by Duffy Brown
“I think I like being here,” I said, a little surprised by just how much I meant it.
“I can tell.” Whistling, Rudy thumped off to the Stang, the soft glow of lamplights in the foggy night and the absence of cars giving the place a quiet, eighteen hundreds seaside town feel. If one of those big square-riggers sailed into port and Captain Somebody disembarked with a parrot on his shoulder and yelled, Arr, matey, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. I knew I should stop painting for the night or risk blowing our cover, except I already had more paint on me than what was left in the can. The sooner I got this done, the sooner I could toss out these clothes for good and never paint anything blue again.
I went inside the shop for a fresh paint roller, figuring if I stayed in the back no one would see me and I could paint by moonlight. People did lots of things by moonlight . . . like paint, just paint, and I was not going to think about HighSail and that big four-poster and moonlight ever again. I cut through the kitchen and stepped outside onto the deck, coming face-to-face with . . . the Godfather? The age was about right, except this godfather had a diamond stud in his ear and a thin scar across his right cheek. The bulge in his jacket suggested he was not making a social call. So much for the seaside town and square-riggers.
“Want a bike?” I squeaked, using two shaky hands to steady the paint tray.
“Came by to say thanks for saving the dog. I’m Angelo.” His eyes were cold, calculating but nonthreatening, at least for the moment, and if they changed, I didn’t want to be within a city block of the guy.
“Rosetta would be lost without Meatball around. Rosetta’s my sister, and you know how cranky sisters can get.”
“Actually, I do.”
“If we can assist you in some way, just say the word.” Angelo took a step closer. “We pay our debts. Always.” And I didn’t doubt him for one nanosecond. He rounded the corner of the shop and I finally remembered to breathe. Angelo did not fit the profile of your average Mackinac fudgie. And there was the bulge in the jacket to consider, and . . . and . . . “Meatball!”
I dropped the roller on the deck. It landed with a solid thunk, splattering paint everywhere. E-l-o were the last three letters in Angelo and e-t-t-a were the final letters in Rosetta and then there was a-l-l for Meatball. The words on the napkin! Meatball wasn’t a mob boss but a mob pet. The bucket-list chapter of the Detroit Partnership was alive and well . . . depending how dinner went . . . and bunking in with Dwight up at SeeFar! A senior contingent had taken over SeeFar as their retirement home? Everyone had to retire sooner or later, but why here?
Sutter needed to know what was going on. It wasn’t so much that I felt obliged to share information, because Sutter sure didn’t share anything with me, but the Partnership was way out of my league no matter what their age. If something happened to Dwight, it would be my fault, and there was no more room behind the ice cream and tater tots, or so people kept telling me.
I sealed the painting paraphernalia in a plastic bag so I could pick up tomorrow for more painting escapades with Twain and the fudgies. I pulled out Sheldon and blessed AT&T that I got reception and called the Stang. Sutter wasn’t there so I headed for HighSail. Strollers on the boardwalk stared at my blue camo outfit, little kids were pointing and laughing and two teens said I was rad and asked where I got it done.
Sutter’s kitchen had the light on. I went around back and banged on the door. Apple in mouth, Sutter peeked out the side window, muttered something unflattering and opened the door with, “What now?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“I wish that were true.”
I pushed past Sutter, went to the fridge, got a Baby Ruth, tore off the wrapper and chomped. “Dinner,” I mumbled around a mouthful. “The Partnership is here, right on the island. I rescued their dog.” I took another bite. “They’re up at SeeFar holding Dwight hostage, although he was cooking for them, so who knows what that’s all about.”
“Can’t you just watch TV and go to bed like everyone else?”
“Angelo met me in the alley and thanked me for saving Meatball. Meatball is Rosetta’s rotund dog with a really bad overbite, and Angelo and Rosetta are names on that napkin I got here at your house. It all ties together.” I pushed Sutter toward the door. “So do your thing. Go arrest them.”
