It was breathtaking.
The painting wasn’t the only thing that took my breath away.
A shiny aluminum ladder was lying at the base of the painting.
A white plastic lid like the one that had been on our bucket of confectioner’s sugar was on the floor beside one end of the ladder, and there were splotches of white powder on the floor near the painting and a slightly larger pile of white powder close to the ladder.
A white plastic bucket was lying on its side beyond the screens walling off Nina’s sleeping cubby. The corner of the screens hid all but about the lower third of the bucket. It was similar to the one that had been stolen from us.
The scuffling noises were coming from near the bucket. I ran past Nina’s kitchenette and screened-off sleeping cubby.
A woman was on her back on the floor behind the sleeping cubby.
Her head was inside the bucket. White powder spilled from the bucket onto the floor and across the woman’s shoulders. The woman’s feeble squirming was not helping her remove the bucket from her head.
One of her ankles and both of her wrists lay at odd, twisted angles.
She was long and thin like Nina, and she was wearing black shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt like the Deputy Donut uniforms that Nina and I had been wearing all day.
Chapter 5
Barely noticing that the woman on the floor was wearing pink sandals and, last I knew, Nina had been wearing turquoise sneakers, I knelt beside her. “Nina!” My voice echoed in the large hard-surfaced loft.
The original label was partially torn off the bucket, and the word PAINT was scrawled in black marker over it. I eased the bucket off the woman’s head. White powder spilled, forming a fine mist that drifted to the back of my throat. Sugar.
I brushed it off the woman’s face. Her hair was short like Nina’s, and underneath its spotty coating of sugar, it was a similar shade of brown, but this was the mime, not Nina. She must have removed most of her garish makeup, but it had been replaced by a stubborn layer of white powder.
I stabbed a nine and two ones into my phone and set it to speak aloud. My phone made those buzzy ringing sounds that meant the call had not yet been picked up.
Moving the mime could add to her injuries, but if I didn’t clear her air passages, she might die.
I knelt behind her and gently pulled her up until she was almost sitting. I wrapped my arms around her. Leaning against me, she was able to hold her head upright. She was still wearing the white gloves. Powdered sugar hid most of the painted-on red fingernails.
A man’s voice interrupted my phone’s buzzing. “What’s your emergency?”
I turned my face toward the phone, blurted my name, and added, “A woman is injured. I need an ambulance.”
The 911 dispatcher demanded, “Address?”
“I don’t know the exact address. We’re in Nina Lapeer’s loft above Klassy Kitchens. It’s on Wisconsin Street, about ten blocks south of Fallingbrook’s town square. Tell them to come to the door to the right of Klassy Kitchens and climb the stairs to the second floor. The doors aren’t locked. It’s a long stairway. And it’s dark.”
“Help is on the way. Stay on the line.” I heard clicking noises and pictured the console where I’d sat when I worked at 911.
I apologized to the mime. “Sorry, but I have to do this. We need to clear your lungs.” I placed one fist beneath the mime’s sternum and slapped my fist hard with my other hand. She coughed.
I asked her, “What happened?”
She gasped, obviously trying to speak. Finally, she managed unintelligible syllables followed by words that sounded like, “A die. A seized her.” She moved her head as if trying to get away from the lightweight powder clogging her throat and lungs. Supporting her armpits, I leaned her forward. Coughs racked her.
Someone ran up the stairs toward the loft. Nina strode to me and stopped as if she’d run into a wall. “What’s happening?”
“Medical emergency.” I cocked my head toward my phone. “An ambulance is on the way.”
The mime wheezed and coughed.
Standing above us, Nina wrung her hands. She probably didn’t know she was making soft, pathetic little moans.
I glanced beyond the ailing mime. The tall sliding glass door leading to Nina’s balcony was pushed to the side, and a huge hole in the screen opened to darkness at the back of the building. “Nina! Was there a hole in your screen door before?”
“What?” She seemed dazed and unable to process the chaos in her loft.
The 911 dispatcher also asked, “What?”
