Sticky Fingers

by Nancy Martin

  I had never seen Flynn looking so flustered. With one hand, he toyed with his cap; the other rubbed the side of his face while he scanned the passing sidewalks. I wondered if he was thinking of roadside bombs in Afghanistan.

  “No, no,” he said. “The soup was fantastic. Calamari and mussels in a beef-marrow broth. Very light, but intense. The guys went nuts over it. Even I had to admit, it was pretty great. Maybe the best I’ve ever done. Soup is tricky, you know? It can be completely ordinary, but with a little nuance—”

  “Cut to the chase,” I said. “What happened?”

  “The food writer wants my recipe. Jeremy brought him to the restaurant this morning. I told them I didn’t give out recipes—I mean, most of the soups I make up on the spot—but Jeremy pulled a gun.”

  “A gun! Jesus! Did you shoot him?”

  “Hell, no. To be honest, my gun was locked in my desk drawer. But jeez, he was serious. They wanted a whole symposium, practically. So I went over every ingredient. I mean, what’s worth getting shot over? Then we got to the bones, you know?”

  “The bones?”

  “The soup bones. Did you see the box on the floor yesterday? I had a bunch of beef bones from a buddy I know. He raises Black Angus cattle, terrific sirloin and filet mignon. I use the bones for soup all the time. Yesterday afternoon, Julio cut up the bones with a hacksaw like always, and he threw a couple into a stock pot with some vegetables and a garni to simmer down the flavors. Standard procedure, nothing new. Except the bone was different. I should have noticed earlier, but I didn’t until I fished it out before adding the calamari and mussels and serving the soup. I knew right away it wasn’t one of the bones I got from my friend. It made all the difference, though. It definitely changed the whole composition, everything.”

  Faintly, I said, “One bone did all that?”

  “Yeah, last night Dooce and his people went nuts over the soup. And I—I don’t know how it happened, but the writer decided he had to do, like, the whole story on this damn bone.”

  “A story on a bone,” I said, already thinking that if Flynn figured out even half the story, he was going to kill me.

  “Yeah, so I went into the cooler to get a closer look at what was left. Rox, it’s not anything I’ve ever seen before.” Flynn pulled off his cap and ran one hand over the stubble on his head. “To tell the truth, it didn’t look like anything people ought to be eating. It was really well aged. Julio was just doing what I told him to do, see? It’s not his fault. It’s my kitchen, my responsibility to serve only wholesome ingredients to the public. But the writer, he’s insisting he wants to see this magic bone. And then a local restaurant critic got wind of the soup story, and she started calling me. Even the chef over at Mes Amies heard about it, and suddenly he shows up at the back door, asking questions, too.”

  “About the bone?”

  “Right. A stupid bone.” His energy suddenly evaporated like a kid’s toy losing its windup. He rubbed his face. “I just need to get away for a few hours, you know? Normally, I’d go home and sleep, but Jeremy’ got that damn gun—hell, I’m just beat.”

  “Because of a bone.”

  “Stupid, right? Look, I need a place to sleep before the evening service.” He turned to me. “I thought maybe I could crash at your place for a couple of hours. Nobody would think to look for me there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry. What do you say? Can I use your bed?”

  I had a lot to say, but Flynn wasn’t going to like hearing it.

  “Where’s your gun now?”

  “What? Back at the restaurant. Locked in my desk. Why?”

  If he was unarmed, he couldn’t kill me. “About the bone…” I began slowly.

  “What about it?”

  I was pretty sure his soup bone had been the one Rooney dug out of the Crabtree freezer. I hadn’t noticed until long after we’d left the restaurant yesterday that Rooney’s bone was considerably smaller than the one he’d started out with. At first, I thought he’d just gnawed it down to size, but now I realized he’d exchanged it for one of the bones in Flynn’s kitchen.

  Which meant the bone in Flynn’s magic soup probably came from one of the extinct animals in Professor Crabtree’s crazy collection.

