6 A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  But Christy seemed unconcerned. 'I know. I found a bunch of articles online, remember? A shiv can be surprisingly efficient when inserted correctly.'

  'Correctly?'

  'Like into the right place on the human anatomy. Only, I use mine just for making sure there are no air pockets in the soil.' She knocked dirt off the sharpened handle and slipped the shiv into her apron pocket.

  I was still reeling from the 'human anatomy' comment. 'Did you make that thing?'

  'Don't be silly, Maggy. Ronny gave it to me.'

  Back for another adventure in Christyland.

  'Wait, wait. You carried that thing out of the jail?'

  'A lot easier than smuggling it in.' Christy began delving through her other apron pocket. 'Ronny found the shiv one day underneath his room-mate's mattress. At first, I figured Chef was probably cleaning those tiny intersections where the bars connect.' A sigh. 'It's really tough to scrape out what gets in there.'

  'Let me guess. Ronny didn't embrace your reasoning?'

  'Uh-unh.' Christy's apron-exploration came up with a handful of decorative stones. 'He was afraid Chef would "gut him like a pig" in his sleep, though, according to my research, gutting somebody is a pretty inefficient technique for—'

  'Christy? Stop. Now!'

  'OK. But I thought you wanted to know why Ronny gave Chef's shiv to me.'

  The Chef's shiv. It even alliterated, sort of. And, of course, the whole scenario made perfect sense. At least in Christyland.

  She began arranging some stones on the surfaces of soil in her pots.

  'Pretty,' I said, relieved to be back on the planet Earth. Suddenly, though, I was struck by a déjà vu moment. Then, too, it had to do with rocks.

  I picked up one Christy had just placed. 'What is this?'

  She didn't look at me. 'Quartz.'

  I worked the stone around in my palm and picked up a smaller, pink one. 'Where'd you get these?'

  'Nowhere.' Christy had moved away, her back now to me.

  'Christy?' The same 'mom' tone I'd used on Frank. Happily our piano teacher was more easily snowed than the sheepdog.

  'All right.' She turned, face bright red. 'I admit it. I stole them.'

  'From the bowls that anchored the balloons.' It wasn't a question. 'The ones you said you brought in from the rain for Kevin so they wouldn't be ruined.'

  But why would bowls and the rocks in them be 'ruined' by rain? And, as we've already established, Mylar balloons will likely outlive cockroaches.

  There was only one thing that made sense. Christy had coveted her neighbor's rocks.

  'Maggy, I just kept ten or twelve.' I thought she was going to cry.

  'Ten or twelve?' I turned over the two in my palm. 'What did you do with the rest of them? The ones you didn't keep?'

  'I returned them in the bowls, of course. But these were so different – I didn't think anyone would miss a stone or two.

  I was developing a bad feeling about this. 'Christy, who did you give the bowls and . . . um, their contents to?'

  'Me,' a voice behind us said.

  I turned.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kevin Williams stood at the bottom of the deck stairs, right hand in his jacket pocket.

  'Hi, Kevin.' I decided to play stupid since, as Sarah Kingston has often told me, I'm really good at it. 'Poor Christy is feeling so awful about some rocks she took from your pots.'

  I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming way and held out the two I had. 'I told her that was silly, but you'd better take them so she can sleep at night.'

  And, preferably not with the fishes.

  Kevin returned my smile, but his hand stayed in its pocket. He did have the nicest, backlit brown eyes.

  'Let's go inside.' The hand in his pocket gesturing accordingly.

  'Inside?' Christy chirped. 'But everything's such a mess.'

  'I'm sure not,' Kevin said, gallantly. 'Now you two gather up the . . . rocks from those pots.'

  We did and preceded Kevin into Christy's house. The front room was – where do I register my surprise – immaculate. An ebony piano gleamed in one corner, in contrast to the spare, matte-flat mission furniture.

  'Put them there.' Kevin gestured to a square table in front of the couch.

  Christy quailed. 'But they're dirty, from the—'

  'Do it,' Kevin ordered, less gallantly now.

  'No.'

  Great. Our neighborhood neat-freak was going to get herself – and, far worse, me – killed. I dumped my load on the table, but Christy still hesitated.

  'Maggy –' Kevin's free hand pointing at me – 'already got your table dirty. Now, you do it, too.'