“For what? Making Dwight cook? Probably the only real work he’s done in years. Should give them a medal. How old are these guys?”
“Seventyish. They’re kind of scary.”
Sutter swiped blue from my face. “Lot of that happening around here lately.”
“This is serious. What are they doing up at SeeFar? The front porch was stacked with boxes and a freight dray outside unloading more, like they’re moving in.”
“I bet Dwight learns to cook really fast.”
“That’s it?” I waved my hands in the air. “We’re discussing culinary skills while the Detroit mafia is camping out on the east bluff days after Bunny bites the big one and . . . and . . .”
I finished the Baby Ruth and studied Sutter, who was standing all relaxed on one foot, that darn moonlight in his hair as he calmly munched an apple. Forget the moonlight! “You knew about this?”
“We got the geriatric mafia plus dog, and as long as they don’t break the law here I can’t do anything. Seems Dwight pulled a fast-shuffle real-estate scam on the wrong people and they’ve come to collect what’s owed—like his house.”
I sucked in a quick breath, nearly choking on a peanut. “They’re going to kill him?”
“Dead people don’t pay up, and the paying up part is the important thing. Dwight’s got himself a house, and now his visitors have got it.”
“That’s it! That’s it! The mob knocked off Bunny so Dwight would inherit and they’d get what they had coming to them. It’s a perfect motive.”
“It’s a stretch. And they just got here on the island today. Bunny bit the dust days ago.”
“So they paid someone to do it like . . . like . . . like Jason Bourne! This just keeps getting better and better.”
Sutter dropped the apple core in the trash and put his hands on my shoulders, his big brown eyes serious and dark and really nice. “Listen to me, Chicago. You can’t go around accusing people without proof; especially the mob and a hit man. The Seniority may look a little wrinkled on the outside, but it doesn’t take much effort to pull a trigger and ditch the body, and they’re pros at both. The only thing Jason Bourne’s guilty of is a really stupid name, but I guess it beats Lady Gaga. Cutting an old lady’s brakes isn’t the mob’s style.”
“And you think it’s Rudy’s style?”
Sutter went to the wall and banged his head against it. “I know what you’re going to do. I should lock you up for your own protection.”
“I’ll be discreet.”
“You’re covered in blue paint, half the town is ready to throw you in the lake and now you’re adding the mob to the list. You wouldn’t know discreet if you tripped over it on a sunny day and it bit you in the butt.
Sutter threw me out of his house with an apple instead of another Baby Ruth and a blah-blah-blah lecture on some decisions not being good for my health. Guess the health part is why I wound up with fruit, instead of another candy bar, like I really wanted.
In all fairness, I got where Sutter was coming from about the mob being risky business, but how could I walk away from Uncle Rudy? He marked the kids’ heights on his shop for Pete’s sake. He bounced them on his knee and brought me pasties, and he was innocent. I had to figure out some way to follow up on this mob–hit man connection and try not to wind up in the freezer or the lake myself.
The crazy Labor Day weekend was three days off, but tonight, downtown was quiet, the family fudgies enjoying their last days of vacation before school started. The only action was in bars like the Pink Pony, the Gatehouse and Goodfellows, and the Stang fo
r the locals. Mission Point, the Grand, Chippewa and the other big hotels on the island had their own, more upscale, evening entertainment for guests.
Sheldon buzzed my butt. It was a Call me now text from Abigail, who was probably still at work fine-tuning the pitch for Mr. Big Client. I figured that Rudy had been putting her off these last few days, just like I’d been doing all along. If one of us didn’t give Abigail something to chew on, she’d suspect a cover-up and get herself here ASAP no matter what. I did not need ASAP Abigail—the mob arrival would pale in comparison.
I took a selfie of me in my paint clothes to reassure her I was working hard and helping out, then texted, Shop looks great, Rudy playing euchre, all’s well. I hit send and crossed my fingers boss lady bought it.