  “Flynn,” I said, “how old do you think a bone has to be before it’s considered inedible?”

  “What?”

  I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road as I drove across the river and headed up to my house. “I mean, if it’s frozen and then boiled, you probably cook out all the impurities, right?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said hastily. “Forget it. What you need is a few hours of sleep before you go back to work.”

  “Mind if I use your bed?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I said. “I won’t need it until tonight.”

  “By then,” he said with a weary sigh, “maybe this whole soup thing will blow over.”

  I dropped him in front of my house and peeled the key off my ring. I handed it over. “Sweet dreams.”

  After he slid out of the truck and slammed the door closed, I intended to head back across the river. Maybe I could sneak into the restaurant and steal back the old bone before any of the employees came into the kitchen for the dinner shift.

  But I saw Jane Doe sitting on the porch steps next door. She had her knees drawn up to her chin, and she was smoking a cigarette. She wore a pair of tan slacks with ballet flat shoes and a pink sweater—very Talbots. Her hair was pushed back with a pair of big black sunglasses. A Diet Coke sat beside her hip.

  I eased the truck against the curb and rolled down my window.

  “You hanging in there, Jane?”

  She pasted on her brightest smile and waved. “Hi! Yes! I’m great!”

  “Where are the kids?”

  She tapped her forefinger on her lips, then pointed up. “Taking their naps upstairs. At least, they’re supposed to be. I heard them singing a minute ago, though, so they haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

  “Singing’s good,” I said. “Your boyfriend hasn’t come around, has he?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, I haven’t told him where we are.”

  “You’ve talked to him, though?”

  “Well,” she said, and stopped.

  “Cell phone?” I guessed. “Did you call him, or did he call you?”

  She got up from the steps, tossed her cigarette onto the sidewalk, and picked up her Diet Coke. She stepped on the cigarette and came over to the truck. Her hair was combed, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. But the bruises on her cheeks and around her eyes glared vivid blue and green—probably scary as hell for the kids to see.

  She said, “He’s sorry for what happened. He says it won’t happen again.”

  I resisted the urge to scream at her.

  Then I realized she had mixed some Jack Daniel’s into her Diet Coke. I could smell it on her breath.

  Instead of screaming, I said, “Where does a lady like you meet a fireman?”

  Her expression brightened. “Oh, I love firemen! We met at a charity event. He was helping to sell one of the calendars—you know, the kind with pictures of guys without their shirts? He was Mr. April. I was asked to be the celebrity auctioneer. We met that night, and we’ve been together ever since. Well, until this happened.”

  “I don’t think it just happened, hon. He did it to you all by himself.”

  The starry-eyed look left her face, and she backed away from the truck. She said, “I think I hear Emily calling.”

  I held back a sigh. “Okay. I’ll check on you again later.”

  She nodded, mustering her usual perky enthusiasm. “Great!”

  I put the truck into gear and pulled away. I wanted to wash her brain out with peroxide. In another day or so, if she had the chance, she’d move out and go back to the abusive fireman. I knew it. Before that happened, I needed to find a way to convince her otherwise.

  And the dr
inking? Looked to me like she just needed a nip at noontime. I’d call Adasha to check on her later this afternoon, though. I didn’t like the idea of the weather girl getting drunk when the kids were in her charge.

  My cell phone rang.

  I expected to hear Bug, wondering why I was late for lunch.

  But Sister Bob said in my ear, “Roxana Marie, I’m going over to Shadyside Memory Support Center to visit Dutch Campisano. Want to come along?”

  16

  I picked up Sister Bob in front of Mary Frances O’Malley’s house, where Bob had just attended a lunch party with some neighborhood ladies. Dressed in another colorful track suit, she carried some fancy Tupperware balanced on one upturned hand. A plastic bag from the CVS drugstore hung from her other elbow.

  She clambered into the truck. “Boy, Tupperware sure has some wonderful inventions! See this? It’s an egg carrier. Perfect for deviled eggs for a summer picnic.”