  With a final anguished look, Christy complied.

  A quick scan of the stones.

  'Where's the rest of our ice?'

  'I think that's all there is.' I turned to the piano teacher, who was sniffling. 'Right, Christy?'

  'I don't understand,' she said. 'It's not ice. They're just . . . rocks.'

  Kevin laughed, but this time there was no light behind the brown eyes. They might as well have been two olive pits.

  Then he turned toward me, and I realized I wasn't fooling him. Kevin knew that I knew.

  '"Ice" is actually right, Christy,' I said. 'A nickname for crystal meth. Tell us, Kevin, did you kill JoLynne over it?'

  A gasp from my fellow hostage.

  Kevin ignored her. 'I didn't kill Jo. Just ask your sheriff friend in his jail cell. Or that kid with the camera. Hell, ask anybody who was there that morning. They all saw I wasn't alone for a minute. I did not kill my wife.'

  'Nice collective alibi.' As moving as Kevin's speech was, it was secondary to Christy and me getting out of her 'living' room still doing so. Living, I mean. First, I needed to find out whether Kevin really had a gun.

  'I was thinking, though,' I continued. 'When JoLynne's body was found, her clothes were identical to the ones she'd worn the night before. Not very fashion-conscious of her. So, maybe you killed your wife that night, and brought her to the depot early Wednesday morning, wrapped up in the un-inflated cup.'

  A flicker and then: 'That's crazy. Why would anyone in their right mind kill somebody in private and then dump the body in the middle of a public train dedication?'

  'It does seem a little far-fetched, Maggy,' Christy offered in a hushed tone.

  Couldn't expect much help from her corner, though maybe she was trying to keep Kevin calm. Cross-purposes: I wanted to fire him up, but without our getting fired upon.

  'Maybe, maybe . . .' Roadblocks became real problems when you were making things up on the fly. 'Maybe you wanted JoLynne's body discovered with plenty of witnesses around. Because you knew there was evidence on the balloon that would point to you.'

  I had a brainstorm. Or at least a drizzle. 'Evidence like . . . tooth marks.'

  A flicker, then Kevin forced a grin. 'Please. How could I set up the balloon and inflate it without somebody seeing the body? Like you just said, Maggy, there were a lot of people around.'

  He lifted his pocketed hand, and I saw the tell-tale impression of a muzzle pushing forward against the fabric of his jacket. OK – or not – first major question answered: Kevin had a gun.

  I had a purse and car keys.

  A sound outside drew my attention to Christy's big front window. I saw Sarah step through the doorway of Uncommon Grounds across the way and look down the street. Hope surged. She would see my Escape parked and wonder where I was. Maybe come looking.

  Instead, though, she took out a cigarette.

  'That liar,' I said, involuntarily.

  Kevin looked startled.

  I didn't want him startled. Hair-trigger and all that jazz.

  'Sarah, I mean.' I pointed toward the glass. 'She said she quit the cancer sticks.' My friend had her mouth open, blowing a smoke ring, though I had to admit I couldn't see it.

  'Filthy habit.' Christy chiming in.

  I started toward the door. 'I'm going to give that woman a piece
of my mind—'

  The gun came out of Kevin's pocket. 'Maggy, I don't think so.'

  As he said it, Sarah took one final puff, pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and stuck it back into her apron pocket.

  'Was she pretending?' Christy asked. 'Or is she going to catch on fire?'

  'Just going through the motions,' I said, as the door jangled closed behind Sarah. 'She used to smoke whenever she was stressed. I guess I shouldn't have left her alone to run the coffeehouse.'

  The way things were heading, however, I was going to leave her, period. Not to mention Frank. And Pavlik. And . . . Eric.

  Unacceptable. Not without a fight. 'Do you really want me to tell her?'

  Kevin and Christy exchanged confused looks. He said, 'I think she's talking to you.'

  'Me?' From Christy. 'About what?'

  Admittedly, I am a queen of the non sequitur. 'Umm, actually, that question was for Kevin. I was asking if he wanted me to explain to you how he finessed JoLynne's body.'

  'Not really,' the props man said.

  'I do, I do.' Christy waved a gloved hand.

  Kevin's gun waved back.

