Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery)

by Duffy Brown

  “Here,” Sutter said, barging in as I snapped my hand out of the trashcan minus the napkin. Sutter wiped sooty smudges from his face as he handed me one of those red, white and blue popsicles—would you expect anything but red, white and blue popsicles on Mackinac Island?

  “Thanths,” I said, the ice instantly numbing my throbbing lip, which must be the size of a softball by now.

  “You don’t like Rita and Dutchy, I get that. So, did you set the blasted fire or what?” Sutter grumped.

  Okay, here we go. Breaking and entering in the police chief’s house versus arson. Which to confess to? What happened to the days when my choices were deciding whether I want fries with that? I reached in my pocket and pulled out the half-eaten, totally gross and smashed-up Baby Ruth and slapped it on the desk. “I left cat food on the porch.”

  Sutter looked from me to the candy bar and back, his eyes widening in recognition. “You were in my house!”

  “It’s Bernie’s house, so don’t get all snippy, and I was checking on my cat, who is now most definitely your cat, so I couldn’t set fire to Rita’s shop ’cause I was busy falling down the stairs because Little-bit scared the heck out of me.” There was no reason to drag Fiona into this.

  “What kind of name is Little-bit? I call him Winchester.”

  “You’re naming him after a rifle?”

  “It’s dignified; sophisticated; a place in England.”

  I gave him a you really expect me to believe that line of baloney look.

  “Okay, it’s a rifle. I should throw you in jail for breaking and entering.”

  “I didn’t break a thing, and not a court in the land will convict me for looking after the welfare of a cat named after weapons, and in case you missed it, Huffy had more fire in her eyes than there was in the fudge shop, and she sure wasn’t looking at me.”

  “She was staring at Dutchy and Rita.”

  “You didn’t miss it.”

  “Got any idea what Huffy and Dutchy and Rita got going on?”

  “How about a little quid pro quo?”

  “How about a little find your quid in jail?”

  I took a bite of popsicle. “All I know is that with Bunny out of the way, Huffy gets Dwight, and the girl’s really obsessed with his house. For some reason”—that shall remain a mystery to protect the guilty, like Irma and me—“Huffy sort of thinks Rita and Dutchy might have a claim on SeeFar, and she’s not thrilled about it.”

  “What’s that got to do with the fire and Huffy?” Sutter pulled the charred papers from his jean pocket and tossed them on his desk, ashes scattering across the top. “Looks like an accident to me.”

  “The back page is blue. This pack of papers is what’s left of the legal documents an attorney gave to Dutchy and Rita stating the house was all Dwight’s, down to the last board and step. I’d say Huffy wanted to make sure Dutchy and Rita got the message and started a little fire to underline her sincerity.” I plucked up a corner of the blue page. “Here’s what I think’s going on.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “I think Huffy knocked off Bunny to get what she wants, and it’s a good bet Dwight was in on it.”

  “Murder his own mother?”

  “Depends on the mother, and on how much can a guy put up with, and for how long, with no end in sight. How old is Dwight—forty or so? And you saw the look in Huffy’s eyes tonight. It wasn’t let’s all be friends and toast marshmallows. And think about this: Rudy’s not the most stealthy of individuals with a full-leg cast and a crutch. If he’s guilty of doing in Bunny, why don’t you have an eyewitness by now?” I snagged the napkin out of the trash and tossed it beside the smashed candy. “And who are these people?”

  Sutter tossed the napkin back in the trash and leaned over me, hands on the arms of my chair, face inches from mine, smelling like smoke with a hint of fudge. “You’re . . .” He stilled, eyes suddenly black as the ashes on the desk. He swallowed hard, gently ran his thumb across my lip, then bolted upright and walked across the floor—actually, it was more of a Rudy hobble. My stomach flipped, my mouth went dry and my lungs quit working. All this because of Sutter?

  “I’m what?” I finally managed.

  “You should think about going home to Mommy and Daddy.”

