Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery)

by Duffy Brown

  “Fun.” Mother’s eyes softened. “Yes, I think fun would be perfect.”

  Okay, in my whole entire life I never remembered Mother using the F-word. The mob boss and the lawyer? Stabbing Angelo with the card would have been better. “I’ll take you to dinner, Mother,” I blurted.

  “I already have plans with . . .”

  “Angelo.”

  “Angelo,” Mother repeated kind of breathily. “An enchanting gentleman from Detroit. My friends call me Carmen.”

  “Who the heck’s—” A swift kick to my ankle shut me up. Ouch!

  “Seven o’clock at the Woods, Carmen? One of the taxis will take you there. I look forward to our evening together.” Angelo kissed the back of Mother’s hand and strolled off, Mother glowing, Angelo humming, and my brain in meltdown.

  “About Angelo,” I started. “He’s—”

  “Just what I need.”

  “Oh, trust me, I really don’t think so. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

  “Evie.” Mother grabbed my shoulders and peered at me through lowered eyelids. “Your father’s taken up with a French harlot and is painting nudes. I am now Carmen; not a word of this gets back to Lindsey, Trevor or your grandfather or you’re out of the will; and I need to go shopping for something with black lace.”

  Before I could get my brain to function after the black lace comment, Mother was halfway down the next block. I should let her know that the best shopping for evening wear might be up at the Grand Hotel or Mission Point, but telling Ann Louise Bloomfield, aka Carmen, where to shop was like telling Martha Stewart how to bake cookies.

  “I’ve got a problem,” I said to Rudy when I walked into Rudy’s Rides. He still had on his flowered shirt, but his hair was no longer ponytailed and he had on a shoe. Yes, island life was shifting back into normalcy. He was fixing a bike at the workbench. “It’s been a day of problems.”

  He winked at me. “The fish are now happy, so that particular dilemma is taken care of, and Irma made up your bed for your mother and you can sleep on the pull-out couch in the TV room down here.”

  “How did you know about Mother?”

  “The fudge vine. It’s the island grapevine dipped in chocolate. Heard she has a date tomorrow with that mobster guy up on the bluff who took over Bunny’s house.”

  Rudy stopped working on the bike. “You should know that I might be spending some time with Irma. I’m just telling you so you don’t wonder where I am. We figure the way things are going with the Bunny Festival, we may not have much time left.” Rudy’s smile slipped a notch. “To think we lived next door all these years, and when we finally get together . . .”

  “Hey, you can’t give up on me,” I said, a lump in my throat. “Thanks for helping with Mother.”

  “Thanks for trying to save my behind. You’ve outdone yourself, and somehow I don’t think it was all for a promotion. We’re good friends, Evie Bloomfield.”

  I bit my bottom lip, that lump in my throat getting bigger.

  “Maybe you can paint up a few bikes so the place looks a little more country vintage instead of old and depressed for your mom. Think I’ll go see what Irma’s up to while I still can.”

  Rudy hobbled off, his gait a little slower, his back not quite so straight, sadness sitting in my gut like a rock. I rooted around under the workbench and found the paints Rudy used for bike touch-ups but instead of making the whole bike one color, I painted swirls of blue hydrangeas with yellow centers, long stems, big green leaves and white butterflies. Hey, I could vintage with the best of ’em, and I needed some cheer at the moment.

  I added a clear coat of polycrylic to set the paint so it wouldn’t run or wear off. Not exactly Rembrandt, but better than primer red, and it gave a shabby-chic feel to the shop. I got pink potted geraniums from Doud’s, put them in the basket attached to the front and parked the bike on the sidewalk.

  “Looks good,” Ed said, pulling up beside me as evening settled over the island.

  “Yeah, but what if it’s too late to make a difference and it’s all for nothing? Rudy’s over at Irma’s place if you want to see him.”

