Sticky Fingers

by Nancy Martin

  “I don’t have any money!” The professor leaned so close that I could smell the harsh hospital soap on him. His attention wavered, and he lost the thread of conversation. “What’s in the box?”

  “Checkers. Want to play?”

  “Now?” I had startled him. “Here? With you?”

  “Why not?”

  I opened the box and unfolded the board on the low table in front of the sofa. He grabbed the package of game pieces and organized them on the red and black squares. Watching him, I wondered how his brain worked these days. He obviously knew how to play the game, and he was eager to start. But more recent events confounded him.

  We played a game, and he cleaned my clock.

  In five minutes, he’d taken all my pieces and jumped the last one in the center of the board.

  “Damn,” I said. “You’re good.”

  “You let me win. It’s very insulting to be patronized.”

  “I did not let you win!”

  “No? Let’s play again.”

  This time, he whipped my ass in under three minutes.

  “You’re not even trying,” he complained. “Where’s your strategy?”

  “Strategy? In checkers?”

  “Young lady, you’re a sad excuse for an intellect. Set up the board again. There now, see? You’re going straight up the middle again. That’s just asking to be decimated. Take the side route instead, where your piece is protected. Get it? Then move this piece, so. Your goal is to get as many pieces crowned as possible, so sacrifice this one—yes—to escape and there—! Well done. The escape tactic is a good one. It requires planning, sacrifice, a diversion, and voilà! Now, let’s try a basic pursuit, and I’ll show you how to trigger a trap.”

  The game absorbed me, and it wasn’t until he’d guided me through a slightly less humiliating defeat that I realized how the game invigorated Crabtree. He seemed sharp and engaged. His eyes gleamed, and when he instructed me, his face took on more animation than before.

  “I get it,” I said. “There’s skill involved.”

  “Not just skill, but planning and strategy. And a predatory attitude. My grandson, for example, is especially gifted at the game. He should be playing chess by now, but he likes the swiftness of checkers.”

  “Richie,” I said. “I met him.”

  Professor Crabtree smiled. “He’s a sharp one, isn’t he?”

  “What about Sugar? Sherelle?”

  The old man’s confidence wavered. “Who?”

  “The ice-skater.”

  He bent his head over the board and began to gather up the pieces. “I don’t know any ice-skaters. Richie had a skateboard for a while. I wish he was more interested in science.”

  I was sorry to see Professor Crabtree’s confidence fade again. But it gave me an opening. I leaned forward. “What happened to your wife, Professor?”

  His face froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not trying to trick you. I’m just wondering about your wife’s murder.”

  “I don’t like to be tricked.”

  “Me neither. I hate it, in fact.” I smiled at him and decided I couldn’t ask if he’d had any part in her death. “Okay, here’s an easy one for you. How did you get past all the locked doors and the staff, Professor?”

  He slanted a grin up at me, his wits returned. “I pulled the fire alarm. It’s still the surest way to get out of a building.”

  17

  From Dutch, Sister Bob learned the name of his road-ragey son. Tony Campisano. “He’s been on a cruise since Sunday.”

  “A cruise? Isn’t he on probation?”

  “I don’t know. Dutch didn’t mention that. He lost his train of thought. We had a cigarette after that,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t remember his own name, let alone any information that you might want.”

  “Wait a second. Nuns smoke?”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you know how much cigarette smoke I blew out of bathroom windows so the nuns wouldn’t catch me?”

  “And aren’t you smarter for having figured out how to do that? We improved your education, Roxana.”

  “It’s a damn sneaky way to educate,” I grumbled.

  After dropping off Sister Bob at Loretta’s house and declining her invitation to come inside to watch General Hospital, I sat in the truck for a few minutes and thought about what to do next.

  I figured Clarice had been making extra cash by selling off bits and pieces of Rhonda. And now that Clarice was dead, it looked as if Husband Numero Uno, Eckelstine, was doing the same thing. I was willing to bet he’d had a bone in his backpack early this morning.

  I checked my cell phone and found Stony’s number.

