Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries)

by Fiffer, Sharon

  “You call that a fair price? That’s robbing the people.”

  Peace was short-lived. As Mary began to greet Jane and flirt with Maurice simultaneously, Jane heard Nellie employing her bargaining techniques with a young couple selling tomatoes. They looked as if they were about to cry.

  Jane fished out a twenty and asked Maurice to go over to the stand and start bagging up the best tomatoes he could find, right out from under Nellie’s nose.

  “It’s a dangerous mission, but I have faith in you,” said Jane.

  “Don’t do it, man, it’s suicide,” said Tim.

  Maurice saluted them both and nodded, eschewing Jane’s twenty-dollar bill. “Save it for some new old McCoy,” Maurice whispered, with only a hint of a smile.

  “You found a good one,” said Jane, watching him stride over to the stand and position himself directly in Nellie’s line of fire.

  “Don’t want to jinx it,” said Tim, “but yeah, he’s really special.”

  “Ooooh,” said Mary, catching on. “Sorry, Tim, didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  Since Tim was immune to Mary’s flirting techniques, he hadn’t really noticed her trotting them out for Maurice. Glancing at Jane, seeing her shake her head and raise a subtle don’t-even-go-there hand, Tim quickly told her there was no problem.

  The morning was so crisp and bright and the stands were teeming with September’s reddest, greenest, and the deepest yellow, orange and purple produce, herbs and flowers. Jane spied tables with craft displays—dried flower wreaths, baskets packed with homemade jams and pickles. What could be better than a morning filled with friends greeting each other and people planning the amazing dishes they would be cooking later that day?

  “I got your info,” said Mary, handing Jane a sheet of paper.

  Jane tore herself away from looking at the people, her hometown neighbors meeting and greeting, and looked down at the sheet. She nodded. It was what she had guessed last night when she saw Lucky wandering the neighborhood.

  “But you don’t want these,” said Mary.

  Jane shook her head. Mary always conversed in a random way, answering unanswered questions and nodding in a knowing manner even when the person to whom she was talking had no way of knowing to what she referred.

  “Chuck ran into Tim yesterday and Tim told him and he told me that you sold your house. With all that Evanston money, you can do better here than these dinky houses, Jane—you can live like a queen. Honestly, and I have some beautiful properties available right now and I shouldn’t tell you this, but you can practically get them for nothing. Everything is so low and you could get one of those great old places on the river or a beautiful new construction in Bourbonnais or—”

  “Mary, don’t get your hopes up. If I decide to come here and I am not at all sure where I’m going to end up, I have a perfectly good apartment in my parents’ basement,” said Jane.

  She tried so hard to say it with a straight face, but Mary had gone to high school with her. Mary knew Nellie. Hell, Mary had acted in a play with Nellie. The two women looked over at the Nellie in question, who, as soon as Maurice started buying up tomatoes without quibbling over price, started snatching up her own under his nose. The sellers who had looked dangerously close to weeping when Nellie was berating them for their high prices were now bringing out more tomatoes from the back of their truck, anticipating a sellout if business continued like this.

  Mary handed Jane a folder with listings she had printed out and Jane silently accepted it, tucking it into her bag.

  Jane watched Tim rescue Maurice before he backed up Tim’s car to the stand to load tomatoes directly into the trunk. Jane watched the silent movie of him introducing Maurice to Nellie, and Nellie looking him up and down and giving him a grimace and handshake. Jane hoped Maurice understood that Nellie’s grimace had nothing to do with homophobia and everything to do with misanthropy, but she could tell by Tim’s look when he put his arm around Nellie and she accepted it for two seconds before ducking out of it, that Maurice, like Tim, could tell the difference between a hater and a scowler. No sign of Lucky at the market yet. Jane dialed his cell and got voice mail. She suggested that he save time for a meeting before the bowling tournament and said she’d see him at the gazebo.

