Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery)

by Duffy Brown

  Fiona sighed, a smile tripping across her face. “Ya know, I’m glad I’m back here, I really am. I was bummed I was fired from the Inside Scoop—kind of embarrassing to get the ax from a second-rate rag. But now you’re here and we’ve got suspects and bodies and talking motives.”

  “Huffy’s dad threatened to throw me in the lake.”

  “Well, there you go. This place is great. Think I’ll buy a new snowmobile for when the lake freezes over. Then we can buzz back and forth to the mainland.”

  “Snowmobiles?”

  “NASCAR, Mackinac style.” Fiona nodded at the Good Stuff. “That fudge Irma and I cooked up must be something. It’s not even ten o’clock and there’s a group of oldsters sitting on the rock wall, barefooted, scarfing chocolate fudge from there and giggling like preschoolers. There’s even fudgies coming out of Doud’s Market eating chips by the handful, bags from the Good Stuff swinging from their arms. And there’s a line of customers waiting outside Irma’s shop.”

  “With a guy strumming a guitar,” I added as I closed the paint can and studied the scene. “Usually the only thing the senior set waits for around here is the early bird special over at the Yankee Rebel or the ferry. And why Irma’s fudge? There’s a bunch of them on the island. How much alcohol do you think Irma uses?”

  Fiona gave me an oh boy look and we headed over to the Good Stuff. “Is the fudge here really that good that you’re willing to queue up for it?” I asked a blue-haired woman with a straw purse waiting in line.

  A woman in a tangerine orange jacket and white slacks looked me dead in the eyes. “Honey, I’m here to tell you that my arthritis has never been better than when I eat the Good Stuff. That there Bourbon Bombshell fudge is mighty tasty, I’ll give you that, but it’s the Herbal Euphoria fudge that’s the best, and I’m keeping it all for myself and not sharing it with anyone, I don’t care who they are.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement and a woman in a sun hat adorned with pink and purple straw flowers added, “Why, I haven’t felt this good since a jar of white lightning got accidentally-on-purpose dumped in the church punch five Christmases ago. It’s like I’m back in college again.”

  “It’s better than Prozac for chasing the blues,” a bald-headed man added, the guitar player now strumming “Like a Rolling Stone,” with everyone swaying to the tune. Another guy took off his tie and fastened it across his forehead. The woman with the hat yanked off a big pink flower and stuck it in his headband.

  Fiona and I looked from the happy guitarist to the people giggling on the rock wall to another group coming out of Doud’s. Fiona sucked in a breath. “We got bags of Doritos, Cheetos and Fritos and a guy with a flower in his bandana playing the guitar.”

  “Herbal Euphoria?” I asked the bald-headed man.

  “Gives you a terrible case of the munchies, but you sure do feel good.”

  Fiona grabbed my hand and held it tight. “Smithy’s herbal butter, the munchies, giggling like kids and feeling really good?”

  “Holy Chicago!”

  “I’m going to strangle Smithy with my own two hands,” Fiona growled as we pushed our way into Irma’s shop, Fiona elbowing customers to the side, something she probably learned in getting the Inside Scoop. “Do you know what you’re doing here?” Fiona asked Irma when we got to the marble-top table.

  “Hello, dears. I’m selling fudge, lots and lots and lots of delicious fudge. Don’t you just love the rainbow icing peace signs I drizzled across the top of this batch, and the little flowers in the middle? Isn’t life won-der-ful, completely won-der-ful?” Irma was dressed in a flowered skirt with a pink geranium stuck in her hair and no shoes.

  “Do you have any idea why everything is so wonderful?” I asked her.

  “The fudge I’m making is won-der-ful; just ask anyone here.” She touched Fiona’s cheek and smiled. “I have so many won-der-ful customers buying my fudge and having fun. We’re having lots and lots and lots of fun. Don’t you love my skirt? I had it packed away in that box with my Lovelace books. No one even knows who she is. I think I’ll get the books out and read them again. They are won-der-ful, just like my fudge.”