  He picked up after three rings, sounding sleepy. The boss of Rusted Roses rarely got out of bed before midafternoon.

  “Hey, Roxy,” he said on a yawn. “Did you listen to the tapes I sent you? Know the harmonies yet?”

  “Yeah, I’m almost finished,” I said. “Stony, is this for real? I mean, are we really gonna work with Dooce?”

  I heard the snap of a lighter, and Stony drew a long breath. Probably his first weed of the day. Impatiently, I waited while he held the smoke in his lungs.

  Finally, he said, “Yeah, babe, it’s a sure thing. He’s an old buddy of mine. You in?”

  Stony had always claimed to be pals with Dooce, but none of us ever believed him. “Sure. We going to get a chance to rehearse with him before the concert?”

  Stony let out his smoke on a long, lingering sigh. “I doubt it. That’s just not cool, you know? We might meet him at the sound check, but that’s it. I don’t have to worry about you asking him for autographs and pictures, do I?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Listen, Stony, do you know what kind of stuff Dooce might collect?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does he collect anything?”

  “Like beer bottles or something? Hell, I don’t know. He’s an old friend, but c’mon, we’re not, like, dating, you know?”

  “Do you know his assistant? Jeremy? Could you ask him?”

  “Jeremy’s a surly SOB. He’s Dooce’s knee-breaker. Stay away from him, Roxy. He does anything Dooce tell him to do, and more. But he’s not exactly housebroken, if you know what I mean.”

  “He hurts people?”

  “If he thinks it’s in Dooce’s best interest, yeah.”

  “Okay, never mind. Where do I show up?”

  “Come to Entrance B. I’ll have a stage pass waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Stony.”

  “Peace out, babe.”

  I hung up. I had wanted to know if the collecting Flynn had mentioned Dooce did might include woolly mammoth bones. Stony was no help. I’d have to wait until I met Dooce myself. That is, if I didn’t get into trouble with the Jeremy dude. He sounded like a jerk to avoid.

  I checked my watch. I could have called Bug to apologize for standing him up at lunch, I supposed, but he might have a few uncomfortable questions for me to answer.

  Instead, I decided to drive out to the skating rink to talk to Flynn’s friend, the figure skater.

  Because of traffic, it took almost forty minutes to reach the Harmar Rink. I spent the drive singing harmony to Dooce’s greatest hits. When I got to the parking lot, I found myself swept along on a tide of little hockey players—mostly preadolescent boys carrying big sticks over their shoulders and jabbering with excitement. Their mothers lugged heavy bags of gear through the double doors of the cavernous rink.

  I found Jenny Osterman in the locker room, and she agreed to talk to me over a drink at the bar next door. We walked across the parking lot together. If all the hockey moms carried bags for their sons and shouted encouragement from the bleachers, it looked as if a fair number of the hockey dads came to the bar to watch sports on the big-screen televisions.

  “I’ve had a long day,” Jenny said when we’d ordered a draft apiece. She nibbled from the bowl of the pretzel mix the bartend
er put in front of us. “I start teaching lessons at five in the morning. Kids come in at crazy hours—before school, after school. By the end of the day when the hockey leagues start, I’m dizzy from spinning.”

  “I bet. How do you know Sugar Mitchell?”

  I’d already asked her about Sugar, but it had been my connection to Flynn that intrigued her.

  “You’re Roxy?” She had looked at me with open curiosity when I’d introduced myself back at the rink. “You’re not what I expected, I guess. Patrick has mentioned you once or twice.”

  “In flattering terms, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, actually. He’s a great guy. How come you’re not together? I mean, with a daughter and so much history, what’s holding you back?”

  “Do you know Flynn very well?”

  She had smiled. “Not as well as I’d like.”

  “He comes with a few problems.”

  “Don’t they all,” Jenny had said on a sigh.

  In the bar, after a delicate sip of beer, Jenny said, “Sugar Mitchell is a good skater. Maybe she’ll be a great one. But she’s hard to coach.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “I was her instructor when she was a beginner. But I wasn’t advanced enough for her. At least, that’s what her dad told me five years ago. Now Sugar trains with Nadia—a skater from Minnesota who flies here twice a week to coach a select few girls who are on the fast track to the Olympic team.”

