Sticky Fingers

by Nancy Martin

  “Her father?”

  “I guess he’s a possibility. Bug Duffy is going to check on him today, make sure he hadn’t busted out of his jail again.”

  Adasha said, “Alzheimer’s patients can get violent, you know. But they’re not good at planning anything. If Clarice had been simply killed, I might believe her father could do it. But wrap her up in a carpet? Drop her body in the river?”

  “Then try to kill her husband to shut him up?”

  “You think that’s why Mitchell was shot?”

  I shrugged. “Just guessing.”

  “What about the teenage son?”

  I finished my Slim Jim and took a cautious peek into her bag of healthy granola. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him.”

  “And?”

  “He got into some trouble a while back, kind of went adrift. Needs a parent. Maybe he hated Clarice for all the usual reasons a kid hates a stepmother. But … I doubt it. She encouraged him in the one thing he’s good at—making clothes.” I saw Adasha’s surprise and said, “Yeah, he designs stuff. Looks ugly to me, but Clarice bought him fabric and wore the results. That’s not the kind of stepmom who’d push a kid to violence.”

  “Lack of affection can be just as damaging as any other emotional abuse.”

  I sampled some granola. “Not bad for bird seed.”

  “I’m serious,” Adasha said. “Father hunger is very real.”

  “Don’t start,” I said.

  “Okay, I won’t. But a parent who’s distant, withholding, self-involved—that’s just as cruel as the one who beats the child with a stick.”

  “You’re saying the boy got sick of hearing Clarice talk about how wonderful she was and killed her?”

  “I don’t know him. You do.”

  I sipped coffee and thought about Richie for a while. Any kid might snap under the wrong circumstances. “Depends on transportation, I guess. How does he travel? He can’t drive a car. At least, I don’t think so. It’s a long way from the city out to Mitchell’s house.”

  “How could he have gotten there last night by himself?”

  “I’ll find out.” I shoveled up a handful of granola and began picking out the sweet dried cherries. Without looking Adasha in the face, it was easier to say what needed to be said. “There’s something I probably should have mentioned.”

  I felt my friend giving me a steady stare. She said, “Do I want to hear what’s coming?”

  “Probably not. But here goes. Somebody tried to hire me to kidnap Clarice.”

  She sat back in her chair, eyes wide. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Marvin Weiss knows, but he skipped town to avoid getting sucked into this mess.”

  “Did you—?”

  “Take the job? No. I’ll do favors for my uncle when it’s petty stuff,” I said. “But there are lines I won’t cross, Dasha. Despite what everybody thinks about me.”

  “Nobody thinks—”

  “I turned down the job. But I think it’s possible that somebody did kidnap Clarice. And when things went bad, maybe the kidnapper decided to pop her instead.”

  “Pop her?” Adasha looked serious. “Does that kind of language make killing somehow more acceptable?”

  “I’m not trying to make it acceptable,” I said quickly. “I just—it’s a way of talking. What it all means is this: I think I need to be looking for two people. The one who hired a kidnapper, and the kidnapper who killed Clarice. And maybe shot Mitchell, too.”

  Adasha sat back and folded her arms over her chest—the picture of disapproval. “There you go again. Taking responsibility. Let Bug do this, Rox.”

  “I can’t tell him. Not about the kidnapping.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s going to ask questions. I’ll get in trouble. It’ll all lead to Marvin and Uncle Carmine, and pretty soon we’ll all be in jail. And I don’t want Sage coping with that.”

  Adasha looked deeply into my face. “I understand that part.”

  I didn’t say it, but I was afraid of Sage’s reaction.

  I wondered whether, if she knew the real me, my daughter might choose Flynn to be her parent. Or worse, take up with one of her boyfriends and forget about her family. Either way, I was going to lose my daughter, which felt like the worst consequence in the world.

  Adasha said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “I think the kidnapper made two big mistakes. The first was killing Clarice. The second must have something to do with Mitchell. Why did he have to be shot? Because he saw something? Knew something? Or was he the target all along?”

