Soap on a Rope

by Barbara Silkstone

  Obviously familiar with the layout of the joint, Harry ran through the murky clubroom without a stumble or bumble. He leapt onto the stage, went into a full body slide on the wooden floor and slipped under the musty velveteen curtain.

  I dropped to the floor and rolled under the curtain after him—coming up on the dark side of the drape.

  Chapter 14

  “Marchmain!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. A blue, red, and yellow phone booth loomed over me. The top of the booth was painted with an evil man-in-the-moon face and chipped golden letters spelling Vanish.

  I was in some sort of backstage storage area crammed with medieval torture devices, a rack of capes, and a couple of sets of mannequin legs—props for cutting a lady in two.

  The sound of running and then a door slamming told me Harry Whodunit had escaped. The kid was not worth stubbing my toes tramping through this hoarders’ habitat. He was a Marchmain and would be easy enough to find in Starfish Cove.

  A chunk of grit lodged in the corner of my eye. I was in the process of blinking it out when Lizzy crawled under the curtain.

  “Are you okay?” she grabbed my shoulder.

  “MRI.”

  She gave me the once over. “You’re hurt?”

  “Mascara Related Injury. I’ll blink it out.”

  “So that was Harry Whodunit? He must be guilty of something if he ran.”

  “Lift up this darn thing!” Grams barked from the opposite side of the drape. “Have you got the Phantom of the Opera back there?”

  “Here you go!” Lizzy and I grabbed the musty roller at the bottom of the curtain and hefted it high enough so Grams could crawl through.

  “Where’s Pam?” Lizzy asked.

  I peeked under the curtain but she wasn’t on the stage.

  “She lit out the front door. That gal’s got nurse’s legs. She’s faster than me!” Grams grinned. “Even money says she catches Whodunit.”

  My vision finally clear, I traipsed after Lizzy and Grams making our way through a wonderland of props. Dark blue cloths covered many of the obstacles—their shapes hinting at what lay beneath. We skirted around a unicycle, a carton of wands, an invisible head wearing a derby, and an empty cage with rabbit droppings.

  We found the unlit exit Harry used to escape. I tugged it open and we stepped out into the sunlight.

  Lizzy elbowed me and I turned to the left looking up the alley towards the street.

  Pam stood on the cobblestones, her feet spread apart in a cop stance. She’d pinned Harry against a brick wall with her hands on his throat.

  The kid squirmed in a vain attempt to escape the nurse’s grip. I made a mental note to ask Pam for lessons.

  “Just who do you think you’re messing with, sonny?” Grams came at him. Her shoulders hunched, her gloved fists knotted, and her eyes blazed. “We got you! Why’d you taunt the Masked Dangler?”

  Pam’s hands garbled Harry’s plea. “Keep that old lady away… from… me!” He squeaked out the words.

  “Rex Marchmain’s your father!” I wedged myself between Grams and Harry.

  “He’s not! Never heard of him.”

  “Your cover’s blown, Marchmain.” I gave him the boxer’s stare-down. “We’re taking you to your father. I read minds and mine is telling me we can find him at the Yacht Club.”

  Harry’s body went limp—an involuntary sign of submission. “I’ll tell you the whole thing, just don’t take me to my daddy—I mean father!”

  Rex Marchmain must be one scary guy.

  Pam loosened her grip, while Grams poked the kid in his skinny ribs. “Okay. Talk. What’s with the ad?”

  “As I told the blonde,” he said, pointing to me. “The old guys at the Hat made a legend out of him. I figured knowing his tricks might help me get a foot up in the business. I was just guessing about Dingler. I don’t have any idea who the Masked Dangler is—honest. Honest!”

  It was that extra honest that told me the kid was lying like a rug.

  Harry cringed looking at Grams. She bared her choppers as if she wanted to chew his face off.

  A car drove slowly across the entrance to the alley. It stopped. The driver stared at us. We made an odd sight—three youngish women and a granny mugging a skinny young dude. The man behind the wheel shrugged and continued driving. Peculiar things were always going on in Starfish Cove. It was safer to mind your P’s and Q’s.