I shouted toward the phone, “I’m talking to Nina. She just came in.” I looked up at Nina. “Your door. Was it open like that when you left this morning?”
Nina stared toward her balcony and shook her head as if to clear it. “The door was locked, and there was no hole in the screen.” She grabbed her tote bag and my backpack off the floor and threw them onto a chair beside the sliding glass door.
I didn’t remember dropping our bags, but I did remember the noises I’d heard as I was climbing the stairs. “If someone opened the glass door, why didn’t they open the screen door, too? Why did they break through it?”
“The glass door slides easily, but the screen sticks.” Nina stooped, nudged the screen onto its track, slid it open, and went out onto her balcony. She had walked through some of the powdered sugar that I’d spilled from the bucket, and one of her shoes tracked it outside. The only light on her balcony came from inside the loft, and I couldn’t see what she was doing. I heard metallic clinks and clanks, like chains rattling.
I called, “Nina, are you okay?”
“Yes.” Almost as pale as the powdered mime, Nina came inside. “My . . . my fire escape ladder. It’s made of chains and metal rungs and folds up.” She revolved her hands around each other as if rolling up an ungainly bunch of chains. “I keep it under the Adirondack chair out there for emergencies. It was unrolled and hooked over the railing. It was still swinging, and I thought I heard footsteps, like someone running away down the alley behind the building. I pulled the ladder up and put it where it belongs so no one can climb up and get in.”
I tried not to show my dismay. I suspected we were dealing with a crime. Nina should not have walked through the sugar and should not have touched her escape ladder. Or the screen door. I had already disturbed, quite justifiably, crucial evidence while trying to save the mime. Powdered sugar was gluing my sweaty knees and shins to Nina’s hard maple floor. I told Nina, “I’d like to immobilize her wrists and one of her ankles. Can you find six things like long-handled spoons that can act as splints?”
She headed toward her kitchenette. “Okay.”
I added, “And three towels or rags to tie around them.”
Nina was upset, so I didn’t want to reveal the thoughts tumbling and colliding in my brain while I supported the wheezing mime with one arm and rubbed her back with my free hand.
I was sure that the mime had broken into Nina’s stairway and loft and had carried the bucket of sugar up the ladder that was now lying next to Nina’s painting. The mime must have been near the top when she, the ladder, and the bucket crashed to the floor.
This could not have been entirely an accident. A spill of sugar near the ladder showed where the open bucket must have landed. When I found the mime, her head had been about ten feet from that spot, and her feet had been even farther. If she had somehow landed with her head inside the bucket and had slithered away on her own power, she would have made a trail of sugar, and she might have wriggled away from the bucket. Neither of those things had happened.
Except for the lower third of the bucket, she’d been out of sight of the apartment’s front door, as if someone had dragged her there to hide what he or she planned next. The mime’s broken wrists and ankle would have prevented her from moving much, giving her attacker the opportunity to carry the mostly full bucket to her and shove it over her head. And then her attacker must have held her down and
prevented her from escaping.
If I hadn’t yelled up the stairwell, the attacker probably would have stayed until the mime stopped moving. But I had yelled, and the attacker must have panicked at possibly being caught. He must have opened Nina’s sliding glass door, broken out through the screen, found Nina’s fire escape ladder, and fled down it.
I called toward my phone, “Hello, 911? Please send police to the same address. Detective Brent Fyne might be nearby. Please ask him to come here, too.”
“Okay, Ms. Westhill.” Many of the emergency dispatchers in this part of Wisconsin remembered me or had heard of me, knew that I was Alec’s widow, that Tom was my father-in-law, and that Brent had been Alec’s best friend. Because of Alec, they would do nearly anything for me. Besides, everyone associated with law enforcement in Fallingbrook admired and respected Brent and Tom.
Nina ran to me and placed two wooden spoons, a stainless-steel serving spoon, its matching slotted spoon, a spatula, and a long fork plus three pretty scarves that looked like silk on the floor. Tears welled in her eyes. “Why is she here? And why are you . . . you didn’t break into my apartment, did you, Emily?”