  “Maybe he witnessed the killer shooting Clarice.”

  “I’ve got to find out more.”

  “How?”

  Good question. I said, “I think I need to learn more about Rhonda.”

  “Who?”

  “Not who. What. She’s a mastodon. Or a woolly mammoth. I don’t know the difference.”

  Adasha gave a huge yawn and then blinked, dazed. She said, “Either you just said something that makes no sense, or I just hit the wall. And right now I don’t have the brain power to figure out which it is. I need some sleep.”

  “Thanks for bringing breakfast,” I said. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  She dragged herself to her feet. “I haven’t even mentioned the therapy thing yet.”

  I laughed shortly. “Quit while you’re ahead. How’s Jane Doe?”

  “I checked on her last night. She’s okay.”

  “Y’know, she’s been talking to her shithead boyfriend by phone.”

  “Dammit! She didn’t tell me that. I better go see her, I guess.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Same to you.” She gave me a big hug, squeezing hard.

  When Adasha was finished showing her affection, I said gruffly, “Get some sleep.”

  From my doorway, I made sure the gangbangers were gone and watched her run through the rain to the house next door where Jane Doe was staying. After Adasha knocked and was safely admitted inside, I went upstairs, stripped naked in the bathroom, and took a hot shower. My shampoo and soap were rearranged, so I knew Flynn had showered before he left. I found some clean clothes and dressed quickly, trying not to think about Flynn putting on his clothes in the same place earlier.

  I pulled on my boots and went downstairs.

  In the kitchen, I grabbed my keys and went out into the rain. That’s when I discovered some jagoff had punctured one of the Monster Truck’s tires with a screwdriver.

  I cursed and kicked the flat tire a few times. Either the gangbangers had taken their revenge, or Gino hadn’t gotten the message I’d stapled to his hand.

  It took me about fifteen minutes to change the tire. I was soaked by then, but strangely invigorated. Directed rage has a tendency to perk me up. I drove across the bridge and up into Lawrenceville. Nooch was waiting on the corner. Fortunately, his face didn’t look so bad. The swelling had gone down a little.

  He climbed into the truck, wet through a couple of layers. “Where you been? You’re late this morning.”

  “Some asshole stuck a screwdriver into one of my tires.”

  “Don’t cuss,” he said automatically. Then he looked surprised. “Was it Gino again?”

  “I settled things with Gino yesterday. At least, I thought I did. Probably, the flat tire was some kids from the neighborhood.”

  “They should be in school,” Nooch said. He gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “Sometimes I wish I was back in school. The cafeteria food, the gym. Football practice.”

  “The sleeping in class.”

  “Yeah, that was okay, too.”

  Thinking about high school gave me an idea, so I made a U-turn in the street and swung into the parking lot of a CVS drugstore. I dashed into the store and came out two minutes later with a plastic bag full of supplies. First, I gave Nooch a pack of powdered doughnuts, which kept his mouth full lo
ng enough for me to reach the back alley behind Gino Martinelli’s house.

  Nooch wiped sugar from his face. “What are we doing here?”

  “You’re staying in the truck,” I told him. “And if anybody asks, I’m looking at some old windows in a house down the street. Got that?”

  Nooch might keep the story straight if I didn’t add too many details. I fished a tube of Ben-Gay out of the drugstore bag, and I bailed out of the truck. Silently, I hotfooted my way up the back steps to the kitchen door. I peeked inside and saw Gino’s wife, Carlene, drinking coffee while Regis and Kelly blared on the television. Carlene wore a woolly bathrobe, and her hair—freshly dyed an unlikely black for the wedding, no doubt—was rolled up in pink curlers.

  She appeared to be grooming a small animal, and then I realized she was combing out Gino’s toupee.

