by Duffy Brown
“We had someone keeping an eye on Dwight, ’cause he was in to us for a bundle. We got the word about Bunny and hiding the body in a freezer so as not to upset the business community till after the holiday. Now we got ourselves a cook and a summer house.”
“You didn’t facilitate Dwight’s inheritance?”
Angelo stopped whisking the cocoa, giving me a slow look. “You mean like did we snuff out Dwight’s mom to get this house? We’d never do that to an old lady. What kind of people do you think we are? You were friends with Bunny?”
“I’m friends with the guy accused of knocking her off, and if it wasn’t you doing the knocking, then it’s got to be somebody else on my list.”
“You got a list?” Angelo looked wistful. “I remember the days when I had a list.” He dropped a handful of little marshmallows in the bottom of two I Detroit mugs and poured out the cocoa, the scent of chocolate permeating the air and steam curling over the top of the little pillow-puffs of white.
“So who do you think snuffed Bunny?” Angelo asked, taking the seat across from me.
“She wasn’t loved by one and all around here, including her own son and his girlfriend. She was kind of a pain in the neck,” I said, plucking a chocolate-infused marshmallow off the top and dropping it in my mouth. “There’re two other bike shops on the island,” I added. “Both would like to take over my friend’s shop and cut the competition, so framing him fits. Then there’s a blacksmith and the neighborhood hit man, Jason Bourne. Neither of them got along with Bunny either.”
Angelo stopped the mug halfway to his mouth. “Jason Bourne? See, that’s what gives this profession a bad rap. Cheesy nicknames make us all look bad. Maybe you should have a look around this Bourne guy’s place, since he’s a professional. Could be someone wanted Bunny out of the way and hired local talent; makes better sense than a DIY job. You know what you’re getting when you hire local. Think global, buy local.” Angelo laughed. “A little hit man humor. So when are we busting in?”
“We?” I splashed my cocoa across the table.
“You helped us, now I can help you.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I can’t be busting anything. That cop here has me on a short leash, and if he catches me doing one more thing—”
“Catching’s not gonna happen. Where’s this hit man live?”
“Two doors up.”
Angelo took a sip from his mug, and a white line clung to his upper lip. Guns, breaking and entering with the mob and a marshmallow mustache . . . It was one of those nights.
“Let’s see now,” Angelo said. “I signed up for Pilates at noon at the Lilac Tree Spa ’cause the arthritis in my shoulder’s acting up from packing heat all these years. There’s a butterfly talk up at the Grand I want to catch, and Dwight’s having a yard sale here to pick up some cash. We’ll do the bust tomorrow night. Eight’s good? Meet you at the back door here. Have somebody get this Bourne guy out of his house for an hour. And you need to ditch the blue; you stand out like a neon sign.”
* * *
The next morning I added another layer of lotion to my abused skin after scrubbing paint off my body for an hour the night before and thinking about my new BFF from Detroit.
“Rudy?” I called out, tromping downstairs. Except there was no Rudy in the kitchen with fresh coffee waiting for me, just two cats hovering over a half-empty food bowl as if Armageddon and starvation were imminent. I filled the bowl, made coffee then knocked on Rudy’s bedroom door. Getting no answer, I headed outside, figuring he was probably getting a head start on the great Tom Sawyer project, except he wasn’t—he wasn’t there either, and with all that was going on around here I didn’t like Rudy being MIA. Somebody framed Rudy for taking out Bunny; the next step might be to take out him. Last night I was in bed before Rudy came in; that is, if he came in.
I pulled out Sheldon and dialed 911. “Yes, it’s an emergency,” I barked to Sutter when he picked up. “Rudy’s missing. I don’t think he came home last night. Do something—and don’t give me that forty-eight-hour missing person speech like they do on TV for a person to be officially gone. Here everyone knows where everyone is twenty-four/seven. Do something!”
I could hear some papers rustling in the background.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I dropped my doughnut.” The phone went dead, and little red dots danced in front of my eyes. I was going to kill Sutter with my bare hands! It was one thing to ignore my killer theories, but Rudy was not here, and that mattered. We got along, we were friends and painting buds and he fixed me breakfast every morning.