  Her canvas bag, now filled with a large jar of strawberry-rhubarb pie filling, which Jane couldn’t wait to stir into Greek yogurt for breakfast, two substantial eggplants, and a small wreath that Jane bought for Don and Nellie’s front door, was just heavy enough to feel awkward. Jane decided to bring it back to the car, grab a second bag from her trunk, and join Nellie in the great tomato buy-out. At the car, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket and sat down on her trunk to have a conversation with Detective Oh.

  Before Jane could begin telling Oh what she had found out from Mary Wainwright, Oh surprised her with news of his own.

  “I spoke with Detective Ramey last night.”

  Jane, trying to remain in “Oh” mode, waited.

  “Because what you described sounded like blackmail, a threat, to Mr. Miller, I thought it best to seek Detective Ramey’s counsel, before…”—Oh hesitated for a second—“you find yourself meeting him under more stressful circumstances.”

  “But,” Jane started to protest, then decided to trust her partner’s rational nature. Oh knew that Lucky had not wanted to involve the police, fearing that he himself might have something to hide. “And what was Detective Ramey’s response?” asked Jane.

  “He agreed with you that murder by EpiPen or lack thereof did not sound like a very precise method. But he also agreed that if a wrongful death had occurred, if Mr. Mettleman died because his medical kit had been tampered with, this very well might be a police matter.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the blackmail or alleged blackmail note?” asked Jane.

  “As I said, Mrs. Wheel, I wanted to alert Detective Ramey that you were in town and might be turning up some matters that would be of interest to him. This way, we’ve come to the police before they come to us. I did not discuss the note. Mr. Miller’s desire to remember what he might be being accused of before it’s made public is a valid concern. If however that doesn’t happen soon, and more notes arrive, or something more sinister happens, I know that you realize you won’t be able to accommodate him.”

  Jane remained silent, thinking. She was sitting on the hood of her car and noted a rush of shoppers head toward the south end of the market. A large sedan, not, she was relieved to note, a limo, had just dropped Lucky Miller off and apparently was circling around to park. Lucky had planned his entrance at the spot farthest from the gazebo so he could saunter the length of the market. Maximum visibility and maximum schmoozing opportunity.

  “Lucky just arrived,” said Jane to Oh.

  “You wouldn’t believe the attention. This is a guy who invented his own celebrity, created his own backstory, and made up most of what he remembers about Kankakee, but everybody believes what they want to believe, I guess,” said Jane.

  “Remember, Mrs. Wheel, if another note arrives, one with instructions about the money or anything more threatening, you must—”

  “Shooter?” asked Jane, raising her voice.

  “What?” said Oh.

  “I’ll take one,” said Jane.

  “Mrs. Wheel, what is going on, please?”

  “Sam is here from Mack’s diner. He has these milk-shake shots that are amazing. He’s wheeling around a cart and passing out samples in disposable shot glasses.”

  Jane signed off with Oh after agreeing to check in after her meeting with Lucky before the bowling gala. Jane followed Sam and his cart into the fray of the market.

  “Fantastic idea,” said Jane. “But I thought you were only opening for the Lucky Miller Roast and the café went back up for sale when the excitement died down. Why give out samples if you’re not open to the public? Pretty cruel to get people hooked on the product.” She held out her hand for another sample.

  Sam nodded. “
Getting people hooked is exactly the idea. We decided that it might be fun to run the place if we could drum up enough business. Terrible time to open or reopen anything, but if we keep our menu small and our overhead low … we’ve got the place all spiffed-up thanks to Lucky, so, if we can raise enough money, the family’s going to give it a go.”

  Jane wished Sam good luck and watched him hand out his milk-shake shots. Nellie refused one and wagged her finger in Sam’s face about something. He smiled and took whatever she was dishing out and continued on his way.

  Jane wondered if Sam knew that Lucky didn’t even remember the food he ate at his grandfather’s diner. Did it matter? As long as Lucky endorsed the burgers and fries, that would give the place cachet for a while. At least Sam’s food was excellent. That should help. Jane doubted that either Don’s or Nellie’s Lucky Ducks would have any kind of lasting influence on the EZ Way Inn’s solvency.