  I eased away from the door before she saw me, then scouted the back of the house for a way inside. As luck would have it, they’d left a basement door ajar, and I slipped inside. A cat box sat at my feet, stinking up the place, but explaining why the door was open. I found myself in the old coal cellar, although now it was full of yard equipment, including a greasy lawn mower old enough to be in the Smithsonian. I tipped an interior door open and walked into the Martinelli laundry room.

  Perfect.

  The dryer rumbled, almost at the end of its cycle. I opened the dryer door and found the drum full of Carlene’s unmentionables. Carefully, I closed the dryer again, hoping Regis and Kelly were loud enough that Carlene couldn’t hear me. On the floor I found two laundry baskets full of dirty clothes. Disgusting. On top of the washer sat another basket full of freshly laundered and folded items—including Gino’s collection of extravagant boxers and briefs. Apparently, he liked underwear with funny sayings printed on them.

  Lone Gunman, said one pair.

  I said, “You’ll be alone, all right, Gino. Just wait and see.”

  Opening the tube of Ben-Gay, I hummed while liberally applying the heat-inducing cream to the insides of Gino’s clean underwear.

  “The heat is on, Gino,” I said as I tossed his clothing back into the basket.

  Five minutes later, I tiptoed out of the basement. The family cat watched me throw the tube of Ben-Gay into an open trash can by the back steps. I slipped away and climbed into the Monster Truck.

  Nooch woke with a grunt. “Huh?”

  “Shh. Ready to go?”

  “Why do you have that look on your face? That’s not your positive look, it’s your scary look. Like you did something that’s going to blow up later.”

  “Go back to sleep,” I told him, putting the truck into gear.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was visualizing!”

  My cell phone rang as I drove out of the alley.

  “Hey,” Adasha said. “Did you have a problem with your truck this morning?”

  “A flat tire. Why?”

  “Just so you know,” she said, “it wasn’t those kids in the neighborhood who did it. Jane Doe tells me her fireman boyfriend came around last night. And he got the idea that you were keeping her away from him.”

  “Oops,” I said. “I wish I’d known that five minutes ago. I thought it was Gino Martinelli.”

  “Sorry. The fireman threatened Jane, and he said he’d cause trouble for you, too.”

  “Bring it on, babycakes.”

  “Rox, don’t taunt him. That will only make things worse for her and for the kids.”

  “Want me to talk to Jane? I’ve had some experience with situations like this.”

  “I don’t know,” Adasha said doubtfully.

  “Hey, you brought her to me because the system doesn’t always work. So let me take care of this in my way.”

  “I can’t think straight. I’ll get some sleep before I give you an answer.”

  “I’ll take that as temporary permission to do whatever’s best.”

  “Just don’t let anybody get hurt.”

  We hung up. I wished I hadn’t thrown away the Ben-Gay. There had been half a container of the stuff left, and I could have used it on the fireman.

  We roared up to the gate of the salvage yard a little while later. The sight that greeted us surprised the hell out of me.

  “Holy cow,” Nooch said.

  Two kids had parked a bicycle in front of the gate, and Rooney was licking their hands through the iron bars. They looked like a couple of orphans from Charles Dickens, except with clothes from the mall.

  Richie Eckelstine and Sugar Mitchell.

  Both of them were frozen and miserable. But Richie wore a fashion-forward checked scarf knotted around his neck, skinny jeans, pointy boots. A snug leather jacket with epaulet. And an expression of teenage mortification on his face. Beside him, Sugar was weeping.

  As Nooch jumped down to open the gate, I leaned out of the truck’s window and said, “What are you two doing here?”

  Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, Richie Eckelstine said, “We have to see you.”

  Nooch boosted Sugar into the truck, and Richie scrambled in behind her. I drove them across the yard, and then we bundled them into the barbershop. I turned on the space heater, and I started heating up some water to make instant hot chocolate. Rooney skidded to a stop on the floor beside me, ever hopeful for a handout. I gave him a pat for not biting the kids.

