Jammed

by Deany Ray

  “That man chased us with a rifle.” Celeste put one hand on a hip and matched Alex’s stern tone. “You should be going after him instead of hassling three ladies…”

  “…Who have every right to visit the dearly departed of Springston at their final resting place.” In an offended tone, Marge finished her friend’s sentence.

  “She’s right. He could have killed us,” I insisted. “That’s way worse than what we did.” How dare this arrogant cop talk down to the three of us? We might have just done him the biggest favor ever. We might have handed him a prime suspect in the case. Because that weird dude with the jam jars had to be connected to some illegal something. Or why else would he have been so angry at the thought of being seen?

  Alex glared at me. “Yes, he could have killed you. And whose fault would that have been?”

  “It would have been his stupid fault,” I said. Sheesh. Get off your high horse, man.

  Marge was still bent over, breathing hard.

  Celeste put a comforting hand on her friend’s back. “Did you get the same lead we did?” she asked Alex. “About the shed here at the graveyard? And some guy whose name is Mickey? Is that the reason that you’re here?”

  “Or did you follow us?” I asked. “Because you don’t want me on the case? Then you owe us a thank you. Because I think we’re on to something.”

  His face went dark with anger. “Thank you, Charlie,” he said, “for minding your own business, starting right this very second. I have a case to work, you know. I don’t have time to go chasing around in cemeteries, pulling people out of graves.”

  Marge stared. “Pulling people out of graves? What a creepy thing to say.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Celeste looked a little startled. “Are you some kind of pervert?”

  “I’ll explain it later,” I said. “He’s not a pervert, really. Just a know-it-all.”

  ***

  “Hey, follow us to my place?” Marge asked a little later as we headed to the cars. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. But I don’t like it here.”

  “We’ve got a few hours until our shift,” Celeste reached for the car door.

  “That works for me,” I said. What I wanted to do was go home and sleep for a thousand years. Terror is exhausting. But then I glanced at my two friends. Marge, still out of breath, was searching her pockets for keys while Celeste studied her nails, newly painted a sparkly fuchsia. If they could manage without a nap, well, then so could I.

  Did nothing wear them out? They could flee from an angry gunman, debrief over coffee, then work a full shift at a diner where a lot of hungry people were always wanting lots of things. Cream please, more coffee here, could you bring me some more gravy? This was supposed to come, I think, with a side of fries.

  Besides, I wanted to talk about the stuff we’d seen. Because it was downright strange.

  ***

  Marge lived in a tiny yellow house not too far from the diner. There were flowers everywhere: clustered around the mailbox, in patterns on the curtains, splashed in bold prints on the couch, on the wallpaper in the kitchen. Every table, every shelf was covered up with stuff. It appeared that Marge was a collector of the most avid sort: mainly of salt and pepper shakers and figurines of cats.

  Celeste made herself at home in the kitchen and got the coffee going while Marge took off her shoes.

  “I’m not used to running,” Marge said as she rubbed a foot. “I never was the kind of girl to go in for sports.”

  Celeste got out three flowered mugs. “Okay, Charlie, what’s the deal? Where did you run off to when that guy came after us?”

  I filled them in about my terror underground.

  “Well, that’s a messed up morning.” Celeste handed out the coffee, then she took a seat. “I noticed you were limping. You okay there, darling?”

  I nodded. “Just a little sore. And glad to be alive. What happened to you two while I was stuck down in the grave?” Talk about a phrase you never thought you’d say.

  “We ran to the car,” Marge said. “And lay down on the floorboards.”

  Celeste explained. “At least there would be some metal between us and the bullets.”

  These chicks were pretty smart, I thought.

  Celeste leaned back in her chair. “Okay. Who was that little guy? And jam jars? What the heck? That was the single weirdest thing I think I ever saw. And I have seen weird shit.”

  “I’m guessing it was Mickey?” I took a sip of coffee. I needed coffee bad. “But why would he be doing that? Dumping all that jam into a great big barrel?”

