I elbowed Lizzy. “Harry Whodunit.”
“Where?” She whiplashed her head.
“Coming this way. Talking to some guy. We need to let them get by us then follow him to see what he’s up to.”
Three of the cables ran through a mesh curtain-covered doorway. I grabbed Lizzy’s arm. “Quick! Let’s duck in here.”
We stepped into a room filled with props for an act. A mounted circus-sized poster of an old airplane stood on my right. Just below the faded plane, figures of men fell from the open plane door into the clouds. Before I could take further inventory I heard Harry’s whiney voice approaching.
Lizzy and I stood side-by-side. The mesh curtain allowed us to see the little creep
but the shadows prevented him from seeing us—not that he was looking. He strolled by with a young guy dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt. Two friends just shooting the breeze.
A few of Harry’s words reached me as they passed. “My father’s ticked. He knows I placed that ad for you. Next time do your own investigating!”
I couldn’t believe it. Gram’s half-baked idea was actually paying off. A real lead. We needed to follow them and find out who Harry’s friend was.
A strong hand clamped on my shoulder.
Chapter 27
I turned my head toward Lizzy. A gnarly hand was clamped on her shoulder also.
“Just in time!” The voice belonged to a thirtyish guy with a lacquered pompadour and wearing a shabby black Elvis jumpsuit. It was a pinch me moment.
“The plane is waiting for you two at the north end of the parking lot,” he said. “We’ll take off and head out over the shoreline. Hope you know what you’re doing. Don’t have time to train new recruits.”
The grabber was at least six-feet tall, with plastic-like hair, narrow eyes, bushy black brows and jaggedy teeth. He extended his hand. “Alvin.” His grip was firm, his hand rough. This was a man who performed manual labor not magic.
“Olive and Lizzy.” I pointed to Lizzy.
He removed his hands and reached in his pocket. “Here’s your earplugs. I’ll strap you into the harnesses when we get on the plane. Don’t be put off by old Jenny’s looks—she’s a Skyvan. If you haven’t wing-walked one she has a roar when she takes off and her assent is slow-ish but don’t let that throw you. She ain’t fallin’ from the sky.”
My left eye started twitching. I pressed my finger to my lid.
“Jenny’s built to hold twenty-two jumpers but right now we’re down to ten. If you look over your shoulders while you’re wing-walking, you’ll see the skydivers drop from the rear exit cargo door just like in the movies. It’s a beautiful sight.”
Alvin placed his hands on our backs and pushed us in a direction I was certain we didn’t want to go. “Jenny can take off and land almost anywhere. The beach can be rough but she can handle it.”
I felt Lizzy tug my belt.
“This is a dry run—just you two wing walkers. You’ll go up with the troop tomorrow for final rehearsal.”
“Did he say wing walkers?” Lizzy whispered.
Speechless—I nodded.
A little diversionary chatter was needed while I collected my thoughts. “Are those flying Elvis’s on the poster?”
He shook his head. “Flying Alvins. That’s the whole troop—well not really—we lost Joe, Jim, and Zeke.”
Lizzy clutched my hand.
“Show time we fly over the arena. You gals stay on the wings. The guys jump out in a free-fall and then open their underarm chutes. The kids love it.”
“Skydiving is a stunt. How does it qualify as magic?” Harry was getting away but I was leery of cutting Alvin short. There was something in his eyes and it wasn’t sawdust.
“Nothing magic about skydiving. The Magicians’ Fusion needed a grand finale. I was in the right place at the right time.” He grinned exposing his creepy teeth.
I backed away placing my hand protectively in front of Lizzy. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Alvin brushed one hand against the other. “I used to work back stage at the arena doing the heavy lifting. Weekends I spent skydiving for fun. The magicians put out a call for a final act. Something different. I brought my diving friends in billed as the Flying Alvins. They hired us on the spot. We’ve worked the show for sixteen years.”
“Did you ever hear of a guy called the Masked Dangler?” I watched his eyes, the spinning motion of his pupils mesmerizing. Might as well pick what was left of his brain.
“You’re friends of the Masked Dangler!” Alvin’s eyeballs came to rest in twin dots of admiration. He took a moment to process. “That Masked Dangler feller ain’t been around for a bit. I’ve been fiddling with side jobs and lost track of time.”
Alvin scratched the tip of his nose. “You know how it is—a rabbit here, a half-a-lady there. But magic ain’t like the high of the Flying Alvins. If you got a connection with the Dangler, he’d be a showstopper.”
He closed his eyes lost in a vision. “I can see it now. The Flying Alvins, you gals, and the Dangler!”
While his eyes were closed I peeked out the curtain. Harry Whodunit was nowhere in sight. A door stood open—I could see the parking lot. A quick jaunt away.