A breeze ruffled through the treetops, the temperature dropping, with the promise of autumn on its way. The last ferry of the night revved its engines and motored off from the pier rounding the harbor lighthouse that blinked green every ten seconds. A few tired tourists ambled up the dock, and right there in the middle of the ambling was Jason Bourne, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. That was pretty much my reaction to beer and pizza.
He climbed on the taxi, handing his overnight bag to a porter and keeping the silver attaché case cuffed to his wrist by his side. Looks like Mr. Bourne had a good trip; least for him it was good. Did he send a welcome to the island basket to Angelo, Rosetta and Meatball? The Seniority hiring Bourne to do the deed was a perfect fit because they’d get SeeFar. It that was the case, maybe Bourne would pay the new kids on the block a visit tonight to see how things were going. Spying on the mob and the local hit man didn’t smack of the brightest idea I’d ever had, but if I could take pictures of the meeting and send them to Sutter, he’d see the connection with his own two eyes. He’d have to believe my hit man–mob theory held water and look into it . . . right?
Considering the stops along the way to let off other passengers, Bourne’s taxi would take about twenty minutes to wind its way to his house. I could run the steps—right now I was so tired it would be more of a crawl—but Irish Donna and Paddy trotting down the street toward me offered another option. I held my thumb out in a hitchhiker stance to get Donna to stop. Like my blue-splattered ensemble wasn’t enough to make her curious.
“If ye looking to get a pint, my dear, hop on board and let’s get to it. The night’s not getting any younger, and with that outfit of yours we might get a round free of charge just for entertaining the customers.”
“Can you give me a lift up to the East Bluff?” I climbed in beside her, and Paddy took off in a slow horsey clop. “I need to . . .”
Yikes. I needed to what? I was walking into Don Corleone does fudge island, and I couldn’t let Donna be part of that. Her being in on the barn loft exploits and risking getting yelled at by Smithy was one thing, but this was a whole different ball game.
“To take pictures of the island,” I said, holding up Sheldon as we trotted along with a few others out enjoying a nighttime buggy ride. “My parents want to see the view of the Mackinac Bridge all lit up at night. They’re thinking about coming here for vacation next year.”
“Ye be the worst liar I ever encountered, Chicago. I know what you’re up to, and it’s checking out those new folks moving in with Dwight. Everybody’s talking; they be kind of a scary lot with taking over SeeFar like they have. I think we should pay a visit and see what’s what.”
“There is no we this time, okay?” I said as we started up Mission Hill. “Just drop me off at the top and you go back to the Stang.”
“The town’s dead as a bedpost tonight—nothing going on. So what we be looking for now that we’re here?”
I took one of Donna’s hands in mine and looked her dead in the eyes so she’d know I was serious. “Bunny’s out of the picture, and three days later SeeFar has new occupants from Detroit? It’s too much of a coincidence, and I don’t want you caught in the middle. From what I’ve heard, Dwight kept company with some pretty rough characters, and this could be the cream of the crop.”
Donna folded her arms and pouted. “You think you’re smarter than me ’cause you’re from the big city and I’m just an old island hick.”
Good grief, where’d that come from? “I don’t want you in the line of fire—if there is fire, not that there will be fire. Forget fire.” Did I have to mention fire? Like waving red in front of a bull.
Donna grinned, eyes sparkling. “Now you’re talking. There be some serious action going on, and I can be putting it on my Facebook page. Bet I get myself a bunch of likes over this one.”
The mob going viral was not what I needed. “Stay out of this and I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow at the Pancake House and tell you everything, I swear.”
Donna had one foot out of the carriage.
“I’ll give Paddy a bath.”
“And ye make the scone deliveries for me tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure, whatever, just go home.” I thought about what I was saying. Tomorrow afternoon sounded really specific—planned specific. “You’re playing me?”
“Our delivery boy’s off to camp and we need to be making the delivery. Shamus and I have a big group of our own coming in for high tea.”
“I think I’ve just been had.”