  “Look,” Fiona said, a hint of sternness to her voice to try and get Irma’s attention. “You can’t do what you’re doing, it’s against the law—at least in this state it’s against the law.”

  “What’s against the law?” Rudy asked, shuffling out of the kitchen area. He had on shorts, sandals and a flowered shirt, with his hair pulled back into a . . . ponytail? Really? More peace signs decorated his cast, along with inscriptions like We love you, man and Hang loose.

  Rudy gave Irma a peck on the cheek and put his arm around her. “We’re over twenty-one; we’re legal.”

  Irma tickled Rudy. “And some of the stuff you do should be against the law, you silver fox.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Rudy. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

  “I’m making trail mix and helping Irma.”

  “Let me guess,” Fiona said. “You’re both using the herb butter I got from my dear brother Smithy, whom I intend to beat to a pulp.”

  “Best stuff ever,” Irma said, a silly grin tripping across her face. “Makes us even for you buying the peanut butter fudge over at Rita’s.” Irma kissed Fiona on the cheek. “You always were such a sweet girl. Maybe you can get more of that butter; business is booming. I bet Smithy’s cooking up another batch right this minute.”

  Fiona gave me an Oh dear God in heaven look, and I said to Irma and Rudy, “You got to get rid of this . . . stuff—every bit of the Herbal Euphoria fudge. And the trail mix has got to go. If Fiona and I can figure this out, so can Nate, and he’s going to come barging in here and have to arrest his own mother and you’ll all be in jail braiding each other’s hair and singing ‘Kumbaya.’ Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “Throw it out, both the fudge and the mix?” Rudy wagged his head. “Everything? Why?”

  “Into the lake it goes,” Fiona said. “And you’ve got to do it immediately. Think of it this way: You’ll make a lot of fish really, really happy.”

  “I don’t get it,” Irma said, her eyes dreamy.

  “You lived the sixties,” I said, trying to reason with them. “Bob Dylan, flowers, lava lamps . . . you’re playing ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ on a turntable, for God’s sake! Doesn’t this seem a little familiar? My guess is you both ordered beads and Birkenstocks online this morning, and Doud’s is no doubt completely out of every kind of chip imaginable by now.”

  Rudy looked from me to the fudge, a hint of sanity returning. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. Fiona and I have to get to Smithy before this goes any further. Promise me you’ll shut down and clean this place out right now. And do not eat or sell any more fudge!”

  Fiona and I ran for the door and climbed in her horse cart as Rudy started telling everyone the Good Stuff was shutting down for the day due to a family emergency . . . like the possibility of Irma winding up in the pokey stoned out of her gourd, with her son standing guard.

  “If Smithy’s brewing another batch, we got to stop him before Nate shows up,” Fiona said. “If Smithy winds up in jail, the parents will totally blame me.”

  We did a fast trot past Trayser’s Trading Post and Thunderbird Gifts. Fiona was the Tom Petty of the horse cart world. We passed Speed’s bike shop with a banner saying the Speedsters were having carb night at Goodfellows. Well dang, I should learn to ride a bike just for the pasta. We cut up Astor to Market Street, and the blacksmith shop was just ahead.

  “The double doors are open,” Fiona said. “The blacksmith is in, probably lecturing a group of tourists. Just wait till he hears the lecture I’m going to give him.”

  Fiona pulled the cart to a stop and hopped out, with me following, trying to think of some way to keep Fiona from flattening her brother. She made her way to the front of t
he crowd and growled to Smithy, “We got to talk.”

  “I’m in the middle of a presentation.”

  “We need to talk now, brother dearest.” She looked Smithy right in the eyes; his face was red and sweaty from the hot coals. “Butter.”

  Smithy dropped his hammer, his eyes now the size of goose eggs. “You know what happened to my butter?”

  “It ain’t pretty.”

  “That’s all for today, folks,” Smithy said to the crowd. “Everybody out. Come back tomorrow.” He spread his arms wide, backing everyone through the doors and onto the front lawn. “We got a horseshoe emergency here. I gotta make a barn call.”

