Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery)

by Duffy Brown

  “Well, darn,” Irma said. “I thought it would take longer for Rita and Dutchy to get onto us.” We headed down Main Street, a slow grin tripping across Irma’s face. “But it wasn’t all snakes and roaches either. I got a bit of my own with those two for a change, and it sure beat sitting around with a case of the gloomies. And it’s all thanks to you. I never wore jeans and Top-Siders or hunted a killer till you came to town. This is fantastic. I feel like a new woman.”

  “Maybe you should keep the killer part to yourself. And if Nate should ask, maybe tell him you’re simply helping Rudy in his time of need. Think he’ll buy it?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Irma laughed, then glanced at the entrance to Rudy’s Rides. She paused for a second, looking kind of sad, then turned for the emporium.

  I hooked my arm through hers and turned her back to the bike shop. “Why don’t you come on in and visit for a while?” I said in my little miss matchmaker voice—or, in this case, match maker-upper voice. “Rudy has some new trail mix. You should give it a try; it’s killer.”

  Irma fiddled with a strand of hair. “What if he throws me out?”

  I gave her a little tug toward the shop. “What if he doesn’t?”

  Rudy lined up the six ball for the far pocket, took one look at Irma coming through the door and missed the cue ball, the momentum of the shot and his cast throwing him off balance as he fell headfirst across the pool table. “I don’t think he wants to throw you out,” I whispered to Irma.

  “Hi,” Rudy said to Irma, pushing himself off the table and smoothing out his Twain hair, which was never going to smooth.

  “Hi,” Irma said.

  Not exactly Romeo and Juliet, but it was a start. “We got information on the Bunny Festival,” I said to Rudy to keep things going.

  “What Bunny?” Rudy asked, his eyes still on Irma. It was more R and J than I thought.

  “Tell him what we found out, Irma,” I said, trying for more conversation.

  “There’s a good chance Huffy and Dwight orchestrated the Bunny Festival. Huffy even called SeeFar our house and you look good, Rudy, really good. How are you doing?”

  Bambino made a flying leap from the pool table to Rudy’s shoulder. Rudy didn’t even blink; his eyes were fixed on Irma. “Dwight likes money and money’s a big motivator and . . . and did you do something new with your hair? I like the color.”

  Irma blushed. “It’s Adorable Apricot. Huffy and Dwight aren’t the only ones who could have done in Bunny—there’s Jason Bourne, and isn’t that the shirt I gave you a few Christmases ago? It brings out the color of your blue eyes, Rudy.”

  This time Rudy blushed. “Speed could have done the Bunny Festival,” he offered, a little smile on his face that had nothing to do with murder. “He wants my shop, and Smithy wants my place on the town council.”

  I’d heard my share of flirting at bars and restaurants, but flirting while talking murder suspects was a new one. I was about to tell them to maybe go get coffee when Fiona crept into the shop. She knocked into a row of bikes, and the racket of crashing metal on concrete snapped Rudy and Irma back to Earth—or as close as they’d get at the moment.

  “Thought I heard your voice,” Fiona said to Irma. “Look, before you start throwing rocks at me, I’m here to make amends for being a traitor. I feel really bad about the peanut butter fudge thing. Our families have been friends for years, and I want to keep it that way. So here’s the deal: What if I help you come up with new fudge ideas? We can work on it together. I searched online for some recipes, and I’ll feature the emporium on the front page of the Crier to bring in business. What do you think? Am I forgiven?”

  Irma dragged her gaze away from Rudy. “What fudge?”

  Fiona held her hands out, palms up. “You look sort of funny—and what’s wrong with Rudy? I think he’s having some kind of attack. I think you both got something.”

  There may be snow on the roof, even some dyed-apricot snow, but there was still fire in the furnace. Rudy hobbled over to help a customer studying the baskets of trail mix, and Fiona pulled a bottle of peach brandy from her purse and held it out to Irma. “Look what I got,” she said. “Dad left it behind in the bottom drawer of his editor’s desk. I brought it for inspiration. Dad said he always got the best ideas when he’d had a swig or two. Let’s go on over to your place and start cooking, we’ll do some small test batches.”