  “Sugar is Olympic caliber?”

  Jenny shrugged and sipped more beer. With her slim, athletic figure and pretty face, she could have been a beauty queen. No pretensions, though. She had the grammar and the manners of someone raised in the suburbs and educated in a nice school with good teachers. I pegged her for a hard worker who was trying to make a living at a sport she probably loved as a teenager. Living the dream. I respected that.

  She said, “Sugar has the drive. Whether she has the talent and personality to grow beyond where she is now—that’s the question. If she was more open to coaching, she could really make it. She has a big ego, and that’s important. She needs to be mentally strong as well as physically capable. But—she’s difficult.”

  “What do you mean, difficult?”

  “Sugar’s ego … well, she can be hard to handle. Which is good and bad. Her parents were very supportive, and that helps.”

  “Is it expensive to train as a skater?”

  “Depends. You can do it on a shoestring, if you must. My mom volunteered in the snack bar. Dad swept the ice. You can take group lessons, not private sessions, to save money. I couldn’t travel to competitions every weekend. But Sugar? She’s going first-class all the way. And her dad is devoted. He’s here all the time.”

  “And Sugar’s mother?”

  “Wow, shocking that she was murdered, right? I have to admit, I never saw her here. In all the years I’ve worked at the rink, I never met her. I’m kinda glad, actually. What kind of mother raises a kid who’s so nasty to be around?”

  “Sugar is nasty?”

  “You won’t repeat this, will you?” Jenny had clearly decided to trust me, because she finally confided, “Sugar’s a bitch on wheels. Rude to everyone. Very demanding. She doesn’t have many friends at the rink. Which isn’t unusual. The girls compete against each other, and it’s hard to learn to be a friend to someone who beats you out for a ribbon. But most girls learn to handle it. Sugar, though? No way.”

  I thought about the girl I’d seen at the Crabtree house the morning Eckelstine and Mitchell learned they’d shared a wife. She had seemed sweet to me. I wondered if Jenny had some kind of grudge against the kid.

  Jenny said, “I mean, what girl comes to practice the day her mother’s found dead? That’s cold, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe she needed to be where she feels happiest. Everybody handles grief differently.”

  Jenny looked doubtful. “If something happened to my mom, I’d never get over it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Unless she was a drunk who didn’t pay the electric bill and threw dishes when she got mad.”

  Jenny blinked. “Sugar’s mother was that bad?”

  “No,” I said hastily. “Not Sugar’s mother.”

  “I heard her mom was going to make some changes, though.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “Nadia said Sugar was dropping out of private lessons. Apparently, Sugar’s mother objected to the cost of coaching and everything.”

  “She was pulling the plug on Sugar’s skating career?”

  “That’s what Nadia said. I saw Sugar bawling in the locker room a couple of weeks ago. I tried talking to her, but she had a tantrum, so I walked away. I never got the full story.”

  If Clarice wanted to end Sugar’s skating, that suggested a whole new bunch of theories. I wonder if Bug knew about Clarice’s decision to withhold the money. And what Mitch Mitchell might have to say about that.

  I realized Jenny was watching my face with curiosity, so I tried to smooth away my frown. “Listen, I really appreciate you talking to me.”

  “No problem. If you don’t mind, how come you’re asking all these questions?”

  “I knew Clarice, Sugar’s mom. And I hate the thought of her kids growing up without a mother. Without answers.”

  She bobbed her head. “That’s nice. Patrick says you’re nice.”

  That surprised me. “Then he hasn’t been paying close attention.”

  With a smile, she finished her beer and set it on the bar. “He says you’re funny, too. That can be very sexy.”

  “Yeah, well, the sex was never the problem.” I pulled some cash from my hip pocket and waved it at the bartender. “Thanks for talking with me.”

  “Sure. Tell Patrick I said hi.”

  Fat chance.