  Resignation passed over Harry’s face like a rain cloud. Rescue was not in his horoscope. “I’m practicing to be a dangler,” he said by way of an excuse.

  His bogus claim wasn’t going to save him. I gave him the boxer’s stare again.

  He tried to stare back then looked at his feet. “I figured I could beat the Masked Dangler and take the title from him. I even bought a mask—I was that certain. An old dude bound to flop at the Dangle Off—or chicken out!”

  “You can’t make a living dangling. That went out with Ed Sullivan.”

  “Don’t know him either!” the kid whined.

  All of Grams’ gang rolled their eyes simultaneously. Dumb as the dirt on the carpet inside the Hat.

  The door squeaked open and Bart Bottom stuck his head out.

  “If you’re gonna kill him, don’t do it in the alley. Twenty bucks if you drop him off the pier and take a video. I’ll throw in a free striptease.”

  The kid yelped. “Stop joking around and help me. They’re gonna drag me to the Yacht Club!”

  “Nice knowing you” Bottom said and closed the door with a thud.

  Harry put up a good fight—more like a greased pig tussle, but he was no match for Pam. She held his right arm in a wrestler’s hold and duck-marched him to Grams’ car.

  “I ain’t getting in no Edsel. What if somebody sees me?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with an Edsel!” Grams snapped. “Goldie has over two hundred thousand miles on her and hasn’t had an oil change in two years. Drives like a dream.”

  Harry put his hands over his face, accepted his fate and allowed Pam to stuff him into the backseat between her and Lizzy. I rode shotgun.

  Our cruise was uneventful aside from one minor fender bender with an ownerless parked car.

  “Reach in the glove box, Olive.” Grams said. She pulled two car lengths up from the dented car and kept the Edsel’s engine idling—striving, not idling. “See that stack of pink cards? Get one and slip it under his windshield wiper.”

  The pink cards all bore the same printed message.

  SORRY I HIT YOU BUT IT WAS YOUR FAULT FOR PARKING THERE.

  NEXT TIME BE MORE CAREFUL.

  ~ A FRIEND

  No name. No phone. No sugar coating. But the act of leaving a note impressed the bystanders.

  We rattled exactly six minutes from the Hat to the marina—I know this because the dial clock on the ancient dashboard counted off the time in little lurches. I needed an oil change too.

  The blue and white roof of the Yacht Club came into sight. Time to meet Mr. Rex Marchmain.

  Chapter 15

  A paunchy salt-and-pepper haired man wearing a navy-blue blazer with SCYC embroidered in gold thread on the breast pocket was slouching against the wall. He snapped to attention when he saw us approaching and stood in front of the door.

  Grams stepped ahead of us and said, “I’ll handle this.”

  The doorman smiled. “How can I help you ladies? Are you meeting one of the members?”

  She put her fists on hips. “Are you saying you don’t recognize me, Freddy? I’ve known you since you were in diapers.”

  He squinted and recognition swept across his face. “Mrs. Dingler. I’m so sorry. The peepers aren’t what they used to be.”

  Freddy opened the door and with a bow and a sweeping gesture ushered Grams’ gang into the yacht club with Harry wedged in the middle subdued by a wristlock sometimes called a come-along by police—deftly administered by Pam.

  “Let’s try the bar first. Happy hour should’ve started by now,” Lizzy said.


  Harry tried to break free of Pam’s grip. “Don’t throw me in the barrrrr!” The word bar dragged out as Pam increased the wristlock pressure. His begging sounded a bit like Brer Rabbit.

  His father had to be a terror. My stomach did a little squish-squash. I hated making scenes but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

  The bar smelled like cigars with a light overlay of diesel fuel that drifted in the open sliders. The room itself was posh with pale blue walls, oak framed pictures of distinguished looking men, and blue plaid carpet. A huge sailfish arched over the mirrored back of the bar. He might once have been real but was more likely of the fiberglass species.

  Wraparound windows offered a panoramic view of the marina. I shuddered from the memory of a recent murder on these docks.

  A dandified youngish man dressed in yachting attire rose from a bar stool. Tall, thin, and handsome in an F. Scott Fitzgerald way, he stepped toward us. He wore a light blue blazer, blue and white pinstripe shirt, cream-colored slacks and boat shoes.

