnessed at Beasley’s office. In short, Carl named Don the executor of his estate. He specified that everything was to be left to Don and Nellie. He left bank account numbers and specific information and included a safety deposit box key. And in an explanatory postscriptlike note, in Carl’s boxy printlike handwriting, he mentioned Jane and Michael. Don pointed it out and Jane read aloud:
Although I am leaving everything to Don and Nellie, the two people in the world most like family to me, who have always treated me honestly and fairly and who have always helped me when I was down, I would also like their children, Jane and Michael, to share in my worldly goods. Therefore, I authorize Jane Wheel to inventory all of my property and after she and Don and Nellie and Michael take anything they want, they can sell the rest or give it away, whatever they think is best. If any money is raised from the sale, it should go to Jane’s son and Michael’s boy and girl. I like to think they are like my own children and grandchildren and I would like them to have something from me. If Jane thinks it’s okay, her son Nick can have my car if he’s now old enough to drive. And now that I must be dead, I’d just like to say, Nellie, you were the only sensible woman I ever knew and Don, you were the most honest man I ever knew, so you deserved to have Nellie. I was proud you were my boss and my friends.
“I’ll be goddamned,” said Don softly. “This was dated two months ago. Carl knew he was dying.”
Nellie had been standing, listening with her arms folded. She scratched her cheek, snaking her finger up to wipe her eye, then cleared her throat.
“Damn fool could have told us. He didn’t have to come in every night.”
Mel, or Pepper, as Don had called him, patted Nellie on the shoulder. She winced but didn’t move away. Wally took a bite of cherry pie, then wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Carl was afraid he’d get the saloon keeper’s disease. All the smoke and drinking … you know … he was afraid of lung cancer. He told me when he gave me all these papers that he was glad that when he went it was going to be quick and a surprise, That’s what he said. He had a lot of ailments, Carl did, and he said he was surprised that something he didn’t know anything about would probably kill him,” said Wally, stopping for another bite of pie.
“Why wasn’t he taking blood pressure medication or…?” asked Jane.
Wally and Mel both shook their heads. Jane was struck by how their movements were as much in synch as their appearances. If only Mel didn’t have that black hair and Wally that salt-and-pepper gray … Then Jane got it. Salt and Pepper. Nicknames. Her dad’s mnemonic of choice. Mel dyed his hair, Wally didn’t. Salt and Pepper. That’s how people kept them straight.
Mel explained that Carl had said he had heart problems and nobody could regulate his blood pressure. He had tried some medication, but nothing was working. The twins finished their pie, shook hands with Don, and dropped the keys to Carl’s apartment in Nellie’s hand.
“We haven’t been up there in years, but Carl was neat as a pin. Probably isn’t much stuff up there. Whatever it was, he was anxious for you all to have it. You’ll have to talk to the lawyer about the bank accounts and such, but no reason you can’t come by the apartment whenever you want,” said Wally.
The twins left by the back door and Jane watched them walk in tandem to their car. Don sighed heavily and picked up the living will.
“I’ve got to get this over to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive it over,” offered Jane. “It’s on my way to the factory where I’m meeting Lucky. And Tim. He has a job for me, too,” said Jane.
“We do, too, honey,” said Don. “If you’re going to be around a while, maybe you could help us out a couple of hours a day? I know I always said I didn’t want you in the tavern business. It’s no place for a woman—I always said that and I still believe it.”
Nellie cleared her throat behind him. “What the hell do I look like?” said Nellie, hands on hips.
“Come on, Nellie, you know that’s different,” said Don. “You’re an exception to the rule,” he added softly, taking her hand. She let him hold it for a count of three seconds, then said, “Damn right I’m an exception.” Nellie than reclaimed her hand and touched it to the top of Don’s head. “You need a haircut.” Jane turned away, knowing that she was witnessing a moment of Don-and-Nellie-style intimacy.