I grabbed a jacket, slammed the door and headed for the police station, but then I saw Sutter on a bike pedaling my way. “’Bout time you got here. No horsey?”
“He’s eating breakfast, like everyone else on this island.” Sutter parked the bike and nodded at the emporium. “Lights on in the back. Did you think that maybe Rudy’s having coffee with Mom? They’re friends. She’s up, he’s up, it’s early.”
“Coffee?”
“Black stuff, cream, sugar, maybe a doughnut, unless it ends up on the floor when you’re answering a phone call from some crazed female.”
“Look,” I rushed on, trying to explain. “I’m just a little jumpy with all that’s going on around here.”
“You’re jumpy?” Sutter took a step back and laughed. Oh, that’s rich. Got any idea the impact you’re having on the rest of us around here? We passed jumpy two days ago. The whole island’s destined for Prozac.” Sutter put his hand on my back and none too gently shoved me up the walk to the back door of the emporium. Irma was busting about inside, copper pots simmering on the stove, ribbons of steam curling out over the top.
“Well, hello, dears,” Irma said, all smiles, eyes bright and cheery as we walked in. She nodded to me and kissed sonny boy on the cheek.
“See, no Rudy,” I said with a so there edge to my voice. “He’s missing, and I bet he’s in trouble, I can feel in my bones that something isn’t right, and—”
“Irma, do you have an extra towel? This one’s . . .” Rudy stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall. Sutter’s eyes rounded to the size of golf balls, and you could have knocked me over with a wet noodle. Not exactly the kind of trouble I had in mind, but with a gun on Sutter’s hip it was headed that way.
“Rudy,” Irma giggled. “You look better in that blue robe than I ever did.”
“I gave you that robe.” Sutter stared, not moving a muscle. “What . . . Who . . . Why . . . Mom!”
“Well now,” Irma said, handing a fluffy, just-out-of-the-dryer towel to Rudy and giving the pot another stir with a spoon the Jolly Green Giant would have found useful. “You know the who well enough, and as for the what and why, I don’t think that’s any of your business—no offense, dear.”
“You’re sixty-seven.”
“Sixty-eight, dear.”
Sutter looked from his mother to Rudy, who was slowly backing into the hallway. “How can you do this?”
“How?” Irma patted her son’s hand. “There’s a book upstairs in your old room. Thought we went over this when you were ten or maybe eleven. Been a while for you, has it? Don’t worry, you’re young; you have time to figure it out.”
“But . . . but . . .” Sutter muttered, then headed for the door in a near-run, slamming it behind him.
“Is he gone?” Rudy asked, peeking around the corner, this time in his pants and shirt. “I’m sorry, Irma, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Irma put her hands on Rudy’s shoulders and gave him a sassy smile. “I thought it happened pretty well, if I do say so myself.”
Yikes! “I’m out of here. See you back at the ranch,” I blurted to Rudy. I exited through the front of the emporium in case Sutter had passed out right there on Main. Sutter was nowhere in sight, but Fiona pulled her cart to the curb and cli
mbed down, a big brown basket in her arms.
“Did you happen to see our local police officer?” I asked her.
“Strangest thing, he was pounding on the front door of the Stang, yelling something about being desperate and they had to let him in or he’d shoot the lock off the place. Wonder what that’s all about? Did you do something new and not include me?”
“For once I’m innocent. What’s in the basket?” I asked as a diversion from questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Here, let me show you. You’re gonna love this.” Fiona flipped open the lid. “The brandy fudge was a big hit—Irma sold out in half a day, so she’s decided to aim for the more adult palate.”
Fiona pulled out a jar and held it up. “This is ancho chilies and smoked paprika sea salt, and Smithy makes this special herb butter from his garden that he keeps in the back of his fridge, so I grabbed a tub. Irma’s leaving the maple-nut and chocolate chips to the rest of the shops on the island, and changing the name from Irma’s Fudge Emporium to The Good Stuff. We’re appealing to a niche market, giving senior discounts. This is going to put Irma on the map, and maybe get me out of the doghouse.”