  As he drew close I got a better look at him. Cut close on the sides, his bottle blonde hair dipped over his tanned brow. He’d had more than a nip and tuck judging from his lizard-like mouth and hyper-raised brows. I adjusted my guestimate of his age and put him on the far side of fifty, maybe far enough to reach sixty.

  “Rex Marchmain.” He extended his hand in the general direction of our group—no one took it. “I see you have my son. Now what has he done? Broken a window? A fender bender?”

  Marchmain’s eyes fell on Grams. “Mrs. Dingler!” He spoke in a clipped accent—British by way of Connecticut. “I’m so sorry to hear about your son. Nelson and I weren’t close but he was an impressive man—worthy of the position of Commodore of the finest yacht club on the west coast of Florida. Is there anything I can do?”

  I was expecting Monster Trucks on Ice, and instead we got Bridget Jones Diary.

  He directed his attention to Lizzy. “I believe you’re Nelson Dingler’s daughter—Elizabeth? I’m sorry to hear about your father.” Leaning in, he took her hand and held it.

  Lizzy yanked free. One brow shot up. She was having none of his act.

  He turned his charm on Pam. “You must be the youngest Dingler daughter, Pamela. I see the resemblance. I can’t help but notice you have my son in a wristlock.”

  “We believe he may know something about Nelson Dingler’s death.” I extended my hand. “I’m Olive Peroni—family friend.”

  “Ah, the cold cream mogul. A pleasure to meet you.” Marchmain’s hand was dry, rough, and warm. His voice sounded like velvet if cloth could talk. I tried not to let Nancy’s warning affect my judgment.

  “My son is deeply common.” Rex wrinkled his lizard lips as if smelling cooking cabbage. “I apologize for whatever he’s done. If he’s broken anything I will pay for it. If he’s offended any of you, he will beg your forgiveness.” He glared at his boney offspring. “But as far as having anything to do with the death of anyone—that’s impossible.”

  Pam released Harry, who slumped like a marionette with cut strings.

  All controlled charm, Rex Marchmain was clearly running to replace the newly deceased Nelson Dingler.

  Every man in Starfish Cove who owned a diesel fueled boat wanted to be Commodore. The life expectancy of yacht club skippers was slightly less than a carnival goldfish in a dinky glass globe and yet these men fought like barracudas for the post.

  Was Marchmain capable of murder in order to become the next Commodore? His son was a fool, but was he a tool or operating on his own? Harry placed the ad but did his father set the scheme in motion? Were they hands-on in the strangle-dangle or just criminally negligent for publishing the challenge? They didn’t exchange looks, usually a sign of conspiracy.

  Marchmain motioned to the dock. “Shall we sit outside and sort out whatever this idiot has done? I’m sure I can make it right.”

  He made a move to take Grams arm, but she yanked away. With an expression that was neither a smile nor a smirk, he guided us out the double glass doors and onto the deck.

  We were escorted to a large round table under one of the awnings. Marchmain snapped his fingers and Harry pulled out a chair. None of the Dinglers accepted Harry’s proffered seat so I plunked myself down, while the others each took a chair.

  My eyes flit from Rex to Harry as the sorting out began.

  Chapter 16

  Grams pulled off her gloves—right then left. Her movements were slow and deliberate. She knit her fingers together as if about to ‘church and steeple’ but instead she cracked her knuckles. The sound made me shiver.

  She fixed on Marchmain ignoring Harry. “You want to make right by your son who’s a scoundrel. Up until yesterday I too had a scoundrel son.” She blinked back her tears.

  Marchmain’s brow crumpled. “Word is your son died from natural causes while hanging from his chandelier. What does that have to do with my son?” He glanced at Harry and then returned to Grams. “I thought maybe you had a complaint about his magic stunts—making buildings disappear or swallowing rabbits or whatever? The kid’s a menace.”

  “Your son placed an ad in the Silverfish Gazette!” Grams cracked her knuckles again.

  “He’s over eighteen, is there an age requirement for advertising in that rag?”

  The word rag just secured Marchmain a lasting enemy in the form of Grams Dingler—ninety pounds of fury.