“I don’t want the tavern business for you, Janie. But if you could just help us until we figure this out, I’d appreciate it. Never want you in here at night, no closing up, but maybe a few hours during the day so your mother could go home for a while or I could catch a nap in the back room. That’s all. A few weeks.”
“Whatever you need,” said Jane. “You seem to have caught me at a good time.”
9
Jane delivered the copy of Carl’s living will to the nursing station at the ICU. A young nurse assured Jane that she would put it into the right hands. Jane, as instructed several times by both her parents, reminded the floor secretary that Don and Nellie wanted to be called when there was any change in Carl’s condition, then she peeked in the door to his room. Always thin, Carl now looked skeletal, like he barely took up half of the narrow bed.
“Nicky loved the dog, Carl. It was worth every penny,” Jane whispered.
Pushing through the double doors that isolated the ICU, on her way to the elevator, Jane walked down a corridor with patient rooms on either side. She could hear the hospital version of Muzak playing in stereo. The droning television programs, creaking of wheeled carts, whispered conversations, soft weeping, snoring … then an unexpected new note in the soundtrack.
“Doesn’t anybody care that somebody tried to kill me?”
Jane stopped short, just before the doorway to the room. Who wouldn’t want to hear the answer to that question? Or at least get a glimpse of the questioner? Jane could see into the half of the room where a lightweight navy windbreaker was thrown onto the visitor’s chair. On top of the jacket was a baseball cap. Jane recognized the four-leaf clover logo of Lucky’s production company.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t sign on for this. No one told me that crazy bastard would get me killed!”
Jane heard the phone slam onto its cradle. Ah, the sweet satisfaction of a landline! She poked her head into the door and saw the man from the Steak and Brew who had suffered the allergy attack.
“Hi,” said Jane.
“Who the hell are you?”
Jane introduced herself. She fully intended to tell him that she had been at the Steak and Brew and just wanted to tell him she was pleased to see that he had recovered without the intervention of the television-trained Nellie, but best intentions veered off course as soon as Jane had a chance to digest the fact that Lucky’s crew member was claiming someone had tried to kill him.
“I’ve just agreed to fill in as a temporary assistant for Lucky, so I thought I might just pop my head in and make sure you were being well taken care of,” said Jane, with her best executive assistant smile.
“Lucky sent you? I’d say it’s the least that bastard could do. I took this driving job in this God-forsaken location because I was promised a little something extra from Lucky. I didn’t realize I’d have to die to collect it.”
A quick look at the name card to the left of the door should have helped Jane slide smoothly into the conversation, without confirming or denying that she had been sent by anyone, but she couldn’t say the name without a follow up.
“Slug? I mean, Slug. They agreed to put your nickname on the door? Slug Mettleman?”
“Not exactly a nickname. Full name is Sluggo,” said t
he patient, who Jane could now see was fully dressed and lying on top of the tangled sheets and blankets. She noted the discharge papers on the bedside table. Someone would be coming to pick him up, so Jane had to work fast in case Lucky really did send someone to the hospital and Jane would be revealed as little more than a curious bystander.
“Yeah, my mom was a fan of the ‘Nancy’ comic strip and she thought Sluggo had a nice ironic sound to it, me being such a tiny little preemie and all. Said she thought if I ended up being a little guy, my name would make me sound tough and no one would pick on me.”
“How’d that work for you?” asked Jane.
“Well, for a little guy with a peanut allergy, I did all right. My dad decided I needed to take karate to go with the stupid name, so I held my own with the twerps who thought it would be funny to slip a peanut butter cookie into my stack of homemade oatmeal raisins.” Slug smiled at the memory. “And hell, I’m a teamster, so what do you think, honey?”
Did everyone in Lucky’s entourage call women “honey”?
“I think you’ve made a great recovery and you’ll be back to work in no time,” Jane said in what she hoped was efficient and businesslike Lucky production speak.