  Jane continued to watch her mother walk from vendor to vendor, keeping one of her eagle eyes on Lucky Miller as she walked and haggled. Jane decided to catch up to her before she reached Lucky. Isn’t that the first rule of defensive driving? Avoid a head-on collision.

  A pretty young woman in a brown checked shirt offered Lucky a carrot to replace his cigar and Lucky laughed, shaking his head. Jane could see from a distance that he was in fine performance mode, nodding and smiling at the crowd like some sort of show-biz royalty. Jane wondered if he really did have any celebrity guests coming into town. How disappointed would people be if the Lucky Miller Roast turned out to be all roasted with no roasters?

  “Thinks he’s something, doesn’t he?” said Nellie who had double-backed and come around alongside of Jane, startling her as usual.

  “He’s not so bad,” said Jane. “I kind of feel sorry for him.” The words slipped out before she registered that she was speaking to Nellie.

  “Feel sorry for him? With his money?” said Nellie. “There’s a guy who has no talent, but managed to become famous and rich, and shows it all off. That’s what they call being at the right place at the right time.”

  Jane didn’t correct her mother. They were too close to Lucky to begin a cantankerous conversation about the man. But Jane, for once, had more information than Nellie, and knew that Lucky was not at the right place at the right time. In fact, the more Jane considered Lucky’s struggle with what had happened to him, she thought the opposite was most certainly true. Wrong place at the wrong time described things pretty well.

  “Ah, Nellie,” said Lucky, “how are those Lucky Ducks selling at the bar?”

  “Bar’s closed for a few days,” said Nellie.

  Lucky was smiling at a teenager who had brought him a bouquet of flowers from her mother’s stand. Lucky accepted them graciously, then looked back at Nellie. Jane saw that he was focusing on Nellie now. Was he remembering something?

  “Why would you close this week? With all the…”—Lucky searched for the right word—“hoopla going on in town?”

  “Death in the family,” said Nellie.

  Lucky opened his mouth but no words came out. Instead he handed Nellie the bouquet of flowers. Equally speechless at this gesture, both awkward and graceful, Nellie accepted them. Jane looked around for Tim and Maurice, caught Tim’s eye, and pointed over Nellie’s head—the universal gesture for “take care of Nellie and keep her busy.”

  Jane took Lucky’s arm and began walking slowly with him toward the gazebo, speaking directly into his ear, hoping that she looked like an assistant giving him news of the day. She wasn’t sure it would be good for anyone if Lucky had a break-through in the middle of the Kankakee Farmer’s Market.

  “Lucky, I know you’re remembering something. Do you want to talk to me about it? We could grab a coffee and slip across the street and sit down as if we have business to discuss,” said Jane.

  “I’m okay, honey,” said Lucky.

  This time she didn’t correct his form of address.

  “What did you remember?”

  “It’s not something from the past that I’ve forgotten exactly. It’s just my aunt’s voice. Know how sometimes you hear something and it’s said in exactly the way you heard it before so instead of being in this moment, you’re in that moment?” Lucky didn’t wait for Jane to nod or agree, but, instead went on as if he was afraid he wouldn’t remember if he didn’t get it all out fast, “When Nellie said ‘death in the family,’ it sounded just like my aunt, the one I lived with. I remember that I was sick or something for a long time. I remember coming home to my aunt’s house and asking her why I couldn’t go home to my mom and dad. Why can’t I go back to Kankakee? I can remember asking it just that way, just that question. My aunt said, ‘death in the family,’ just like Nellie.

  “I started crying and asked if my mother had died. She was always sick with headaches and stuff. Always lying down in her room with the door closed. And my aunt who was my mom’s older sister, shook her head and then I asked, ‘my dad?’ He was the healthiest guy you can imagine, always talking and laughing and dancing around the house, you know, the fun parent, and my aunt shook her head. She just repeated ‘death in the family,’ then told me not to ask any more questions. She’d tell me all about it later.”

  “And did she?” asked Jane, gently, in what she hoped was the “guiding” tone advised by Belinda in the chapter on helping a loved one recover his or her memories.