  I climbed back into the truck and started the engine to warm up. The late-afternoon air smelled like snow, and I found a pair of gloves in the mess of junk behind the front seat.

  I’d learned a lot from Jenny. More than I’d expected.

  I tried phoning Bug Duffy, but he didn’t answer his cell. I decided not to leave a message.

  I needed more information—the kind the cops probably had already. For me, there was only one way to learn stuff from the police without actually asking an officer of the law.

  I dialed Sage’s cell phone.

  “Mom!” She sounded guilty. “How are you?”

  “Drop the innocent routine, kid. I’m not calling about where you’ve been all day.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve been at school.”

  “Save it. I need Zack Cleary’s cell phone number.”

  “Zack,” she said blankly. “What for?”

  “I just need some information.”

  “Is everything…? Are you…?”

  “You have his number or not?”

  She rattled off Zack’s cell phone number, and I scribbled it on my hand with the leaky ballpoint I kept under the sun visor.

  Then Sage said, “Are you mad at me, Mom?”

  Maybe my parenting skills weren’t the best. But I knew sometimes it’s better to let the guilt simmer.

  I said, “I’ll see you tonight. We’ll talk.”

  And I hung up.

  Half a minute later, I reached Zack Cleary on his cell phone. He was equally surprised to hear from me.

  “Hey, Mrs. A. What’s up?” Then, sharper, “Is it Sage? Is she okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Sage is fine. Jeez, kid, I didn’t realize you panicked so easily.”

  “I just—aw, hell. With that Brian guy hanging around, I wasn’t sure. What are you calling me for?”

  “Information. Where are you?”

  “I’m still at work. You wanna pick me up? My car’s in the shop. You’ll save me a bus ride.”

  I debated. Did I want this kid to start thinking he could call me every time he had an empty gas tank?

  He said, “I’m off in half an hour. I could tell you what I heard about the Crabtree case.” />
  “I’ll pick you up,” I said.

  He laughed. “Okay, I’m at the gun range, Bullseye Target. Know where that is?”

  Of course I did.

  I didn’t like the suburbs. Everything looked the same to me—and I liked them even less during rush hour. But I took the dreaded Route 28 along the Allegheny River and eventually drove onto the Fort Pitt Bridge and through the tunnels. The Parkway traffic moved pretty fast, and other drivers tended to get out of my way, so it wasn’t long before I took an exit and popped up in a commercial area that featured a sprawling cemetery and a couple of hotels that filled up only when downtown overflowed or the airport hotels were jammed.

  Bullseye was a squat cinder-block building that some genius had painted bright red with a gigantic cartoon bull on the side. A target had been painted around the bull’s staring eye, and I parked right under it. A motion-detector light came on, casting a circle of illumination around my truck.

  Unlike rural rod and gun clubs that truly facilitated hunting and fishing in more rural areas of western Pennsylvania, Bullseye attracted mostly suburban gun advocates—churchgoing middle-management types beset with work-related anger issues that needed an outlet.

  Only a couple of cars sat in the otherwise empty parking lot. One was a Toyota sedan with bumper stickers advertising Ducks Unlimited, the Sierra Club, and a local high school basketball team. The other vehicle was a beat-up Ford Escape, painted green. It sported a Steeler flag on the antenna—a standard automotive accessory in Pittsburgh between September and January.

  I jumped down from the truck and went inside, pushing through a door decorated with signs warning patrons to keep their weapons holstered until they were on the range.

  The narrow lobby—little more than a hallway with a concrete floor and fluorescent lights—featured a trophy case displaying rifle team pictures and a couple of tarnished trophies dated twenty years ago. Somebody had also posted a photo of himself with the carcass of a twelve-point buck. The dead animal’s tongue was hanging out, and the hunter was imitating him. The rest of the case showed empty boxes of ammunition—all the brands offered for sale.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned around and strolled over to lean my hip on the sale counter. Behind the thick glass stood Irene Stossel. I had just seen her a couple of nights ago in Loretta’s kitchen, delivering wedding cookies.