  “I know what’s going on,” Irma said to Fiona, a twinkle in her eyes. “You’re worried that if your mother finds out about you buying Dutchy’s fudge she’ll come back here and beat you with a stick,” Irma said.

  “It crossed my mind.” Fiona flashed a grin, kissed Irma on the cheek and they left out the back door, stepping over the cracked step.

  I straightened the fallen bikes back into a neat row. Rudy put down the phone and turned to me. “Can you do a bike delivery to ShadyNook up on Huron Road? It’s for a friend’s nine-year-old grandson, but it’s not Huron Road on the bluff side or Huron that leads to Arch Rock, but Huron Road that winds up behind the fort. The founding fathers weren’t a creative lot with naming streets. Irish Donna is tied up at the Blarney Scone, and taxi delivery costs an arm and a leg and I’m already down one of those.”

  Rudy took my hand. “Ya know, at first I didn’t want you here ’cause I was a stubborn old man. Well, the age hasn’t changed, but now I don’t know what I’d do without you to hold the place together like you are. Sure hope that promotion you want is worth all this grief of poison ivy, painting bikes and trying to keep me out of the slammer.” Rudy did the guilty shuffle. “But can you give me a few minutes before you take off? I need a haircut.”

  It was the eternal question of whether or not to stick my nose into a situation that was none of my blankety-blank business. Considering all I’d done since I got there was stick my nose in other people’s business, I went with it. “You have great friends,” I said trying to ease into advice I had no right to give. “Irma’s really nice, and she’s got spunk and not afraid to try new things, and you two would have a lot of fun together if you give her a chance and—”

  “Irma’s the one that got away.” Humming, Rudy took off, a little spring in his crutch.

  Wow, I’d never been the one who got away. Fact is my last experience of the male variety was with the one who ran away. Rudy headed off and I studied the stash of sad bikes in the shop, found a smaller one and tried to picture a kid happy to ride it. Like that was going to happen. I whipped out cans of black paint and found some yellow and a little bit of white. I painted Darth Vader on the front bumper and light sabers on the back, added the Death Star spaceship and R2-D2 and made the bike helmet more Stormtrooper than my grandmother made me wear this stupid thing.

  “You look terrific,” I said to Rudy when he bounded back into the shop.

  “The terrific ship sailed about twenty years ago. Right now I’ll settle for decent.”

  “Rudy, not only are you a terrific guy, you’re a total dude.” I kissed him on the cheek, then Star Wars on wheels and I headed for Fort Street. The neat thing about the island was that during the day the weather was warm to hot and at night you needed a jacket or fleece. That was the summertime, of course. From what I heard, in the winter, the place was Doud’s freezer times a million and everyone dressed like the Michelin Man.

  No wonder they built a fort on top of this hill, I thought as I headed up Fort Street. The enemy would take one look at the effort needed to get there and go find someplace level to attack. Sweating, with legs cramping, I pushed the bike, the island breeze the only thing keeping me from keeling over. I passed the governor’s summer home, took the next fork to the right and found ShadyNook, a blue clapboard in a cul-de-sac behind a privacy screen of tall yews. Privacy from what? This was a freaking island.

  I parked the bike on the front part of the wraparound porch, then started back for town, noticing a line for
ming by the white picket fence at the governor’s abode. The plaque out front of the house said it was open for business. I guessed that when the governor of Michigan was here vacationing he didn’t appreciate people wandering through his domicile seeing him wearing PJs and sipping a Bloody Mary.

  A tall, lanky guy in pleated khakis and a plaid bowtie stood guard at the door with one of those counting clickers in hand. He allowed a certain number of visitors in the house at a time, with no exceptions till Helen Levine pranced up the sidewalk, cutting in front of everyone. She said something to the guy with the clicker, flashed a smile, and her party of three passed straight on through.