  Lucky whispered his response to Jane, but they had reached the gazebo and there were people waiting to meet and greet and introduce Lucky to the fans who had gathered to see him draw out the winner of tickets to the roast.

  Jane leaned in and asked him to repeat his answer.

  Lucky shook his head and patted Jane’s cheek.

  “We’re meeting before the bowling tournament at the studio, okay?” asked Jane. “How about two? That’ll give us an hour and a half before the tournament begins.”

  Lucky nodded, chomped down hard on his cigar, and got himself back into character for greeting his fans.

  “Are any celebrities coming in for the bowling tournament, Lucky?” shouted someone from the audience.

  Lucky laughed on his way to the microphone. “Think I want the locals to mop up the bowling alley with those Hollywood types? We got too many Kankakee celebrities signed up!” The crowd applauded and cheered as Lucky ran down the list of local politicians and shop owners who were scheduled to participate.

  “Knows how to milk the crowd,” said Malcolm, coming up on Jane’s left. Malcolm nodded, threw back his milk-shake shot with a vengeance. “And to think, I taught him everything he knows.”

  18

  The Kankakee Library was no longer the old stone building on Indiana Avenue guarded by lions where Jane had spent her after-school hours. Sitting on one of those lions, waiting for Don and Nellie to pick her up when Carl came on duty was one of Jane’s most vivid childhood memories. In the middle of the first decade of the twenty-first century, the Kankakee Library began its future. Because it had outgrown its 1899 building, the library moved to a downtown office building, becoming a modern state-of-the-art multistoried repository of books, information, media, computers, an auditorium, and community rooms. It was staffed by librarians who were a far cry from the stern bespectacled types portrayed in old movies as bun-wearing matrons whose fingers rested perpetually on their lips to shush patrons. Now, librarians were modern professionals who could teach someone to do online research, plan community programs, lead book groups, design teen study areas, and who only occasionally found themselves shushing patrons.

  This was one of those occasions.

  When Jane told Nellie she wanted to pop into the library, now located just across the street from the farmer’s market, Nellie had screwed up her face so tightly, Jane thought she was going to stamp her foot and throw a tantrum.

  “What the hell you want to go into the library for?” she asked, not bothering to disguise her distaste.

  Nellie disliked all public buildings. She was suspicious of cou
rthouses, post offices, and police stations. Jane chalked up Nellie’s mistrust of public spaces to her natural sense of anarchy and disdain for those in power, but Nellie reserved specific antipathy for the library.

  “All they got in here is books,” said Nellie, pushing open the glass door. “I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” said Jane. “You can go back to the gazebo and listen to Lucky and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

  “I can’t abide that idiot talking to hear himself talk. I’ll stay here and make sure you don’t sneak off into a corner to read.”

  Nellie was staring around her in front of the main desk, doing a full circle of observation. “What the hell does anybody need with this many books?” she said loudly.

  A young smiling librarian, long dark hair hanging loose, rushed over to Nellie and without an overt shushing, quietly asked if she might help her with something. Nellie jerked her thumb backwards and the woman looked at Jane, clearly hoping that she could control this woman who looked as if she wanted to dismantle the shelves and give the place a good scrubbing.

  “Mom, I want you to sit over there with a cup of coffee and I’ll be right back,” said Jane. “Please.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Nellie. “Coffee in a library? I never heard of such a thing.” Nellie moved over to the table next to the coffee bar and Jane apologized to the librarian whose nametag read ALLISON.

  “I need some early- to mid-twentieth-century telephone books or directories of local businesses. Are they all digitized or…”

  Allison directed her to the glassed-off room, which was dedicated to genealogical research. Jane gazed around her at the shelves filled with ledgers and directories, yearbooks, newspapers, organizational minutes of meetings, old maps, church histories. Jane knew she could spend hours in this room, reading over names, looking at the old ads and graphics, and letting the history of her town wash over her in waves. Instead, picturing Nellie running from reader to reader trying to interest them in picking up a mop instead of a book, she quickly found telephone directories and instead of looking up the residential addresses, information she already had thanks to Mary Wainwright, she looked up businesses.