  “It has to be related to the case.” Marge scrunched her brow in thought.

  “But how?” I asked. How is cocaine related to a barrel full of jam? It sounded like the setup for the kind of ridiculous riddle my dad was always telling.

  “You tell us,” Celeste said. “What is the connection?” They watched me expectantly.

  “Who, me? I have no idea!”

  “But you’re the expert, aren’t you?” Marge looked at me, filled with hope.

  “Expert? On cocaine? Um, no.” I looked at them confused.

  “Of course you are,” Marge said.

  “You’re with the police,” Celeste said.

  “With the police from Boston,” Marge said, smiling at me proudly.

  I wished I really was the girl they thought was at their table. If I ever got a grownup life, I wanted to be her.

  “Sorry to have to tell you, but I don’t have a clue. You do know I’m just the secretary?”

  Of course, I had heard talk around the station about how drug busts had gone down in the past. Some of the cases had been known to take some pretty oddball turns. More than one suspect had hidden drugs inside a bra. You can just imagine the jokes. A thing like that makes a bad comedian out of every single cop.

  As the captain always said, you hope for stupid criminals; they’re easier to catch. But some of them are pretty clever. Like the guys who had a “pool hall” where they were selling a whole lot more than beers and games. And they might still be up and running except for this one dumbass. When he hung up from a “sales call” and stuffed his phone into his pocket, he butt-dialed 911. The cops could hear him joking with his friends about making a big sale.

  Oh, yeah. Stupid criminals. Sometimes cops solve cases, and sometimes the bad guys do it for us.

  So who knew what kind of ruses went on in the world of drugs? But a barrel full of jam? I couldn’t figure that one out.

  Jam! It made me think of cookies. It had been a long time since my breakfast of my mom’s buttery delights all filled with yummy jam.

  “Do you think the jam in that guy’s barrel might have been apricot?” Marge took a sip of coffee. “It’s almost time, you know, for the Apricot Festival. They always have great jam.” She smiled. “Charlie, that’s one of my favorite celebrations. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “Oh, there’s jam at every festival,” Celeste said to Marge. “This town loves its jam.”

  “Did anyone get a good look at the jam jars in that hut?” Marge wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Did they have labels on them?” She sighed. “There’s no way I’m going back there to have a little peek.”

  Celeste began gathering the dishes. “Well, that’s a question for another day. Time to serve the customers.”

  ***

  It was a gorgeous breezy day, and my mom had taken her class outside. As I pulled into the drive, eight to ten elderly students were doing stretches in the yard. Wearing a red and green muumuu, my mother demonstrated a pose that would be ambitious even for the young and fit. She leaned forward at a precarious angle. One leg was stretched behind her and one arm was reaching for the sky. It looked like she might have been frozen in place in the middle of a run. Kind of like I might have looked back when I saw Mickey grab his rifle.

  “Pose like this!” my mother called out to the oldsters.

  None of the students’ attempts at matching her pose seemed at al
l alike. Some students could barely lift their leg an inch above the ground. It was almost as if my mother had called out instead “Pretend to be a dizzy bird learning how to fly.” But they all smiled happily, as if they’d exactly replicated my mother’s artful pose.

  “Fabulous!” my mother called. “Now you can relax.”

  I watched them move very gently to ease out of their poses. Careful! I thought. Please! Please don’t hurt yourselves.

  “Charlie!” my mother called. “Come work out with us! This is my daughter, Charlie,” she said to the group. “She works with the police! She’s come all the way from Boston.”

  The proclamation was met with a chorus of “ooh’s.” Were they impressed with the prestige? Or were they wondering why the police in Boston went to work in their pajamas?

  I forced a weary smile. “Thank you for the invite. But I had…a workout with the girls.” Which, for once, I guess, was true. A bit of running, climbing, tumbling. Now I needed cookies.

  But to my dismay, an old man was making his way to me in slow and shuffling steps. I swear he looked like he was more than a hundred years old. So I didn’t dare to make a run for it. If this fragile old dude tried to chase me, he might collapse and break.