  Smithy came back into the barn and slammed the doors together, locked them then faced Fiona. “Where is it?”

  “It wound up in fudge that is selling like all get-out over at Irma’s.”

  “You took my herb butter?”

  “How was I supposed to know it was that kind of herb! Now we have a bunch of toasted seniors wandering the streets and passing out flowers and flashing the peace sign. Chances are good they might start flashing something else.”

  “You really need to give it back.”

  “That’s the whole point—it’s gone, consumed, digested. I helped Irma with a new fudge recipe, and that butter was the new part and it’s a really big hit. You got a nice side business going on here, way beyond growing oregano and sage. Bet you’re making a killing with selling it off. How could you—”

  “He’s not selling off anything,” Nurse Jane Porter said, coming down the steps from the loft, a bag of herbs in her hand. She sidled up close to Smithy and slid her arm through his. “This terrific guy is my hero; he’s a hero to a lot of people around here.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, stepping in since Fiona looked close to a stroke. “You two are the president and vice president of the island feel-good society?”

  Jane Porter smiled up at Smithy. “You could say that. The butter is for two ladies on chemo, a man suffering from depression and another from MS. They got prescriptions for the stuff, but do you have any idea how expensive those prescriptions are? And it’s not very good quality. I see these folks week in and week out struggling, and it just broke my heart. I knew Smithy had a garden and I asked him to help me to help them and we came up with a plan.” Jane batted her eyes and sighed. “He’s terrific.”

  “P . . . Prescription?” Fiona muttered.

  “Sorry about pushing you out of the loft,” Smithy said to me. “I couldn’t have you blowing the whistle on us.”

  “I make special brownies once a week,” Jane went on. “Evie saw Smithy that night at the Grand. He was making a delivery to a bartender with MS. With the busy jazz weekend, he couldn’t get to the clinic.”

  Fiona sank down onto a little wood bench by the forge and looked from Jane to Smithy. “So you two are an item?”

  “For almost a year; ever since we started this.” Smithy winked at Jane. “We both had bad breakups, so we kept our relationship to ourselves. And I have a daughter to consider. We wanted to make sure this was the real thing before we let the cat out of the bag.”

  “But I’m your sister.”

  “And you’re a reporter.”

  “And you didn’t kill Bunny?” I added.

  Smithy looked confused. “I thought Rudy did her in—not that I blame the man.” Smithy hugged Jane. “Constance and I probably would have muddled through our marriage and been unhappy for years. Thanks to Bunny being Bunny, we didn’t. She did me a favor; probably the only favor she’s ever done in years, even if she didn’t mean to.”

  “Listen to me,” Fiona said, wagging her finger big-sister-style. “You guys really need to lock up the butter and get it to a better hiding place.”

  “Better hiding place for what?” Sutter asked, coming in through the side door, the screen slamming shut behind him and Jane standing right there with a bag of prescription in her hand.

  Fiona and I exchanged uh-oh looks, and I stepped between Sutter and Jane, saying, “Smithy’s dried blueberries are so amazing that everyone on the island’s going to be wanting some, and they might even steal them, so he better hide them.”

  Once again proving beyond all doubt that I sucked at lying.

  “I think you’re all crazy.” Sutter sighed, then turned his attention to me. “But right now I don’t care. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Me?” I sighed. “Why?” There was getting to be a long list of whys, and at this particular moment I had Angelo’s lock-picking set in my back pocket so I could return it to him.

  “There’s a woman over at the station,” Sutter said. “She won’t talk to anyone, won’t even give me her name, but she insists on talking to you, and she’s . . .”

  “What?”

  “Rich, demanding, obnoxious, a pain in the ass even worse than you—hard to imagine.” Sutter rocked back on his heels. “So which bluffie did you tick off now, Chicago, to get someone like this in your life?”

  Lately that covered a lot of territory. “Let’s go,” I said, grateful for a reason to get Sutter out of the barn. I followed him to the side door and glanced back at Fiona giving me the okay sign.