“Yeah, I’m just peachy. But you tell that bastard that the next time I, or one of my pals, reach for my EpiPen and find the case has been tampered with, we’re going to have a little heart-to-heart.”
“Why would you think Lucky is responsible?” Jane knew Detective Oh would advise her to just smile and nod and to let Sluggo keep threatening and showing his hand, but Jane Wheel, curious bystander, merged with Jane Wheel, girl detective, and a million questions popped into her head.
Sluggo pointed to the case. On the nightstand next to it sat a tiny laminated three-leaf clover.
“Who the hell would put that in there? And it’s not even a lucky four-leaf clover, so what the hell does that tell you?
“Brenda didn’t get a chance to fill you in on all your duties, did she? Let’s just put it this way, I might have been able to tell Lucky and Brenda what it’s like to have a full-blown attack, but perhaps I didn’t convey how goddamned scary it is to not be able to breathe. Perhaps I’ll give him a more detailed explanation by putting my thumb on his windpipe if he ever goes near my stuff again. And that goes for his pretty new assistant, too. Got it?” Jane nodded. “Besides,” he added, “Lucky’s responsible for everything, right? It’s his shindig, yeah?”
She thought about offering him a ride, but by the way he looked over her shoulder at every footstep in the hallway and his glances at the clock on the opposite wall, she knew he was already expecting someone.
Jane did however plaster on a secretarial smile and ask what she hoped sounded like an innocent question prompted by curiosity, rather than an investigative follow-up.
“You said someone tampered with your case, but was your EpiPen actually touched? Because if it was, that would be…”
“Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?” said Sluggo. “Let me guess, Lucky hired you for your brains, right?”
Jane managed to keep her smile intact until she turned away. His answer might have been an nonanswer, but one thing that it clarified? Sluggo Mettleman’s personality would attract more enemies than friends.
In the elevator and through the corridor on the way to her car, Jane kept an eye out for anyone in a Lucky cap or a Lucky jacket but she didn’t see anyone making their way up to Sluggo’s room. Then again, she wasn’t sure the teamsters, the drivers, and caterers, and other members of the production all wore the heavily logoed apparel that she now kept seeing everywhere around town. Slipping behind the wheel, she peeked into the mirror on her visor. How would she look in a Lucky baseball cap?
* * *
The large brick building on Water Street was always referred to by people who lived in Kankakee as the old brick factory, as opposed to the old paint factory or the old hosiery factory or the old battery factory. Whenever Jane asked her father about any building in Kankakee, he seemed to know its history, when it opened, when it closed, what was made, who worked there. But this old building, long closed and vacant, was simply the old factory on Water. No one ever offered what kind of factory it had been. It was across the street from a small park that had a playground, a concrete slab with a basketball hoop, a few picnic tables and benches, and a sloping bank that slid down into the Kankakee River. It wasn’t a particularly scenic park, filled with old growth trees and flower gardens and the old stone picnic shelter like Cobb Park, Jane’s childhood haven, but it was a nice little green space off of a busy street. A pocket park is how Jane always thought of it. This small patch of green space was always a convenient spot for the neighboring residents to bring their kids for a swing and a teeter-totter, or for someone to simply take a seat on the bench and stare at the river.
Jane couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone using the basketball hoop until today. Jane had to park all the way down on Hawkins Street and walk to the factory where trucks were parked nose to tail around the entire two-block area. The basketball hoop was being used by four young men, all wearing LUCKY 4 YOU PRODUCTIONS T-shirts. Jane stopped to watch. They were enthusiastic amateurs, talking trash and giving attitude, but sinking very few shots, Jane noticed. She laughed when one of them yelled out that the player who had just missed what looked to be an easy unguarded lay-up shot like a writer. Must be the Hollywood version of shooting like a girl.
“Wanna play?” asked one of the guys and Jane had to turn and look around to make sure he was addressing her.
“No, thanks,” said Jane. “I probably shoot like a writer, too.”
“I had you figured for hair and makeup,” said the guy.