  Ed stepped closer. “I came to see you. I’ve got a lead. Remember those pictures I bought at Dwight’s yard sale of Bunny and our local celebrity? Well, they’re gone. I had them on the dining room table at my place and they disappeared. There’s something going on with Bunny and Speed, and it’s not just cutting grass and nostalgia. I’m going to talk to him. I know he took those pictures and I want to know why.”

  “He won’t admit anything, but I think it has something to do with when he was young—maybe something that Bunny had on him, and that if it got out it could hurt his fund-raising?”

  Face pinched with worry, Ed raked back his graying hair. “We need to take it to Sutter. We’re running out of time, and I’m going to lose my best friend. If we just plant a seed of doubt, maybe Sutter will let Rudy off the hook. I hate this more than you know. How could this happen?”

  “Unless we have proof, Sutter’s not going to listen. He knows we’re both on Rudy’s side. Let me poke around; I’m getting pretty good at it.”

  “Is that bike for rent?” a woman in khaki shorts asked as she came up the sidewalk. “I have a garden party luncheon tomorrow, and if I pedaled up on this and a hat I have that matches, it would make a big splash. Bet I could even make the front page of the Crier. Always wanted to do that.”

  Big splash, Ed mouthed, giving me a thumbs-up. He might be retired, but he sure knew his advertising stuff. Best promotion is word of mouth.

  “You can rent the bike for free,” I said. “Just tell everyone you got it here at Rudy’s Rides.”

  The woman toed up the kickstand. “I can do that. Got any bikes in roses or lilacs? A lilac bike would be a great hit at the Lilac Festival. I’m not looking to win races; I want something fun to ride while I’m here, something I don’t have at home. And my sister’s into cooking, so she’d love a bike with that theme.”

  “I can do that,” I gushed. “Just give me a day.”

  The woman pedaled off, and Ed patted me on the back. “How good are you at painting roses and pots and pans?”

  By six I had three rose bikes, a chef bike with mixing bowls, aprons and the like, a jazz bike with notes and instruments and song titles, and a smaller bike done up as Batman. Mother sauntered into the shop all smiles. I had no idea what to do with all smiles, since it had never happened before.

  “What do you think about this little number?” Mother said, holding up a black dress with red lace that looked way more Carmen than Ann Louise ever did.

  “Mother, how many Manhattans had you had when you picked that out?”

  “If you must know, three, and I got these shoes.” She opened the box. “I’ve never had red satin shoes with rhinestones.”

  And there’s a reason.

  “I got something to eat at a place called the Mustang Lounge. Did you know they have a yellow propeller on the wall, I guess in case someone needs an extra, and they have great fried green beans and they play euchre. Haven’t played since college. Won ten bucks and two beers.”

  “You’re hustling the locals?”

  “Did I mention the three Manhattans, and hey, they started it—I just finished it. Never mess with a woman wearing Chanel. I’m going to lie down, they wore me out. Oh, and Evie dear, what happens here stays here.” Mother thought about that for a second. “Or maybe not. Maybe it’s time that Carmen visits Chicago.”

  Like Chicago didn’t have enough problems. Was it something in the water? A full moon? People take a ten-minute ferry ride, land here and their inner crazy comes out.

  Five people wanted to rent the rose bikes for tomorrow, meaning I had to paint more, and four wanted dibs on the jazz bike, and the chef bike got rented for the whole weekend. I promised Lily Harmon I’d paint her a Barbie bike and pr
omised her mother I’d tone down the pointy boobs.

  I checked on my own mother, who was sprawled across the bed upstairs, head drooped off one side, feet dangling over the other. I grabbed a shower, then started off for SeeFar to return Angelo’s lock-picking tools as a Speedster zoomed by, probably heading for the great carb pig-out down at Goodfellows. I agreed with Ed that there was something going on with Speed and Bunny. Ed’s pictures missing off his dining room table underscored the fact even more. So why would Speed take them? What was the big deal about him and Bunny and his bike?

  I still had the lock-picking tools and Speed was not home for dinner. I told Ed I’d poke around, and now was as good a time as any. And I was so out of time.