  The police station was close, so Sutter wouldn’t encounter many seniors off in la-la land. I figured if I could keep him occupied for a few more hours with this woman, the whole island would slowly shift back to reality. No matter who this bluffie was or how obnoxious or snotty, she was a blessing. I followed Sutter into the station, past Molly the desk clerk, her eyes round and terrified, then to his office door, which he opened to reveal . . .

  “Mother?”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Mother from the doorway of Sutter’s office. “You’re in Paris . . . Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, crepes.”

  “Well obviously I’m not in Paris, Evie.” Mother straightened her pink scarf and smoothed her white linen skirt, which would be a pile of wrinkles on anyone else but would not dare do such a thing on Ann Louise Bloomfield. “And I am sure there’s a very logical explanation as to why you’re painted white?”

  “I was helping a friend with some repairs, and where’s Father?”

  “Last I saw of the man he’d taken up with a twenty-something topless dancer from the Lido and was drinking wine, eating cheese and sketching nudes in a studio apartment on the Left Bank.”

  “You . . . are so funny?” I said hopefully.

  “Evie, as you know, I am never funny, and I have flown for twelve hours to get here. I couldn’t face your siblings at the moment. They don’t understand things that are not perfect, and for you, it’s simply a way of life. And I need to have the right spin on this situation before I get back to Chicago. People will talk.”

  Mother stood. “Now where should I have my luggage sent? The hotels and bed and breakfasts are full due to some holiday they seem to be having. I’ll stay with you. I trust you’re up at the Grand Hotel? I do hope you insisted on a decent room with a view.”

  “I’m staying with a friend in a room over his bicycle shop.”

  Mother let out the Mother sigh. “Of course you are. I’d forgotten I wasn’t traveling with Lindsey and Trevor. I suppose Over His Bicycle Shop is a quaint boutique B and B. We’ll just have to make do.”

  She held out her hand to Sutter. “Since my daughter has lost all sense of decorum, I am Ann Louise Bloomfield. I take it you are Bernie Fletcher, since that is the name on this little plastic plaque on the desk. You need a cleaning lady; the place is filthy.”

  Sutter took Mother’s hand. “Actually, my name is—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mother said, making her way toward the door. I followed her, mouthing I’m sorry to Sutter, who was enjoying this a lot more than I was. I mouthed I’m sorry to Molly, who looked close to tears, and to the taxi driver Mother paid to retrieve her luggage, along with a dissertation on how
to not steal anything.

  “You must be hungry,” I said to Mother as we headed for Main Street, trying to think of something to keep her busy. “The Yankee Rebel is just around the corner and has great fish.”

  “I’d rather nap. I can have luncheon sent up to the room.”

  “How long do you plan on being here?” I tried not to whimper. “You have a law practice and clients and—”

  “A few weeks. I should have some things sent over from Chicago.”

  “There you are,” Angelo said to me as he hurried out of Little Luxuries, two bottles of wine nestled in a bag. “I need my—”

  “Later would be better,” I said to Angelo in a rush. “This is my mother—my Chicago attorney mother.” I hitched my head toward Mother, hoping Angelo would get the message that I couldn’t exactly whip out the locksmith tools right in front of her and hand them back.

  “Is that right?” Angelo stilled, a slow smile sliding across his face and brightening his eyes. “This is your mother? I would have expected someone covered in paint.”

  Mother laughed, and Angelo’s smiled widened. What the—

  “I have a bunch of lawyer friends back in Detroit,” Angelo continued. “In fact, our family business couldn’t survive without them—there’s always trouble—but none of ’em are as pretty as you.” Angelo gave Mother an appreciative once-over. “Va-va-voom. Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  Va-va-voom followed by really bad French? I waited for Mother to take out her American Express platinum card and stab him through the heart with it.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she extended her hand and blushed; at least, I thought it was a blush. Mother never blushed, so it was hard to tell for sure.

  “I am delighted to meet you,” she said in a pleasant voice that I’d never heard.

  “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow evening?” Angelo offered. “I know this is sudden, but I’ve just moved here to the island. You and I can explore this place together. Could be fun.”