“I don’t know why she’s here, and I didn’t break in. Your street and loft doors were open.”
Nina waved toward her balcony. “Someone broke out.”
“It looks that way. Do you want to splint her wrists and ankle, or would you rather hold her upright while I tie on makeshift splints?”
“I’ll hold her up.”
Coughing violently, the mime shook her head.
Nina knelt behind the mime and slipped one arm around her. The mime cringed away as if she thought she would be more comfortable lying down. I suspected that even if she lay on one side, she would find breathing more difficult than she would with one of us supporting her.
Apologizing for hurting her more, I removed the sandal from the mime’s injured foot.
Nina asked, “Is she going to be okay?”
“I hope so.” I splinted the mime’s injured ankle with two long-handled wooden spoons, one on each side, wound a scarf around it all, and tied it. “She’s the mime who was at the carnival.”
Nina nodded. “I thought so.” She looked up at her painting. “How did powdered sugar splash all the way to the top of my painting? There’s like a waterfall of it right down the middle. It’s like someone climbed the ladder and threw sugar by the handful at the painting.”
“Is the ladder on the floor the new ladder you told me about this morning?”
“Yes. It was delivered last week.”
I left the mime’s white cotton gloves on her hands and cupped her palms around the outsides of the stainless-steel spoons’ bowls, and then tied scarves around her wrists and the long handles of the spoons. My splinting was far from professional, and the mime’s coughing made it even harder. I asked Nina, “Where was your ladder when you left for work this morning?”
“Propped up near the center of the painting.” Nina rubbed the mime’s back. “Do you think it’s our missing sugar, Emily?”
“It must be, but why did she take it? To break into a random apartment and bring a bucket of confectioners’ sugar into it?”
“And climb a ladder and throw sugar right onto my painting?” Nina was nearly wailing. “The paint wasn’t dry. I don’t know how I’ll clean the sugar off it in time for the show.”
Wide-eyed, the mime wheezed, coughed, and seemed to try to pull away from the sugar that had to be coating the insides of her lungs.
I stared at the ladder as if it could tell me what happened.
Maybe it could. There was a black scuff near the base of one of its legs. I asked Nina, “Was that black mark on the leg of the ladder the last time you looked?”
“I don’t think so.” The soles of Nina’s sneakers were white, my soles were red, and the mime’s were tan. Had someone wearing black soles kicked the base of the ladder when the mime was near the top? I immediately pictured the mime’s apparent accomplice, the magician, who could have been wearing black shoes to match his jacket, top hat, gloves, and briefcase.
Finally, I heard sirens. It felt like an hour since I’d phoned 911, but it must have been less than five minutes.
I asked Nina, “Did you get my message?”
“About my bag? Yes.” With apparent difficulty, Nina managed to keep the mime from collapsing to the floor. “But not until I’d already left the grocery store—I’d barely gotten to the dairy aisle when I realized I didn’t have my keys. Then I came back here and checked with Harry and Larry downstairs at Klassy Kitchens. They didn’t know where their keys to my apartment were. They came with me to double-check that my street door was locked. It was. We all tried it. They let me out the back door of their store so I could cut through the alley.” She spoke quietly to the mime. “Try to relax and breathe. I know it hurts. We’re trying to help you.” Nina looked up at me. “I was almost at your place when I remembered that I’d forgotten to turn on my ringtone after the carnival. My phone was in my pocket. I was going to call you, but I found your message that you were on the way here. I turned around and walked back. My street door looked like someone had broken in. I was about to call the police when I heard you up here shouting my name.” Her dark eyes showed the empathy that I was also feeling for the mime and her labored breathing. Nina was also breathing heavily, more from emotion, I thought, than from the exertion of trying to prevent the mime from lying down and giving up. I stood and stretched.
Behind the fallen ladder, a chip of white plastic lay on the floor near the base of the painting. I eased around spilled sugar for a closer look. The chip could have broken off the bucket, which supported my theory that the bucket had fallen from high on the ladder.