  “I think I’m getting close to the real killer,” I said, my brain starting to function after my body read a lot more into Sutter’s one little touch than it should have. “Right now Huffy and Dwight get my vote as prime suspects, or maybe Smithy or Speed could have planned the big Bunny surprise. They all have motive, something to gain if she was out of the picture, and even I could figure out how to cut a brake cable.”

  Sutter turned back, shut his eyes for a second and ran his hand around the back of his neck. He puffed out a breath of air. “What am I going to do with you?” he said in almost a whisper, more to himself than to me.

  For a split second I remembered the bedroom and the tossed sheets and moonlight and the hint of danger and imagined just what Sutter could do with me. I had some imagination. Except that was never ever going to happen. My ex was not only a jock, but a cop; another blasted know-it-all cop, hard-headed cop. And I wasn’t going back down that road. No, thank you.

  “What you can do is let me out of here.” I got up and tromped to the door.

  “Okay,” I said to Rudy as the first morning taxis trotted down Main Street with loads of fudgies, all passing by Rudy’s Rides. “I got three cans of beach-baby blue pried open. I painted the outline of a picket fence across the front of the shop here so we look like we’re following the book. I bought paintbrushes from Doud’s. And this old sheet spread out should be good enough to catch drips and spills so we don’t make a mess of the porch.”

  “You really think this will work?” Rudy smoothed out his Mark Twain jacket and sat in the wicker rocker that I’d pulled out onto the sidewalk.

  “I’ll have this place painted and looking good before the town council realizes what we’re up to. That plus sprucing up the bikes should keep them from shutting you down. It won’t make money, but it keeps the doors to the place open till we figure something out.”

  I handed him a copy of Tom Sawyer. “Here you go. Now all you gotta do is rock away and spout things to passersby like Just because you put syrup on the top doesn’t make it pancakes.”

  “Twain said that?”

  “It’s from the back of a cereal box, but you get the idea. I’m going over to Irma’s for cover-up clothes for the kids to paint in so we look like we want them to participate. We’ll scatter ’em around, along with the brushes dipped in blue.”

  “You sure you’re up to all this after that fall you took last night and busted your lip? What in the world happened to you?”

  “Too much catting around.” I headed for the emporium and let myself in the back door to dead quiet.

  “Anybody home?” I called out. The aroma of chocolate and something else sweet and a little fruity was scenting the air. I strolled into the front of the shop to find Irma stretched out on one of the marble tables, apron over her eyes, bottle of peach brandy wedged between her enhanced Victoria’s Secret breasts.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No need to yell,” Irma mumbled from under her apron. Her finger pointed to the slab of fudge on the second marble table. “Peach brandy fudge.” She hiccupped. “Taste it. Pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.”

  “It makes you drunk?”

  “If you put more of the booze in you than in the fudge it does.” Irma laughed, hiccupped then moaned. “Least if I die now I’m already on a marble slab.”

  I took the booze then helped Irma to sit. She wobbled, slid off the table onto the floor, legs wide apart and hair wild. She blinked and gazed up at me. “I think my legs fell off.”

  I hoisted her up, and together, the three of us—Irma, me and the bra
ndy—stumbled into the kitchen. I deposited Irma in a chair, located some aspirin, dumped out two multivitamins, got a pitcher of water, made toast and charged up the coffeepot. Hangover Therapy 101—one of the better things I learned in college.

  Irma stared, bleary-eyed, at the remedy I had spread out on the table and made a face. “I’d rather have that bite of the dog cure.”

  “I think it’s hair of the dog, and this is better. Do you have a few old shirts you don’t want? We’re doing some painting over at Rudy’s.”

  Irma held up a vitamin, studying it in the sunlight. “Do you think Rudy takes Viagra?”

  Yikes! I dumped the rest of the peach brandy down the drain, put all the pills in Irma’s palm and looked her right in the eyes. “Take these right now and keep drinking the water till it’s gone and you have to pee like a racehorse and we will forget this conversation ever took place. Where are the clothes?”

  “Upstairs hall closet on right. Saving ’em for the island swap we do ’cause it’s hard to get rid of stuff. I got on one of Bunny’s sweaters right now. She got one of my scarves—not that she’s got any use for it now.”