  Richie struck a rigid model’s pose and said, “I know this is awkward, us showing up like this. But I didn’t know who else to go to.”

  I grabbed him by the elbow and steered him to the corner. “What’s Sugar doing here?” I asked in a mutter. “How do the two of you even know each other?”

  “The police brought her to our house early this morning. Her dad’s in the hospital. She doesn’t have any other family, except us. It was either foster care or my dad. Dad couldn’t say no.”

  I turned to the girl, who was elaborately drying her eyes. She looked bereft.

  “She okay?” I asked Richie.

  “She’s the devil,” he replied. “She’d be okay in the fires of hell.”

  I took a closer look at her. For her flight from foster care, Sugar wore a white fake fur jacket over a very short pink skirt and black leggings, with very high heels. She looked a little like … a junior hooker.

  Richie rolled his eyes for my benefit. “I know, right? Who picks her clothes?”

  Sugar had been hogging all the warmth that wafted up from the heater on the floor, but she must have seen my expression in the fragment of mirror left on the wall, because when she finally turned on us, she had a satanic fire in her eyes. “I don’t know what the two of you are complaining about. You both look like homeless people. And this guy”—she hooked her thumb at Nooch—“should get arrested for smelling like rotten pepperoni.”

  She went on in a voice dripping with venom. “I’m not here by choice, that’s for sure, but Bitchie seemed to think you were the person who could help.”

  “Bitchie?” Richie said. “That’s what I get after pedaling you down here in the freezing cold?”

  “We could have called a cab!”

  “Neither one of us has any money!”

  “You don’t even have a debit card? What a dweeb!”

  I cut across their bickering. “Wait. Hold on. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Bada Bling Architecture Salvage.” Richie pointed out the window at the logo emblazoned on the side of the Monster Truck. “I looked up your address. Look, things are totally out of control—”

  “Things are horrible,” Sugar corrected.

  “My dad is no help at all,” Richie said. “He locked himself in the bathroom this morning.”

  “The only decent bathroom in the whole house,” Sugar added.

  “Is he okay?” I wondered if the last parent standing might be on the verge of hurting himself.

  “He’s just overwhelmed,” Richie said. “He’ll pull out of it. He always does.”

  “Does he know where you are right now?”

  “
No.”

  “You should call him. This minute.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  Richie shook his head. “Right now, he’s talking to the police again. He’ll be busy with them for hours.”

  “Can we get down to business?” Sugar asked. “We want to know if we can become emancipated minors.”

  “What?” I remembered how Flynn’s friend the skating coach had said Sugar was nasty. I hadn’t quite believed her. But the obnoxiousness of this girl was finally starting to be real to me. “Emancipated minors?”

  Patiently, Richie said, “It’s a legal term that means—”

  “I know what it means.” I began to understand why Eckelstine was overwhelmed. “Why do you want to be emancipated? And why now? I mean, it’s a little soon, isn’t it? Your mother is barely—”

  “That’s the thing,” Sugar broke in, businesslike. “We want to make sure we get our fair share of our mother’s estate. Before Eckelstine gets awarded everything of value, not to mention the power to boss me around.”

  “Boss us around,” Richie said.

  “Whatever.” Sugar had Clarice’s bulldozing thing down pat. She pulled a fancy cell phone from her pocket and began to thumb the keys at lightning speed. “I’ve done all the research on emancipation. I’ll show you. We certainly don’t want to get trapped in any Youth Services hell. Now, I don’t know you from a clerk at 7-Eleven, but Bitchie seems to think you have a brain and might be trusted. Although, anybody who’d wear such heinous boots as those should be shot.” She pointed at my feet and shuddered.

  “My name is Richie.”

  “Save your breath. You’ll need it to blow up your next date. That’s all you can handle, right? An inflatable girl?”

  “Watch your mouth, crankypants,” I said while Richie tried to figure out what the insult meant. “He’s your brother now. And I’m the one you’re asking for help, remember?”