By afternoon, most of the bike shop had a second coat of beach-baby blue as Rudy/Twain told stories to the kids about the big fish in the lake and explained that the best way to toast marshmallows was on a stick you found in the woods and that there were more stars in the sky than grains of sand on all the beaches on Earth. When I came around to the front to paint, I saw that Rudy had added how tall I am marks along the entire front of the shop, along with dates and names.
“What are we going to do about the kids?” Rudy asked me. “We can’t paint over their marks. Look right there: Allison Bell is thirty-two and three-quarters inches tall and Dominic Carter is forty-three-and-a-half inches tall. They’ll come back next year and be looking to see how much they’ve grown, along with all the other kids I’ve got up here. We can’t paint over it and we can’t leave the shop looking run down.”
“I’ll think of something,” I said with a lot more conviction than I felt. “I have to help Donna deliver some scones, and I’ll be back soon. Hold down the fort.” And if you see Nate Sutter, run. I didn’t add the last part, but probably should have.
I did a quick change then headed for the white picket fence of the Blarney Scone. “You’re looking more and more like one of the Smurf people,” Donna said as she opened the back door. She gave me three long, white boxes and a threatening look. “Don’t drop these; they be some of my best work ever. Got a fine assortment made up and been baking like a banshee all night.”
“This is perfect.”
“You’re not the one up all night trying to bake with a broken oven. Good thing I’ve got another on order.”
“Sorry about the oven, but you need to have Jason Bourne come here to the Blarney Scone for a scone tasting. Say around eight o’clock tonight. There’s a good chance he had something to do with Bunny biting the big one and I want to look around his place. You can tell Bourne you’re trying a new recipe and want his input, with him being one of your best customers.”
Donna took a step back. “Blessed be Saint Patrick, you know that obituary piece we were working on the night you got here, now I’m thinking I’ll get a chance to use it. And how do you intend to get yourself inside Bourne’s house? The man’s got the place locked up like Fort Knox.”
“I’m working on that part. You’ll call Bourne?”
“He’s not one to be chatting on the phone, but he will pick up for me. Since we’re talking Rudy here, I’ll make the effort, since he took our part on the town council like he has.” Donna patted my cheek. “Ye best be real careful, Evie girl. Mr. Bourne’s a mighty private person, and if the man catches ye . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Does Rudy know your next of kin to be contacting?”
The scone delivery was at the top of Crow’s Nest Trail, better known to me as the steps from hell. Drenched in blue-tinged sweat by the time I got there, I went around the side porch of the huge Victorian to the gardens in the back. Tables with white linens dotted the grass, the whole place decked out in late-summer red and pink geraniums, purple asters, dahlias, yarrow, coneflowers and the like. My mother’s garden was not as elaborate as this, but close. I wondered how the parents were doing in Paris? Stupid question—everyone did great in Paris.
“There you are,” a maid in a white apron grumped as I came inside the kitchen. She snagged the boxes out of my hand. “I need to get things set up, we’re running late. Grab that silver tray with the pink doilies and get the napkins and for God’s sake don’t get blue on them.”
I followed Grumpy outside, put down the tray, then headed back to town. Instead of taking the steps, I turned toward SeeFar, hoping to catch Angelo between the butterfly lecture and Pilates. I needed to see if Angelo and I were still on for tonight and to let him know that Donna had a plan to get Bourne out for a few hours.
I opened the squeaky gate and cut across the grass. I didn’t see Angelo, but Dwight was surrounded by a small crowd of shoppers and a collection of boxes, furniture, a few rugs, tables with books, framed pictures and a set of old china. Nurse Jane Porter had two ugly lamps picked out, Doc Evers hauled off a brass coat rack, Speed pawed through a box of photos and Smithy test-pedaled a stationary bicycle. Jason Bourne had a box of paperbacks tucked under his arm and was haggling with Dwight over the price of a nice-looking tie—the perfect accessory for the well-dressed hit man—as Huffy stormed her way up the sidewalk.