  'The saucer was inflated when Kevin started the compressor for the cup,' I said, stepping forward to keep his attention. If he was going to shoot me, at least Christy might have a chance to duck and run. 'JoLynne's body was already lying on the bottom of the cup. Jerome and his camera were on the train platform, shooting from below, so he couldn't have seen her by looking up. Neither could anyone else on the platform, much less on ground level.'

  'And why would I do that?' Kevin sounded confident, but I had a feeling he'd been shaken by how much I'd put together. 'How could I possibly know the cup would fall off and Jo's body would be discovered?'

  Uh-oh. Kevin was right. For the cover-up/alibi to work, his wife's corpse had to be revealed during . . . 'Ragnar. He was in on it with you.'

  'Shhh.'

  I turned toward the sound to see Ragnar Norstaadt in full mime regalia. Short pants, suspenders, striped shirt, beret. He had one white-gloved index finger to his lips. 'Mum is the word, Maggy Thorsen.'

  Chapter Twenty-One

  'The mime talked.' Christy shook an accusatory finger at Ragnar. 'It's just not right.'

  That was what she found unsettling in our situation?

  Ragnar turned to Kevin. Or on him. 'Stupid, stupid man. Better I leave you in Chicago.'

  'You think I'm going to cover for you?' Kevin's words were defiant, but despite his burly body, he seemed genuinely scared of the tall man in the short pants. 'I go down, you go down.'

  'I do not go down, and you do not go down. If you keep your stupid mouth shut. I have performance and delivery tonight, but first now I have to clean up the mess you make?'

  As part of said 'mess', I was just fine with both of them leaving it be. I glanced at Christy, still wearing her gardening apron and yellow gloves. The piano teacher might not be great in a fight, but at least she wouldn't leave fingerprints.

  'So, then, Kevin, who did kill JoLynne?' I asked. 'Did her loving husband bark her, like you described to me?'

  'Burk,' Ragnar corrected. 'And the coward cannot do even such right. I must finish that job, too.'

  Kevin glared in anger. 'It was your pushing me off Jo that gave her the chance to leave tooth marks on the balloon's material.' Now he withdrew a little. 'No marks and we wouldn't have had to use the cup at all. We could have just dumped her body in the lake. But if my wife disappeared and they found traces—'

  'Why?'

  Both men turned to me, but I was addressing Kevin. 'Why did you do it?'

  'He made me. I didn't want to. I loved her.'

  What a weenie.

  Ragnar: 'Then you never should tell your woman of our business.'

  'For the last time,' Kevin protested, 'I didn't tell her. But Jo was smart. When I started sucking up to her female druggie friends and spending more time at your place than ours, she tipped to it.'

  Wait a second. 'Ragnar's place, in the country? Is that where you made the meth?' It was so hard to keep up. 'What about the 'shake-and-bake'?'

  'Garbage,' Ragnar said. 'Our clientele pay for only the best and we do not disappoint.'

  'OK. Then what about Chef, the guy Kevin visited in jail? Is he part of your operation?'

  A sharp intake of breath from Kevin, and Ragnar wheeled on him. 'You go to see the Chef? Why would you do this?'

  I came up with some fuel to be added to the fire. 'Or, Kevin, did you work for Chef? Maybe inherit his business after he was busted?'

  'Inherit?' said Ragnar. 'Like from a father?' A guttural rumbling from the mime's throat. 'No, no. The Chef and his product are both garbage. They need . . . taking out.'

  I was going to miss Ragnar's sense of humor.

  'So why,' I said, shaking my head, 'why, oh, why would Kevin visit him in jail?'

  'Good question.' Those two words coming from a man wearing comical clothes shouldn't have had such emotional impact. Especially since Kevin was the one holding a gun.

  'I, I . . .' the props man stuttered, eyes wide.

  'Choose your words with much care, my friend.'

  Ragnar sounded like a character in an old spy movie. I'd succeeded in putting the two bad guys at odds. Problem was, if they started shooting, both us hostages would be in the crossfire.

  Then, instead of waving as she had before, Christy timidly raised a yellow-gloved hand.

  'Yes?' I said, since I didn't think either man would call on her.

  Christy lowered the latex. 'I think Kevin was just being nice, since Chef is leaving for Chicago soon.'

  'Christy should know,' I told Ragnar. 'She was visiting the jail at the same time.'