  A damp chill hung over the island, night closing in. I passed Trayser’s Trading Post and Thunderbird Gifts, both shut up tight, and I took the side alley by the Speed Shop. It was dark inside except for a blue neon bicycle glowing over the checkout desk. Outside stairs led up to the apartment. Flashlight clamped between my teeth, I slid the hook thing, then the pick, into the lock.

  “What are you doing here?” Mother’s voice said from behind me.

  “Yikes!” I flipped the tools in the air and spun around, my heart in my stomach. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought you might be going out for a drink and I was starting to sober up and I really wasn’t ready for that yet, so I thought I’d follow along. What’s this all about?”

  Subtracting ten years from my life and giving me a heart attack? “Would you believe I forgot my key to my boyfriend’s place?”

  “Worst liar ever.” Mother snatched the lock pick and wrench thing off the stoop, and I waited for all hell to break loose. “Well?” she asked.

  “Well what?”

  “Well, move aside so we can get in, unless you like standing out here in the rain where people can see us.” Mother fiddled with the lock.

  “You . . . You know how to do this?”

  “Had a client accused of industrial espionage a few years ago and we had time to kill while waiting for the jury to come back.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “He got off, and you should see me with a deadbolt.”

  The lock sprang open. “Piece of cake.” She looked me in the eyes. “You want to tell me why we’re doing this?”

  “The guy who owns Rudy’s Rides is accused of murder and he didn’t do it and this guy might have.”

  “Got it.” She turned the doorknob and I put my hand over hers.

  “Wait a minute. Just like that you believe me? We could go to jail, you know.”

  “Evie, we are not going to jail. I’m an attorney; a good one. Of course I believe you, you’re my daughter, and like I just said, you’re the worst liar ever. So what are we looking for?” Mother asked as we went inside, my flashlight aimed at the floor and showing the way.

  “He owns the cycle shop below and he wants to take over Rudy’s place ’cause it’s a better location and to cut out the competition. He and the person murdered were once friends, then enemies. Knocking her off and framing Rudy takes care of both problems. Plus, he’s a dick.”

  The flashlight picked out a bedroom in the back, a kitchen to the side, a leather couch, two matching chairs, a flat-screen TV and a closed laptop on a desk. Mother parked herself at the desk. “A friend who becomes an enemy is all about betrayal. She’s the one dead, so either she did something to him or she could do something to him. Since you don’t know what it is, that means we’re looking for a secret, and if you think he’s the killer, it’s a big secret. Intelligent people don’t kill unless they have to.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  Mother fluffed her hair. “They don’t pay me the big bucks for nothing, chickie.” She gave a lopsided grin. “Did I really call you chickie? Must have been the Carmen in me sneaking out.” Mother opened the laptop.

  “Probably password-protected,” I offered.

  “Busy people don’t shut down their computers when they’re working; takes too much time to fire them back up. And unless you’re the CIA or that Bieber kid, no one really cares what you’re doing.” She hit the space bar to bring the computer to life, and a calendar of events popped up.

  “Your guy’s a hard worker; lots of speaking engagements, appearances, and luncheons from one end of Michigan to the other. I’d hire him.” She clicked on a folder marked finances.

  “I know some of these people. They’re investing in the Speed Challenge?”

  “It’s all about cycle racing in Michigan. Speed intends to make the headquarters on the island. I think that’s because there’s a lot of money here and Speed spent summers here.”

  “Okay, so this woman knew him when he was young, they were friendly and maybe shared confidences.” Mother tapped her finger against her lips. “My best guess is she had him by the shorthairs for some youthful indiscretion and was probably blackmailing him. If this secret got out, it would ruin his fund-raising.” Mother clicked back to the calendar, then closed the computer. “No wonder she’s dead.”

  “He stole some photos of them together, and a news article too. They might be here, but I don’t know if it means anything.”

  “If they’ve gone missing, it’s important. Thing’s don’t just disappear unless they’ve got a reason to.” Mother headed for the bedroom. “I’ll take the dresser; you take the closet.”

  “He’s got more shoes than you do,” I offered, stepping over three shoe trees.