  Okay, so what were the rest of the people waiting in line? Chopped liver? This smelled a lot like we bluffies stick together. I hated line-jumpers and I hated people who thought they were better than the rest of mankind. And there was the distinct possibility that maybe the bluffies were in cahoots with Smithy in framing Rudy

  “Hi,” I said to the guy at the door as he finally clicked me into the lovely stone and wood home with views of the harbor and the Grand Hotel off to the right. “I’m a friend of Rudy’s, and if Smithy, the guy from the blacksmith shop, takes Rudy’s place on the town council, that’ll be just what the people living up here on the bluff want, right? Care to comment on that or the Bunny Festival?”

  The guy dropped his counter. Okay, I could have handled that better but I was tired and running out of time to save Rudy. The tourists behind me stared, and the guy with the counter snagged my arm and tried to usher me down the steps, but I wasn’t in a budging mood.

  “What do you think you’re doing, saying things like that?” he hissed. He caught the eye of one of his staff. “Call the police right now.”

  “What’s this about a bunny festival?” one of the tourists waiting in line asked, with others smiling and nodding. “Somebody was talking about it over at Doud’s Market. Seems to be a pretty big deal. Is it going to be like the Lilac Festival? What’s the date? The kids will love it; we’ll have to come back. I gotta make reservations.”

  “Will Bugs Bunny be here?” one of the kids in line asked. “He talks funny.”

  I got up in the guy’s face. “Smithy taking Rudy’s place on the town council shifts the vote to the historic society. Maybe they got together with Smithy. Heck, maybe they planned the whole Bunny Festival?”

  “Chicago!” It was Sutter, and how’d he get here so fast? I turned around to Detroit cop on horseback, just like some Wild West movie, except in this case the damsel was causing the distress.

  Sutter slid from the saddle like a man who knew one end of a horse from the other, flipped the reins over the fence, jumped the pickets and tromped my way.

  “She’s a menace,” the counter guy bellowed, jabbing his finger at me. “She’s upsetting everyone.”

  “She’s not upsetting us,” a man in a ball cap with three happy kids in tow said to Sutter. “She’s telling us about the Bunny Festival. We’ve heard talk in town but we don’t know when it is.”

  “Will Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh be there?” asked one of the kids. “He’s my favorite rabbit ever.”

  “What about the Velveteen Rabbit?” asked a mother with a toddler in her arms. “The kids will have a good time with this. They can dress up and be in the parade.”

  “The Energizer Bunny with his drum is so cute,” a teenager said.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing a Playboy bunny,” a twenty-something guy quipped.

  “Get her out of here!” The guy with the counter stomped his foot and pointed his bony finger at me.

  Sutter had on his Detroit cop face. There was no standing my ground this time, so I followed him. He climbed on the horse and held out his hand. “Put your foot in the stirrup and get on. You’re wasting my time; I’ve got to get back.”

  “Ya know, I’m not that crazy about horses. No turn signal, no brakes.”

  “Think of it as a convertible.”

  I swallowed the rest of my lament, gave him my hand, and instantly found myself perched on the back end of a horse. Of all the places I wanted to be, this was not one of ’em.

  “Hold on,” Sutter ordered.

  “Where’s the seat belt?”

  In answer, Sutter took off, and I grabbed for the only thing available . . . him! I flung my arms around his middle, my boobs rubbing up and down against his back, my butt smacking against horse butt, jarring every bone in my body. “I just bit my darn tongue back here. Slow down.”

  “I’m not going fast. Feel the rhythm of the horse,” Sutter yelled.

  “What rhythm? Ya’ think this is Arthur Murray, and watch that tree, there’s a kid up ahead and you’re too close to the edge of the road and you took that corner too fast and I’m sliding off this thing.” And how did Sutter get to be so blasted ripped for a guy over forty! Didn’t guys go to pot after forty? Where was the beer gut?

  Sutter pulled to a stop, pried my arms from around his chest and looked back at me.

  “Dear God, are we there yet?” I asked.

  “Where’s there?”

  “How the heck should I know? You’re the one driving this thing.”

  “We stopped ’cause I couldn’t breathe from your death grip. Did you have to sit so close? And you’re a freaking back-saddle driver.”