  'That's right,' our yellow-gloved one said. 'It was a little awkward, of course, Chef being my Ronny's room-mate, but they were perfectly civil. He –' she angled her head toward Kevin – 'was saying how much everyone missed Chef.'

  Christy gave Kevin a small smile. 'I thought it was sweet of you.'

  And I thought Kevin was going to be sick.

  Before Ragnar could say anything – or just break all our necks – I weighed in on Kevin's side. 'Very smart. Assuming the two of you dropped the dime on Chef in the first place. You must have gotten one hell of a client list. And keeping in his good graces could only help future business. Even allow you to . . . diversify your product lines?'

  Ragnar looked at me with black-button, dead-mime eyes. This guy was no dunce. Oh, for two of the moron criminals we all see on TV.

  'Uh, you know,' I continued, '"keep your friends close and your enemies closer".'

  Kevin puffed out his chest. 'Just doing my job.'

  Ahh, there was one. Moron, I mean.

  'Behind my back.' From Ragnar. 'You cry to me over your cut of our money. Maybe Kevin is not so loyal as he pretend.'

  Christy made a little whimpering sound and pulled a tissue from her apron pocket to wipe her nose.

  Ragnar and Kevin both ignored her.

  'I don't know what your problem is.' Kevin was blustering now. 'I'm the one who called you in Chicago and told you southeastern Wisconsin was ripe for the picking. Chef had gone to a hundred per cent shake-and-bake and the upscale users were complaining.'

  People like Anita Hampton, I wagered. 'Sure. Why settle for fast-food burgers when you're willing and able to pay for steak?'

  Kevin threw me a startled glance. 'I like that, Maggy. Mind if we use it?'

  Moron material, for sure. 'Go ahead.' Nothing would probably be gained by trying to negotiate any cut for me, should the publicity campaign be successful.

  'So, you take all the credit for our success here?' Ragnar's tone was flat.

  'It was my idea,' Kevin protested. 'My connections.'

  'Don't you mean JoLynne's?' I piped up.

  He looked stricken at the mention of her name, like it was a total stranger who had smothered his wife and deposited her body in a giant coffee cup. 'I told you, I loved Jo. I was proud of what s
he'd accomplished.'

  'So was JoLynne, Kevin,' I told him. 'That's why she couldn't let you destroy it.'

  'Enough.' Ragnar crossed to the table and picked up a hunk of what I guessed was crystal meth. 'The rest of this – where?'

  'That's all there is,' said Christy.

  Ragnar's eyes lasered and he took a step toward her. Again, it should have been hard to take him seriously in his mime outfit, but the clothes and make-up – even his blonde braid – just made him that much creepier.

  'Christy's not lying.' I stepped between them. 'Can't you see how scared she is? If either one of us knew where your product was, don't you think we'd tell you?'

  Ragnar seemed to consider that.

  'Maybe somebody else took a few,' I said. 'I mean, there were two whole bowls of them just sitting there.'

  'Don't be a schmuck,' Ragnar said. 'Most of the stones were only quartz. Genius here made a mess of just one pick-up, thank God.'

  Kevin started to protest, but I rode over him. 'Did you say "schmuck"? What happened to the language barrier, Ragnar?'

  A smile.

  'And the accent.'

  'What accent?'

  'I don't know, Swedish? Norwegian?'

  'Actually, generic Nordic, of my own creation.' Ragnar said. 'Did you like it?'

  'Very much.' I couldn't believe I'd let this man play me.

  'And that's not all you liked. Wanted, even.' Ragnar slid effortlessly back into character, or lack thereof. 'Is that not right, Maggy Thorsen?'

  When I didn't answer, Ragnar lifted his eyebrows. 'Lost your sense of humor, I see. Just as well, we have business to conduct. Now. Our ice?'

  'I told you we don't have it. Have you tried Anita Hampton?'

  'Who?' This from Kevin. He still held the gun, but it was shaking as it hung by his side.

  'Nice try, Kevin, but I know she's one of your major clients. The "crossed signals" you both talked about on Thursday? The failed hand-off from Wednesday.'

  'If our Kevvie had bloody well handed it to her instead of getting "creative", the pick-up wouldn't have been buggered beyond recognition.' Ragnar seemed to have morphed again, now into the English Impatient. The guy really was an actor.