“Maybe a wee bit, but you’re catching on.” I climbed down from the buggy. Donna climbed back in, waved, then flicked the reins. Paddy started down the road toward town, passing the taxi coming up. Bourne sat all alone in the back, still looking really happy about something. Maybe this time he’d knocked off a bad guy who had it coming.
I ducked behind the big petunia pots, thinking I should start paying rent on the space. Peeking around the edge, I spied Bourne disembarking and heard the clack, clack, clack of his weekender rolling up his sidewalk to his front door. He pulled out keys, unlocked the door and went inside, and I saw the living room light come on.
Shivering as much from the cold as from what I was doing up here all by myself, I waited till the coast was clear, then slunk to the back of SeeFar, doing a clam-crawl again to keep below the window line. I knew this house way better than I wanted to. Lights were on in the kitchen and the window was open, probably from another Dwight-created gastronomic fiasco.
I slipped down between a white concrete statue of the Blessed Virgin that hadn’t been there before and a big bush. I made sure none of those leaves of three were hanging around. If Bourne came calling, I’d see him. Or maybe this was a wild goose chase and they’d all just go to bed; they had to be tired. Heck, I was tired to the bone. I’d painted a house and rescued a Meatball.
I settled back against the side of the house, trying to get warm. I gave Mary a pat on the back for being such a great mom. My eyes closed for a little rest and at the moment I was too beat to think about any creepy crawlies occupying my hiding space. Right now I was in an exhausted, live and let live frame of mind.
“What are you doing here?” said a rough voice hovering over me.
“Rudy?”
“Guess again.”
The flashlight clicked off and I blinked my eyes open to angry black ones and Angelo pointing a gun right at my forehead.
“How’d you know I was here?” I asked Angelo as he lowered the gun.
“My turn to unload the dishwasher and I heard snoring outside the window.”
I jutted my chin and sat up straight, squaring my shoulders. “I do not snore.”
“We’re talking buzz saw. Why are you here keeping Mary company, and why are you blue?”
Think, Evie, think. Praying? Drunk as a skunk? Blue is the new black? I held up my hands. “I got nothing.” I crawled out and stood. “If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now, right?”
“Be a big sin to shoot you with Mary here looking on.”
Otherwise it would be a little sin? Probably best not to press the p
oint.
Angelo held out the gun. “Besides, the thing doesn’t even have bullets. Rosetta tossed ’em out last year when I shot up her best drapes thinking we had an intruder. She ragged on me for a month about the dang drapes. You’d think they were made of gold. I still carry my piece here ’cause I feel naked without it. So spill it, what gives?”
“It’s an island, people are curious and it’s my turn to get the dirt.”
“Ya gotta be the worst liar ever.” Angelo nodded toward the back steps. “I was making cocoa, extra marshmallows when I can get away with it. Rosetta’s always on me about my blood sugar levels. Want some cocoa? It’s cold out here and you’re shivering.”
More like shaking from sheer terror.
“Rosetta and Meatball are watching reruns of The Untouchables,” Angelo added as I followed him up the back wood steps and into the kitchen. “I think Dwight’s hiding under his bed. He made oatmeal cookies. Half of ’em burned. We can scrape off the black part and they might not be too bad.”
“Why do you have Dwight cooking for you?”
Angelo nodded to a ladder-back chair by a maple kitchen table complete with a green fringe tablecloth and a bowl of wax apples in the middle. I sat down, and Angelo spooned cocoa into a saucepan and whisked the milk. “Dwight sold a bunch of us some real estate in the Keys for a winter place. The problem was, he didn’t own it. We thought a long walk off a short pier might even the score, but then he inherited this house and we figured a summer place might be nice. Rosetta and I are here to get things organized for the others coming in a few weeks. We like the house, but it’s too bad about Dwight’s mom.”
Time for the loaded questions. I eyed the back door, figuring it would take me maybe two seconds to get there and run screaming into the night. “So.” I swallowed, scooting to the edge of the chair for a fast getaway. “How did you know she died? It’s pretty much hush-hush.”