Something gold gleamed near one of the splotches of sugar near where the ladder’s feet must have been. I stooped for a better look.
It was an ornate gold locket.
Nina was concentrating on the mime. Neither of them was facing me.
A little voice in my brain told me to leave the investigating to the police.
Had the mime dropped the locket when she fell? Would it yield a clue to the mime’s identity? Maybe it contained important medical information that could help EMTs save her life.
With the toe of one sneaker, I slid the locket away from the sugar. I didn’t see a chain, and I wasn’t about to dig around in the sugar for one.
Out on the street, a siren ended abruptly.
I worked a thumbnail between the two sections of the locket.
Chapter 6
The locket opened easily.
On the left side was a sepia-toned photo of a stern-looking older gentleman dressed in what appeared to be a suit from the 1890s. The photo was blurry as if the man hadn’t sat still.
A newer piece of paper was crammed into the locket’s other side. Maybe I’d been right that the locket held information that could help the EMTs save the mime. I popped the scrap of paper out and unfolded it. I had to hold it under Nina’s brilliant floodlights to read the tiny, light gray pencil marks. They were no help. The number 971 was followed by the capital letters W I S T S and an upward-pointing arrow.
Feet thudded on the stairs. I shoved the disappointing scrap of paper and the locket into my shorts pocket for safekeeping.
Samantha and an EMT I didn’t know ran into Nina’s loft carrying a wheeled stretcher with its wheels folded underneath it and blankets and cases of equipment on top. I was used to seeing Samantha in her uniform, but lately I’d been picturing her in the wedding dress that another friend, Misty, and I had helped her choose. Now, in contrast, Samantha’s black uniform and heavy boots looked almost shocking. Her dark brown eyes concerned, she threw me an assessing glance, and then she and her partner eased the stretcher down beside the mime.
I picked up my phone, blew sugar off it, told the 911 dispatcher that help had arrived, and disconnected.
Nina stood up. She was pale and trembling. Afraid she might faint, I guided her to on
e of the two chairs in her kitchenette. “Put your head down between your knees.”
“I’m okay.”
To distract her, I opened the locket and handed it to her. “I think she might have dropped this.”
Nina studied it in silence. “It’s mine. Where’d you find it?”
“Near the ladder.” I put the scrap of paper on the table in front of her. “This was inside, instead of another photo, I guess.”
She stared at the locket and the paper. “She must have stolen my locket.”
“Who’s the man?”
“One of my great-great, I forget how many greats, grandfathers. His wife’s picture was in the other half.” She had regained some of her color.
“Where was the locket?”
Nina swallowed and let her gaze travel around the high-ceilinged loft. Finally, she pointed a shaking finger toward her screened-off sleeping cubby. “My jewelry box.” Her words were soft, as if she hoped to wake up and discover she was only in the middle of a nightmare. She rubbed a thumb against the front of the locket. Fine white sugar remained lodged in its indentations. She stretched one leg out, leaned back in her chair, and shoved the locket and the piece of paper into the front pocket of her shorts.
I said sympathetically, “And then she vandalized your painting.”
Still looking lost and bewildered, Nina shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would she do all this?”
Someone ran up the stairs.
Nina and I both stood. Eyeing the door, she covered her mouth. I braced myself for attackers carrying barrels of powder.
Brent strode into the apartment. He was still dressed casually in his jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. He looked so comforting that I took a couple of steps toward him and might have thrown myself into his arms if the situation hadn’t been dire and sad. He met my gaze with a grim look of his own. “You called this in, Emily?”
“Yes. I guess we found our missing bucket of confectioners’ sugar. When I arrived to deliver Nina’s tote bag, her locks had been forced open. I heard noises up here and found the mime who was at the carnival. She was lying on the floor about ten feet from the ladder she must have fallen from, and her head was inside the bucket of sugar. With two broken wrists and one broken ankle, she didn’t seem able to escape.”
Beyond a Reasonable Donut Page 5