  “Do nuns eat deviled eggs?”

  “Of course we do. And this? It’s for an angel food cake! You put the cake inside, and the frosting doesn’t get squished!”

  “I’m sensing a theme. Angels and devils.”

  Sister Bob cackled. “You’re a hoot, Roxana. Here, I saved you a tuna sandwich from the luncheon. Mary Frances made it herself. The tuna has pickles and grapes in it. Delicious!”

  I already had a little indigestion just thinking about a big-time rock star and his entourage eating food containing bits of an animal that had been extinct for a couple thousand years.

  So I said, “Not right now, thanks. Maybe later. What’s in the plastic bag?”

  She opened it and pulled out a box of drugstore chocolates and a cheap set of checkers. “Our key to the Alzheimer’s center. I never knew a nurse who could resist a box of chocolates.”

  “And the checkers?”

  “A gift. They’re a very calming pastime. Dutch loved checkers.” She tucked everything back into the plastic bag. “Between jobs for your uncle Carmine, Dutch used to be a photographer, did you know that? He took all the school pictures for years, and then he got into trouble for selling different pictures on the street corner. So he took up checkers to take his mind off things. I used to play checkers with him for hours.”

  “How well did you know Dutch?” I wondered nervously if he’d ever taken Sister Bob’s photograph.

  “We were classmates a long time ago. Before he started taking dirty pictures. He deserves our forgiveness, Roxana.”

  Dutch probably deserved a jail sentence, but I let it go.

  A few minutes later, I pulled through a set of stone pillars and stopped at the security gate. I noticed the layout of the center involved high fences, locked gates, and plenty of security cameras. A guard leaned out of his booth with a clipboard in hand and gave the mess of the Monster Truck a dubious look. “Visiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here.”

  I signed, and the guard directed me to a parking space where he could keep an eye on the truck. Maybe he thought the graffiti and the soap and the eggs were going to jump onto other cars.

  Sister Bob and I got out in front of a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary, holding her robed arms wide and looking pensive. Behind her was an eight-foot fence topped with razor wire.

  “Our Lady of Incarceration,” I said drily.

  “Families expect their loved ones to be completely protected—from themselves as much as anything dangerous. A couple of patients walk off the grounds, and they’d have lawsuits up the wazoo.”

  Sister Bob led the way up a set of wide stone steps, and we pushed through a revolving door to get into the lobby. There, a bulletproof glass door swung open automatically before us. About ten feet ahead, a stout woman sat behind the circular desk. Her fingers with their talonlike nails hovered over a set of buttons that looked as if they could lock down the whole facility faster than Leavenworth.

  She smiled up at us from her chair as we approached. “Why, Sister Bob! I haven’t seen you in ages. What can I do to help you today?”

  “Waysilla, we’re here for a visit. This is my niece, Roxy Abruzzo. And look, I brought your favorite. Mint meltaways.”

  Waysilla’s broad face brightened at the sight of the box. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing!”

  While Sister Bob and her friend discussed candy, I took a look around.

  The lobby of the Shadyside Memory Support Center was divided down the middle by a fence made to look like a pretty room divider. On one side of the fence, the men’s lounge was so heavily paneled in mahogany that it looked like the inside of a humidor. A handful of male patients sat in leather chairs and stared at a flat-screen television tuned to a baseball game that might have been recorded a couple of decades ago. The film was in black and white. The players wore baggy uniforms.

  On the other side of the fence, the ladies’ lounge was decorated with chintz sofas and so many oversized paintings of flowers that an English tea party might bust out any minute. Except the ladies were mostly sleeping upright in their flowered chairs.

  Waysilla typed our names into a computer, and a nearby printer kicked out two neon yellow strips of vinyl. Waysilla rolled the strips into ID bracelets and fastened them around our wrists. “Now, Sister Bob, what’s this I hear about you leaving the convent?”

  “It’s true, Waysilla. I’m a free woman.”

  “Well, don’t let any of the old men around here catch you. They’re all looking for young single chicks.”