Jane, ready to bristle at what was surely going to be a sexist remark asked why.
“All you stylists are so pretty you don’t wear any makeup, then you come in and work magic on mooks like Lucky and them. Also,” he added, pointing to the giant leather tote bag, her daytime just-in-case, “you all carry a pretty big bag of tricks.”
Jane smiled and waved, continuing on to the heavy double doors at the factory’s entrance. Tim Lowry was standing, pointing to his nonexistent watch and shaking his head.
“If you don’t wear a watch, you can’t tell me I’m late,” said Jane. “Besides, I—”
A yell came from the basketball court followed by a string of expletives Jane would put up against anything she had ever heard from an EZ Way Inn customer. The player who had been accused of shooting like a writer had gone down hard, crashing all on his own, twisting his ankle. He sat on the court, rocking back and forth, insisting on an ambulance.
“I don’t want you guys carrying me,” he said, his voice wavering. “It’s too painful.”
“Jeez, Tommy, that’s what you get when you try to play like a driver instead of the writer that you are,” said another one of the four.
“Very funny, you asshole,” said Tommy. “Get me to a doctor.”
The player who had invited Jane into the game came over to her. “Don’t worry about Tommy. He gets injured all the time. He’ll be okay. I’m Sal.” He put out his hand. Jane nodded and introduced herself and Tim.
“You’re the new set stylist,” he said to Tim, “I heard your name from Maurice. Doing the table setting for the roast, right?”
Tim nodded and began, “And Jane Wheel here is going to be my—”
“I’m filling in for Brenda as Lucky’s personal assistant.”
“Welcome aboard, Tim, and to you, Jane Wheel, I offer my condolences,” said Sal, bowing his head.
A young woman ran out of the factory and over to Sal, crying. She laid a hand on his arm and tried to catch her breath.
“Slow down, Fran. Tommy just has another sprained ankle. Won’t put us behind schedule or anything. You bean counters can get pretty emotional over—”
“It’s not Tommy. It’s…”
Jane dug into her bag and found tissues, and offered the woman the whole package.
“Th
anks,” she said, mopping her face and wiping her nose. “I’m really doing the big ugly here, aren’t I, but it’s just that he was such a jerk sometimes and still when something like this happens you feel like maybe you liked someone more than you thought you did, you know?”
“No idea, honey,” said Sal. “What the hell you talking about?”
“Lucky just got a call. And I—”
“Will someone get me to a doctor, for Christ’s sake? Sal? Some help here? Just because your boyfriend dumped you again, Fran, is no reason to—”
“Shut up, you baby. He’s dead and you’ve got your fifth sprained ankle of the year. Big whoop.”
“Who’s dead?” asked Jane. When the girl looked at Jane and shook her head, still wiping her eyes, Jane added,” Jane Wheel, just coming to meet with Lucky about a temp job filling in for Brenda.”
“You don’t know him, then,” said Fran. “He’s one of the drivers.”
“Oh shit,” said Sal. “Oh no.”
“Sluggo Mettleman,” said Fran. “We just got a call. Sluggo Mettleman died.”
10
Screaming Tommy quieted down when he heard about Sluggo and allowed himself to be half carried inside the factory to get his ankle taped. Fran, the messenger, stopped weeping long enough to explain that Sluggo had signed himself out and come down to the street entrance to the hospital to wait for one of the drivers to pick him up. When Mickey got there, Slug got in the car and something happened to him, he started choking like he did at the Steak and Brew and Mickey turned the car around and headed back to the hospital. By the time they got there, Slug, according to Fran, was already gone.
Jane and Tim had followed the basketball players and Fran into the factory, but because of the hustle and bustle inside, found themselves on their own just inside the building.
“Feels weird, huh, to be here in the middle of all this, just when this guy we don’t even know died,” said Tim, running his hand over the vintage Steelcase chairs in the waiting room. “Think these were here when they took over the place?”
Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) Page 9