  I socked his arm. “A horse’s rump isn’t all that roomy and I didn’t want to be back here and you were the one galloping like a madman down that hill. Was it to scare me? ’Cause it worked.”

  “It was a trot.”

  I socked his arm again for good measure, then grabbed the waistband of his jeans, not paying one bit of attention to his trim waist, and slid down one side of the horse’s rounded rump, dropping to my knees. While I was down there, I kissed the grass, glad to be on it again.

  “Very funny,” Sutter said, peering my way. “I got a call coming in from Detroit. I wasn’t expecting a nine-one-one from the governor’s house saying that a woman with a ponytail and rash was causing trouble. Gee, who could that be?”

  “Get a nine-one-one from anyone else? There may have been a slight misunderstanding over at Rita’s Fudge Shoppe earlier with Dwight and Huffy. Doesn’t it seem a little off that they didn’t call the police to complain about it?”

  “You mean to complain about you?” Sutter’s mouth tightened. “My mother wasn’t in on this, was she?”

  “Of course not.” I looked down to check if my pants were on fire. “But maybe they didn’t call because they didn’t want to get the police involved in what they got going on.”

  I got closer to the horse than I wanted to be. “I think Dwight and Huffy could have planned and carried out the Bunny Festival. With the furry one in hibernation, Huffy and Dwight are free to do the happy ever after thing and they get the house and the money and Winslow makes it work. Huffy was adamant about that house. They are up to something.”

  “Who’s Winslow?”

  I buried my face in my hands, muttering, “You’re missing the point. There are other suspects out there.” Except Sutter had Rudy as his prime suspect, and unless I had something more than theory to show him, he wasn’t flipping his opinion. “How’s my cat?”

  “What cat?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I try.” Sutter put the horse in gear, leaving me once again staring at the business end of a large, undiapered animal.

  I went into Doud’s and got cereal, milk, eggs, Doritos and other essentials of life, then headed for the checkout desk. “Did you hear about the Bunny Festival?” the gal in the green apron at the cash register asked.

  “I did,” I said in a loud voice so everyone around me could hear. “I was up at the governor’s house this afternoon and the tour guide up there, the one in khakis and a bowtie is in charge of the festival all by himself. He volunteered right there on the spot to head it up. Said he wants as much i
nput as possible with suggestions and plans so he can make this the biggest and best event this summer. Just let him know what you have in mind. Call him anytime day or night to talk as often as needed.”

  In light of my latest experience with Mr. Bowtie, I felt I had a right to add some excitement to his life like he added to mine. If there were a conspiracy between Smithy and the historic society, my encounter at the governor’s house would light a fire under someone’s behind, and chances were good someone would let something slip.

  I lugged my grocery bags out the door and ran into Irish Donna coming down Fort Street with not one huff or puff on her lips. She took one of my bags. “Let me help ye with that. I was just dropping off scones and would be glad to lend you a hand. After the day you’ve had over at Rita’s Fudge Shoppe and up there at the governor’s house ye must be a pooped pup. ’Tis good to see you’re sharing that dark cloud you got going on with people who truly deserve it around here.”

  “Guess I’m not making many friends these days.”

  “Odds are running two to one over at the Stang you be winding up in jail before Rudy gets himself there, but I got twenty bucks that says Rudy’ll beat you.” She winked. “I know about the cloud, ya see, and figure you got one foot on a banana peel. I’ll be the one winning the betting pot at the Stang and me and lovely Shamus can afford that trip to Florida when the weather goes right to the dogs up here.”

  “So glad I can add to your vacation enjoyment, but didn’t you just push the lovely Shamus over a rocking chair up at the Grand for flirting with that cute little blonde?”

  “He looked right handsome sprawled out on the floor if I do say so. Didn’t even mash the rose in his lapel.”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  “’Twas my favorite color rose off my prize bush.”

  When we got to the bike shop, Ed was holding the door, and Rudy was balanced on one crutch tightening the hinge, a straw hat on his head to keep off the sun. “You look more like Tom Sawyer than Mark Twain,” I said as I ferried the groceries back to the kitchen.