Everyone pretended to be consumed with the sale, but no one really wanted to miss a word of “You got me into this, you creep, and it’s all gone wrong and you’re going to make it right if it’s the last thing you do, Dwight Harrington.”
“But sweetheart, we can work this out, I swear it’s going to be okay.” Dwight put his arm around Huffy and took cash from Jane Porter for the ugly lamps.
Huffy wiggled away, eyes on fire, lower lip in a pout. “You said we could be together and have things our way, and now you’ve gone and ruined it all. No house, no money. How could you let this happen? My father knows what’s going on and he won’t let you get away with this.”
Huffy got on her bike and pedaled off down the road, leaving Dwight looking pale and sick as Smithy paid him for the stationary bike.
“Huffy’s been after Dwight since Helen and I bought the Merry Widow six years ago,” Ed said, coming up behind me, a bunch of pictures tucked under his arm. “And now when those two could finally be getting together, Dwight goes and loses it all. He’s one of those guys always after the fast buck, and this time it bit him in the butt. I keep trying to tell Ed Junior that hard work gets the job done. He needs to be more like Abigail. She’s got her head screwed on right, a real go-getter.”
“Abigail has no life.”
“Ed Junior could do with a little less of a life. A Ferrari? Where’s that money coming from? What’s he thinking? Not about business, I can tell you that. He’s driving me crazy. But then I’m the one who spoiled him, so I can’t complain. I just need to help him out once in a while to make things right, or so Helen keeps telling me.” Ed glanced around at SeeFar. “Maybe the new owners will make this place right and put some more money into it. Bunny had the roof done last year, but the outside could do with a paint job.”
Speed walked up and slapped Ed on the back old-buddy style. He had a smile on his face that was more teeth than I’m so happy to see you.
“I’d like to buy those pictures from you,” Speed said, pointing to Ed’s eight-by-ten glossies. “They’re of me when I used to cut Bunny’s grass a long time ago. We were great pals, and she gave me a lot of encouragement when I was just getting into cycling.”
Ed pulled out an article from the Crier. “Bunny kept this with the pictures. It says right here that she gave you the name Speed from the way you sped around the island so fast it was like you had a motor on y
our bike. You were destined for greatness even then.” Ed held out a pen. “I’d love to have you autograph the pictures. I’m hanging them in my den. Great local interest.”
“I’ll give you five hundred bucks for ’em.” Speed reached for the pictures and Ed pulled them back. “A thousand,” Speed added. His smile got tighter, his eyes darker, all pretense at friendliness gone. “I want to put them in my shop. Bunny promised me those pictures and never got around to giving them to me. They are some really fond memories.” Except Speed sure didn’t sound fond; he sounded pissed and mean and maybe a little desperate.
Ed held the photos a little tighter. “I’m sure you have other pictures you can put in your shop—like the framed one of you in Sports Illustrated that you got up at the Grand the other night, and . . .” Ed let the rest of the sentence hang; Speed was already halfway across the yard.
“Helen would kill me if I gave these up.” Ed glanced at one of the pictures of Speed in his early teens, all lean with sun-bleached curly hair, alongside a young and pleasant Bunny. It was hard to imagine Bunny pleasant.
“While I’m here I’ll get Helen some of those books I saw earlier in an L.L.Bean box by the folding table,” Ed added. “I think Helen has a thing for steamy reads. I found The Highwayman’s Revenge hidden in a copy of War and Peace on our bookshelf and The Duke’s Decadent Proposal in The Comedies of William Shakespeare. I know I sure didn’t put them there.” Ed laughed. “I read a few pages, and wow. The back cover says the author’s a Vegas mystery woman who tells all. Surprised the books don’t set the house on fire and . . . and they’re gone.”
Ed nodded to the folding table. “They were right there in a box. I didn’t see anyone check them out with Dwight.”
“Must be another closet reader.” My brain fogged over with images of the four-poster and the moon, and was that Sutter coming up the walk?
“I’ve got to go,” I said to Ed. “Don’t let Speed fast-talk you out of your pictures. They’ll look great on your wall.”