  “A young chick who’ll wipe their chins and wash their clothes. I’m not trading one higher calling for another.”

  Waysilla cackled. “You go, girlfriend!”

  With our ID bracelets on, Sister Bob led the way, and soon friendly staff buzzed us through a series of hallways. Some employees wore hospital scrubs, but most were dressed in neat street clothes. Maybe I expected guard uniforms, but it seemed everyone was trying hard not to make the place feel like a jail.

  Sister Bob knew half the people we encountered, and they all chatted with her pleasantly while I refrained from tapping my foot with impatience.

  We passed a door that was painted red and decorated with photographs and more drawings of hairy elephants. I stopped. The nameplate on the door said, Leeford Crabtree.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Sister Bob turned. “What now?”

  “Sister Bob, would you mind talking to Dutch yourself for a while? There’s someone else I’d like to see.”

  “Sure. Here, give these checkers to your friend. Try playing with him. It might help keep him calm.”

  “Thanks, Bob.”

  She gave Dutch’s door a brisk knock and let herself in.

  Conscious of the security cameras watching my every move, I likewise knocked on Crabtree’s door and went inside when I heard a gruff voice.

  Professor Crabtree was shuffling back and forth across his room, moving from the bed to the sofa to the window and back again like a caged animal at the zoo. His tall figure was dressed in a pair of khaki pants hiked high on his torso and held in place with a pair of suspenders decorated with dinosaurs. Underneath, he wore a white dress shirt, thin with age. His white hair had been combed, and in general he looked more presentable than when I’d seen him last.

  “Professor Crabtree?”

  He straightened his shoulders and turned around. “Yes?”

  “I’m Roxy Abruzzo. Do you remember me?”

  “I have dementia! Of course I don’t remember you,” he said, then squinted closer. “You’re an attractive specimen, though. Good bone structure, a healthy complexion. I suppose I should remember who you are.”

  “Not necessarily. We only met once. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  He remained at the window, keeping his distance and looking cautious as I eased down on the sofa. “What do you want?”

  “To talk a little. About your daughter, Clarice.”

  “Clarice?”

  “Right, your daughter who works at the museum.”

/>   “What about her?”

  I wondered if I should give him my condolences. Or might that upset him? I chickened out and said, “She’s—well, when was the last time you saw her?”

  He shook his head and began to pace. It didn’t take much to agitate him. “Why is that important? It’s not important! Clarice can take care of herself. It’s Rhonda I’m worried about.”

  “Right, Rhonda. Do you think something’s wrong with Rhonda?”

  “Of course not. She’s perfect. The most perfect example of her kind I ever found. I want to know she’s safe, that’s all.” The professor knocked his fist on the windowsill for emphasis. “I want to be sure she’s in good hands.”

  “Was Clarice taking care of her?”

  He swung on me, and his face darkened. “Clarice was supposed to be looking after Rhonda. But for years she hasn’t let me see her. Not even a visit! But I—I—”

  He lost his train of thought.

  “You wanted Clarice to keep Rhonda safe. But you were worried, weren’t you?”

  The professor gave me a steady examination, as if trying to figure out if I was someone to be trusted. “I thought she was safe. Should I be worried now? What has Clarice done to her?”

  “What do you think Clarice might have done?”

  “That’s the whole point!” He stalked across the floor and flapped his arms peevishly. “How am I supposed to know about Rhonda when I’m locked up here all the time?”

  “Did you go looking for her a couple of nights back? The night you went to your house? You were looking for Rhonda there?”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You left this place and went to see Clarice.”

  “Clarice,” he announced suddenly, “can’t be trusted.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s sneaky. Always looking for money. Always more money! She has expenses, she says. Who could have that many expenses?”

  A woman trying to finance two families could have a lot of expenses, I thought. Especially if one family included a skater who trained extensively and traveled all over the country. And who knew how much it cost to finance a budding fashion designer?

  But I asked, “She tries to get money from you to pay her expenses?”