  So I turned and waited patiently, the fake smile still plastered on my face. He wore a bright red old-fashioned running suit like I’d seen in vintage stores. And he looked absolutely thrilled to be on my parent’s lawn to exercise with friends. Well, good for him, I thought. Then I started walking toward him. If I waited for him to make his way to me, the cookies might go stale.

  “I think I might be seeing more of you, Charlie Cooper,” he said as I got closer. He pointed a finger at my face. “I hear that you and my grandson got along real well.”

  Behind him, my mother winked, and a chorus of oldsters whispered among themselves. A couple of old ladies shot delighted looks at me.

  So. This must be Ira. Some days you just can’t get a break.

  “I thought Donald was real nice,” I said. Smile, Charlie. Keep on smiling.

  Ira grabbed my arm. “We’re just so proud of him that we can hardly stand it.”

  How could that even be?

  As if he’d heard my silent question, Ira kept on talking. “He plays Bingo with me every Thursday. He’s a real fine Bingo player. And he knows magic tricks!”

  Bingo? Magic tricks? Could my mother have possibly picked someone less sexy than this Donald? It was as if she secretly wanted to make sure I stayed single all my life.

  Ira talked into my ear, over-pronouncing every word. My mother had warned me once that many of her students could not hear well at all. And, for some reason, that made them yell. As if you were the one who was deaf instead of them.

  “He plays the clarinet!” Ira yelled at me.

  That made things even worse. I didn’t want someone playing an instrument (and probably badly too) while I tried to watch my shows. Ira looked so happy that I felt really bad. I hoped that Donald wasn’t the only grandchild he had to brag about. Maybe the others were surgeons or made award-winning indie movies when they had weekends off.

  “And he keeps a real clean house,” the old man told me and the exercise class and most likely the people next door.

  Wow. A clarinet and a mop too? Way to make me swoon.

  That’s when my mom came to the rescue. “Ira, that’s just fascinating, but it’s time to do our wind-down exercises.” The oldsters were already swaying on the lawn and waving their arms in the air.

  But Ira wasn’t through. “And he has a real fine job,” he said, still holding tightly to my arm. “He used to work in insurance, but now he’s at Hudson’s Foods.”

  The food plant? Hmm. I wondered if Donald had met Elkins.

  “One of Springston’s finest businesses.” Ira nodded enthusiastically. “I really love the jam. Have you tried the jam?”

  Jam.

  Wait a minute. “What jam might that be?” I asked.

  “The jam he brought your family as a thank you gift – for hosting him at dinner. Now, wasn’t that polite? His manners are superb.”

  Omg! I’d forgotten about the specialty jams that they made at Hudson’s. There was that little business in the back that the owner’s wife had started. Well, not so little anymore. Hudson’s Foods shipped jams all over Massachusetts.

  Of course! That very well could be the place Mickey went for his supplies. Because I could link Mickey and the food plant – because of Hector Elkins.

  Progress! I was so excited that I just about forgot what I had decided earlier that day as I cowered in a grave. I’d decided to spend my time doing normal kinds of things, sensible things, safe things, and leave the dangerous felons alone.

  But wasn’t this just so much more satisfying? When all the pieces came together?

  “It was a brand new flavor that he brought you” Ira yelled. “You really ought to try it. Rhubarb and ginger jam!”

  “You tried it for breakfast this morning,” my mother called out to me. “I used it in the cookies.”

  “Yes!” I was just as excited as Ira now. He’d finally told me something that I was glad to hear. “Rhubarb and ginger jam!” I cried. I kissed Ira on the cheek. “How absolutely wonderful. Thank you, Ira. Thank you!”

  My mother caught my eye and winked. She grabbed my hand as I passed her on the way inside. “You see? Your mother’s always right. You’ve got that look of love. It’s dancing in your eyes. I knew the boy would grow on you.”

  I was so thrilled with the news that I bypassed the cookies on the counter and dove into my purse to get my cell. Hopefully, Marge wasn’t so slammed with orders that she couldn’t pick up the phone.