  The floor plan was like Rudy’s, except the kitchen was much bigger. Taking the back steps, I found the closet at the top with the boxes stacked inside. I pulled open the top one and saw neatly folded T-shirts that would be great as cover-ups for the little Rembrandts who I hoped would never show up—and a copy of The Highwayman’s Revenge by Sophia Lovelace. Right there on the cover were a half-naked chickie and a bare-chested dude tangled in sheets and each other, getting it on in the moonlight and sprawled across a big four-poster bed way too much like Sutter’s.

  My blood boiled. My latent hormones kicked into overdrive. I slammed the box closed, kicked it back in the closet and locked the door behind me, then leaned against it. This was God getting even with me for sneaking into Sutter’s house and stealing his Baby Ruth.

  “Are you okay up there?”

  I took the shirts and galloped down the steps. “Thanks,” I said to Irma when I got to the bottom.

  “You’re all red and sweaty. What happened up there?”

  “Hot flashes.”

  “You’re too young for hot flashes.”

  “Wanna bet.” I ran out the door and turned toward the front of the bike shop, where three little kids were merrily slapping blue paint on the front of Rudy’s Rides as parents snapped pictures like it was a day at Disney World.

  No, no, no, this was supposed to be the bad idea, the one that flopped. Breaking into Sutter’s abode was supposed to be the good idea that succeeded, getting me lots of info to help find Bunny’s killer. Rudy smiled for a family doing selfies with him, then he helped a little girl of about six into a cover-up T-shirt and handed her a brush. I found the little artist a section of fence to decorate, then backed up, letting parents get that perfect-moment shot of their offspring as a white bulldog, more a basketball with legs than a canine, charged up Main Street barking, Free at last, free at last, holy cow, I’m free at last.

  Okay maybe the little dog wasn’t really barking that, but he looked like he would if he could, and the problem was that a four-horse dray was fast-trotting right for him. The driver couldn’t see the little dog, and even if he could see him, the one thing I knew about horses was that they did not brake to a stop like a Ford pickup.

  Kiddies screamed, parents looked horrified and I ran for the dog. Puppies getting smooshed by big horses with fudgies looking on did not happen on Mackinac Island. Me getting mangled rated a human-interest story that would be good for business if I lived to tell about it.

  I ran, scooped up the dog in one hand then tripped face-first, bracing my fall with my free hand as sixteen iron hooves thundered my way. I one-arm, two-knee scooted as fast as I could with a wiggling basketball in my grasp, and by luck and expert driving, the dray went the other way. Thank you, Jesus.

  A woman in a red hat helped me up, dusted me off then hit me with her purse. “You need to keep your pet on a leash. What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s not my dog.”

  “He’s licking your face like he’s your dog. You should be ashamed for not owning up to your responsibility.”

  Others nodded in agreement, and the dog added more licks, confirming their suspicions. I looked down Main Street, hoping to see a distraught owner rushing my way with a hefty reward in his hand, or at least an apology. When that didn’t happen, I got a few more evil looks from the dispersing crowd and checked Basketball’s collar. No cute doggie name like Mr. Wiggles, but there was a phone number. I managed to hold on to Basketball with one hand and slide Sheldon out of my back pocket with the other, then punch the digits.

  “Who is this?” a woman on the other end snarled.

  “I have your dog.”

  Voices sounded in the background, with a bunch of yelling and cussing. “What do you want?”

  “Uh, to give him back?”

  “How much?”

  “All of him? Where are you? I’ll bring him to you.”

  “SeeFar, come alone, no heat.”

  “It’s already eighty degrees out here and there’s nothing much I can do abo—”

  The line went dead. What was going on up at SeeFar now? The place was like a three-ring circus. The whole island was a circus. I thought about the brochures advertising Mackinac as a place of peace and tranquility. Wasn’t there some law about truth in advertising?