  “If you come across red satin ones, we’ve got our secret. He has some really expensive briefs here. Nice tushy?”

  “Women drool.”

  “Good to know.”

  There was a lot more Carmen in Mother than I had ever imagined. “Look at this,” I said, dragging the framed Sports Illustrated picture from the back of Speed’s closet. “Speed got this thing as an award just the other night, and here it is buried in the back of his closet.”

  Mother parked her hands on hips and stared at the picture. “It’s the Tour of Texas, and he won. I’m guessing it’s a big deal since it’s in SI.”

  “Why hide it in the closet?”

  “Why indeed. We should get out of here.”

  “The local police might get cranky?”

  “If this Speed guy is the killer, two more bodies won’t make a hill of beans worth of difference.” Mother watched as I slid the picture back in the closet. “So what’s with you and this cop?” she asked as I made sure Speed’s shoes were neat and tidy like I found them. “I get the feeling he’s a little more hard-boiled than your average island officer.”

  “He’s from Detroit, and we drive each other nuts.”

  Mother laughed as we headed out. “In more ways than one, from what I see.”

  “Mother, he’s old.”

  “What, forty-something, I’m guessing? One foot in the grave to be sure.”

  I locked the door and we crept down the steps, the rain falling harder, streetlights and shop lights reflecting off the wet pavement and sidewalks, fog rolling in off the lake. Mother zipped her black fleece and I realized it was just like the one I had on except hers was newer and accented with a terrific pink scarf she’d probably picked up on the Champs-Élysées. She’d cut her hair and lightened it, and with us being nearly the same size, looking at Mother was looking at myself twenty-five years from now. Lucky me.

  “What’s this?” Mother asked, taking down a note tacked to the front door of Rudy’s. “Arnold’s dock. 9. Donna,” she read aloud. “Don’t you text around here?”

  “Cell phone service is tricky, and with the rain, it’s worse. Donna is Irish Donna, and she probably needs help . . . loading bags of flour. She owns the Blarney Scone up on Market Street, the pastries are terrific, we’ll go there for breakfast tomorrow, you’ll love it.”

  I was babbling, but I sure wasn’t about to tell M
other we had a local hit man and that he was also a murder suspect and could very well be making a run for it. Donna knew him better than anyone else. As a distraction from my latest attempt at lying that probably sucked, I pulled out the gold shamrock hanging around my neck. “Donna lent me this to ward off a black cloud that she says is causing all my problems.”

  “She sounds like a good friend, and I guess the cloud is one explanation why Timmy-boy ran off with my World Series tickets. It’s almost nine, dear; we should go.”

  Mother started off, and I blocked her path. “Your World Series tickets?”

  “The tickets, just the tickets. It’s late, I’m tired, slip of the tongue, and—”

  “What did you do, Mother?”

  She let out a deep breath and gave me the guilty as charged shoulder roll, just like the time I’d caught her red-handed hiding a package of Oreos behind the ficus plant when I was ten. I had the feeling this was a little more serious.

  “All right, all right,” she said. “You’ll find out sooner or later anyway. I made it look like Tim won those tickets.”

  “You set him up?”

  “And he took the bait. End of story. We’re running short on time, dear, and shut your mouth before something flies in and makes a home.”

  “You sabotaged my wedding?”

  “Altered it a little.” Mother took the scarf from her jacket and wrapped it around my neck. She kissed me on the forehead. “Tim Whitlock is a jerk—always was, always will be—and not near good enough for you, though you certainly weren’t hearing any of it six months ago. Now let’s help your friend, though I’m sure it has nothing to do with picking up flour. We need to get a move on now.”

  “You sabotaged my wedding?”

  “One day you’ll thank me.” She grabbed my hand. “It’s almost nine.”

  “But I loved my wedding dress. It had a train. I lost ten pounds to get into that thing.”

  “It was all lovely, dear, except for the groom, and once we knew he wasn’t showing up, we did enjoy ourselves ever so much more. The band was amazing.”