  She answered on the second ring and I quickly filled her in.

  “The Hudson’s jam!” she squeaked. “That makes so much sense! Not that anything else about this case makes any sense at all.”

  “I wanted to tell you right away,” I said. “So we can all be thinking about where we go from here.” I knew she’d tell Celeste.

  And I bet Alex didn’t have a clue. Score one for the girls. The Daring Girl Detective was going for the win. And Dreamy Detective Blue Eyes wouldn’t know what hit him.

  “No need for thinking, hon,” Marge said. “Because this girl has a plan.”

  A plan? Already? How did she even do that?

  “What’s your plan?” I asked.

  Just then I heard a clatter on her end of the phone.

  “Oh my,” she said. “Some new waitress dropped a bowl of the crab soup. And table five is cranky. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Some cops dash onto a scene in a hail of bullets. Some cops risk their lives in perilous car chases. I went on a date with Donald Binder; that was Marge’s plan. We all make sacrifices to make the world a safer place. But Donald? Really? Ugh.

  “Is that the best idea you’ve got?” I asked. We’d reconvened around her table to hear what kind of plan she’d cooked up for us.

  Her eyes were all aglow. “It’s absolutely perfect. All you have to do is grab his access card. So we can get into the place where they make the jam. I suspect they’re doing more than making jelly.”

  “And you think that will be easy? To grab some little card? I’m not exactly practiced in the art of stealing stuff. I try to get thieves locked up, not join in with their ranks.”

  Plus, I had to act all flirty, like I was into Donald. Sheesh. Like I was absolutely thrilled to hear about his collection of dead bugs while I tried to eat a meal. And it would be more than just the acting. I’d have to be a gymnast too, leaning back in my seat or ducking my head to dodge his rancid breath.

  “It won’t be hard at all,” Marge said.

  I pouted. “Which can only be said by a person who gets to wait in the car and play Gin Rummy and eat chocolate-covered peanuts while I go on this date.”

  “That’s not easy either. Celeste can play a wicked game of cards.”

  Celeste piped up. “I bea
t her every time!”

  “Hey, I have an idea.” I turned to look at Marge. “I bet you’re Donald’s type. I’ll play Gin Rummy with Celeste. And you can be the one who gets the date from hell.”

  “Oh, you’ve got this, girl.” Celeste lifted a cigarette up to her lips. She looked at me and winked. “Wear something sweet and sexy. He’ll be so enchanted he won’t even notice when you reach over and grab that access card.”

  I picked up my cell. “Well, let me call and do this thing before I lose my nerve. And then they’d better give me the Detective of the Year Award.” Why couldn’t David Beckham have a factory access card?

  Celeste blew out a ring of smoke. “So you know his number?” She raised a brow and looked at Marge. “Maybe she likes this Donald guy more than she’s let on.” She gave my ankle a teasing kick.

  “Give me a break,” I told them. “My mother, who is bonkers, put his number in my cell.” Which was kind of crazy, given that my mother wouldn’t learn to text because she claimed that she was way too old to “get involved in such high tech operations.” I suspect she had some help from Brad. Diabolical schemes against his sister were one of the few activities that could get that boy off the couch. When my life calmed down, I planned to come up with a list of interesting women to suggest that my mother could introduce to Brad.

  I picked up my cell. “Okay, here we go,” I said. “I think I might be crazy.”

  Donald answered right away. Of course. His “hello” was quickly followed by a honking sound. Why couldn’t the guy have blown his nose before he picked up on the call? I was officially grossed out, and I hadn’t even said a word.

  I took a long, deep breath. “Donald!” I said brightly. “This is Charlie Cooper.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “Charlie Cooper! I have had you on my mind.”

  Well, yuck.

  “We have so enjoyed the fabulous jam you were so kind to bring us.”

  “Oh, yes, we only sell the best. And they’re all healthy too. All-natural ingredients locally sourced and all. In all, there are twenty-one flavors, possibly twenty-three. Sold in fifteen states.”