  “The Silverfish Gazette is not a rag! It placed in the top…mumble…of neighborhood newspapers!”

  A sarcastic laugh escaped Marchmain’s lizard-like mouth. The only thing missing was a long skinny tongue flicking in and out.

  “Mr. Marchmain we believe there is a connection to my father’s unnatural natural death with a challenge your son placed in the Silverfish Gazette,” Lizzy said. “I’m not at liberty to give you the details but we need to know why he placed the ad. We have proof he did it.”

  “What’s the big deal?” The velvet in Marchmain’s voice turned to sandpaper. He turned to Harry. “Apologize for placing the ad and then make yourself useful on my boat!”

  Harry popped from his seat. “Sorry I placed the ad! I’ll never advertise again.” He reached in his back pocket and took out one of his flyers. He flipped the many-folded piece of paper on the table as if it was a peace offering.

  Pam reached out to grab him. “Wait! You haven’t answered our questions!”

  Harry turned and galloped down the deck towards the marina.

  “Let him go. We know where to find him and his daddy,” I said, peppering my words with sarcasm.

  Marchmain shrugged at Lizzy. It was a conspiratorial motion designed to win her to his side. She ignored it.

  “If we find out Nelson’s death,” Grams said in an icy voice, “had anything to do with your dodo son’s challenge, guess who moves to the top of our list of suspects!” The icy tone of Grams’ voice sent a chill wiggling down my spine.

  “Come on Lizzy. We’ve got work to do,” I said. I nodded at Marchmain. “We’ll be in touch.”

  The would-be Commodore cut me a chilling look.

  We piled into Grams’ Edsel, a silent prayer for safety of pedestrians and green trashcans on my lips.

  Once back at the shop I collected the customer notes slipped through the mail slot while Grams and Pam sat in their cars at the edge of the parking lot ready to pull onto Starfish Boulevard.

  Lizzy stood at my side as I gathered the slips of paper. “Anything important?”

  There were four order slips and a note from Kal. “I’ll sort them out. You take care of your company. See you at my place by six? We must knock out at least two dozen bars of soap tonight.” I stuffed the notes in my purse.

  Lizzy cut her eyes to Grams and Pam, their engines idling. “WonderDog will need to be walked. Then I have to catch and cage my finches. Pam thinks they’re dirty, won’t sleep on my sofa until they’re locked up. Can you imagine that? I’ll order in some dinner for everybody then head to your place.”

>   Kal’s note was burning a hole in my purse. He’d sent a text message but there was nothing in the subject line and nothing in the body. Technology…ugh.

  I pulled off the boulevard into a service station and fished the note out of my purse. Short and to the point it read— I must have a bar of your lavender soap from your most recent batch. I can’t stress the importance.

  Chapter 17

  I scanned the parking lot beneath Sandy Shores Towers before pulling into my assigned space. With any luck I could avoid Ivy. The we-ness of her letter felt like an anvil on my shoulders. I’d have to be gentle in extricating her nose from Nonna’s Cold Cream but I wasn’t in the mood for nice tonight.

  No sign of Myron’s car—maybe he and Ivy were out for early bird dinner. A blessing.

  Old mobsters don’t retire—they eat early and spend their evenings annoying people.

  I grabbed my purse, and dashed up the stairs avoiding the elevator—a neighbor magnet. A note in Ivy’s handwriting stuck in my doorjamb, a sneaky way to see if I’d come home. After I locked the door behind me, I poked the note back in the crack between the door and the frame.

  Puff lifted her head acknowledging my return with a disdainful look. She held it for a second—just long enough to let me know I’d been a neglectful mother.

  The white fur ball jumped off the sofa and scrambled to rub my ankles. I picked her up. “Sorry sweetie. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.” Gently placing her on the floor, I refreshed her water and began to set out her food chattering as I worked.

  She listened attentively, finally losing her cool. She batted at my leg—which was cat- speak for stop stalling.

  I scooped salmon paté into her dish, shaping it into a perfect mound.

  The little princess sniffed, flicked her paw at the fish, and scratched as if burying something foul. I didn’t have to be a cat therapist to understand.