  Rudy seemed to be holding down the fort okay. Fudgies were snapping his picture with their kids on his good knee, and Rudy passed out bags of trail mix for free. He was the island summer Santa. Basketball was heavy, but the six-buck taxi fare to SeeFar was more then I wanted to shell out, and there’d probably be an extra charge for the dog. If I knew how to ride a bike, I could do the pup in the basket routine. I really should learn how to ride. I looked at my again-bloody knees and scraped elbows—and my lip still hurt. Or maybe not.

  Cradling Basketball like a basketball, because no way could his short stubby legs take the east bluff steps, I headed up as Winslow galloped down, pushing other stair-climbers out of his way. A sleeve of a white dress shirt and toe of a sock stuck out of his suitcase, and his face was ghost white, not overheated red like it should be. “Are you okay?” I asked as he raced by me at marathon speed.

  “I will be,” he called back. “As soon as I get on a ferry and get the heck out of here. I came to straighten out Bunny’s estate and get Dwight’s signature on some papers so he can take over the house, and now he doesn’t even own the blasted house. Dwight’s gotten himself into a big mess this time, and I can’t help him. He’s on his own.”

  Winslow tore across Marquette Park and I lost sight of him as he turned onto Main. What was wrong with Winslow, mild-mannered attorney and history buff? Shifting Basketball to my other arm, I trudged my way up the third flight, plumpy puppo perfectly content to be carried rather than do the walking himself. Smart dog.

  I got to the top, took a left past the petunia flowerpot for SeeFar and walked up to the wrought iron gate that marked the entrance. A dray was parked at the curb, with two men unloading boxes and a lady at the door. Basketball scrambled up the porch stacked with boxes and into the arms of the lady dressed in a gray cotton skirt, pink cardigan and Dr. Scholl’s. She had hair like Rudy’s. “How much for the dog?” she asked me.

  “He’s yours. He’s free.”

  “What are you, some kind of wise guy?”

  “I get called troublemaker a lot—does that count? Good luck with the dog.” Under the SeeFar plaque there was now another plaque that hadn’t been there before—The Seniority. Just like on the envelope marked Urgent that I’d seen in Dwight’s room when I cased his place.

  “Is Dwight around?” I asked. “His mother just passed away.” Not that I was all tea and sympathy for Dwight, but the crazies had landed, and this was his house . . . maybe.r />
  “He’s cooking us dinner. Go away. Don’t come back.” The door slammed shut, leaving me on the porch. Us? Who was us? Bunny mourners? How long were they staying? With all these boxes, it looked like they’d be here awhile—and Dwight could cook? Who knew. A rear window flew up, clouds of smoke puffing out along with the stench of burned meat. From the sounds of the yelling and screaming and barking inside, it was a good guess Dwight was not the Julia Child of Mackinac Island.

  I got back to town, where Rudy was in his element as Twain, with both kids and adults eating it up. Considering all the action out in front of the shop, I could get away with painting the back of the shop, and by evening three sides of it had a first coat of beach-baby blue. Guess all those painting classes I took in college at five hundred dollars a credit hour counted for something after all.

  “You need a break,” I said to Rudy after we closed up Twain and the Tourists. “Go play euchre and bring me back a burger and some fried green beans.”

  Laughing, Rudy balanced on his crutch and studied the front of Rudy’s Rides, which looked like an impressionist painting caught in a rainstorm. “The kids had fun. I had fun. Guess what? They call me Uncle Rudy. Never thought of myself as uncle before. I like it.”

  He pointed to the corner of the shop. “And whatever you do, don’t paint over those marks there that you see. It’s how tall Mark, James, Lilly and Kaitlyn are. We put their names and the date. They come to the island every year, and we’re gonna keep track of how much they grow.”

  “You need grandkids, Rudy.”

  “Tell your boss—but my guess is she’s not the sort you tell much to these days. Kids aren’t high on her priority list; making money is. Right now I’d be happy if she had a date once in a while. All she does is work, drive her fancy car and act important. I’ll bring you back a pasty from Millie’s.” He looked me in the eyes and put his hand on my shoulder. “We did good today, Chicago. I didn’t think we could really pull this off but we did. You got gumption, lots of it and you’re a good painter.”