I motioned to Lizzy and while Alvin remained in dream land we made our getaway.
Wing walkers indeed.
“Zig-zag so he can’t see us!” Lizzy and I picked up speed with each step.
“Get behind that carnival wagon!” I shoved her out of sight, stumbling after her. We weren’t being followed. “My car’s to the right. Ready?”
Lizzy grabbed my wrist. “What do you think of that Whodunit tidbit we overheard?”
“Rex Marchmain didn’t have anything to do with the challenge. We have to find the guy who was with Whodunit. Since we don’t know who he is, we have to find Whodunit and drag it out of him.”
My phone jangled at my hip reminding me that I hadn’t checked my voicemail after my phone rang when I was in the tube.
We dashed to my car. Hot as a pizza oven. We opened the doors to let out the heat. While we waited for the temperature to drop below molten, I checked my voicemail. One from Grams.
I put my phone on speaker. “Olive? I can’t reach Lizzy. Pam and I are sitting in a limo in the parking lot at your shop with some foreign guy. It’s just after seven. Got lots to tell you. Hurry!”
As I pocketed my phone I caught sight of Harry Whodunit’s buddy. I scanned the lot—Khaki Pants was alone. “We’re not going to get a chance like this again! We have to grab that guy!”
Lizzy didn’t hesitate. One of the many things I loved about her was that she would follow me over the cliff, up the mountain, or across a parking lot to tackle a total stranger.
We closed in on Khaki Pants.
Chapter 28
“Excuse me, sir!” I semi-yelled.
Khaki Pants turned in my direction and paused, giving me a chance to memorize his looks in case he decided to bolt. Late twenties—slender build, sand-colored hair, a light tan, and green eyes.
Had to give the guy credit—he didn’t take off running at the sight of two female Elvis-styled floozies charging him. Considering the vapid vaudeville going on inside, we were probably the norm.
With an air of authority I held up my hand. “We’re associated with the Starfish Cove Police Department.” Lizzy jabbed me with her elbow.
“Covert operation. I understand you caused an ad to be placed in the Silverfish Gazette challenging the Masked Dangler to a dangle-off.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead and loosened my Elvis collar. “I’m Olive. This is Lizzy.”
“You’re with the police?” He gave us the once over with cynical eyeballs.
“COPP” I said, resting my hand on the small purse clipped to my low-slung belt. In some alternate reality it might be mistaken for a holster.
“I’m a journalist,” he said. “I’m used to dealing with the police—never heard of COPP. What’s that stand for?”
&
nbsp; “Citizens On Patrol Plus. Besides traffic control we handle blackmail and the occasional homicide.” It was worth a try.
He laughed out loud.
“What’s your name and your connection to the Masked Dangler?” I said. “You can tell us here or at the police station. While you’re at it—how do you know Harry—Marchmain—Whodunit?”
He reached in his pocket. If he was going for a gun we were in trouble. Lizzy and I didn’t have a can of hairspray between us.
Khaki Pants pulled out a business card and handed it to me. It read Sam Silas — Investigative Reporter—Miami Herald.
His name jumped out at me. “Any relation to The Great Silas?”
“My grandfather. I’m gathering material for a book on his life and times. I met Harry Whodunit in the course of poking around Starfish Cove.”
“Why’d you have Whodunit place that challenge ad?” Lizzy asked. “We overheard you talking to the twerp.”
He smirked. “You ladies look trustworthy and you are COP…Ps. If I’d placed that ad it might lead back to me—arouse suspicion. Whodunit had already inserted himself in the magic community and he’s dying to assume the Dangler title.”
“Why did you care about the Masked Dangler?” This Sam guy was no fool. He’d probably worked out most of the puzzle. He just needed confirmation.
“During the course of my investigation I deduced the Masked Dangler had something to do with the way my grandfather died. If the challenge enticed the codger out of retirement I’d get my hands on him. Shake the truth out of him.”
His story was plausible.
“Trust me. I’m not into hocus-pocus. I just deal in facts. The Great Silas’ love of magic didn’t pass on. My father was a hedge fund manager—made money disappear—but that was as close to magic as we came.”
“Do you think The Great Silas was murdered?”
Sam nodded. “I spent five months working with Scotland Yard’s cold case division. The props that killed my grandfather were kept in the London Museum of Magic. The Yard’s forensic people are certain they were tampered with—causing his death. The most obvious clue was the linchpin that prevented the blade from moving had been sawed halfway through.” He rubbed his barely-there stubble. “Interesting, huh?”
“We suspected he was murdered.” I should have bit my tongue.
Lizzy gave me another elbow shot. I was in danger of giving up Nelson Dingler.
“You know about The Great Silas’s murder?”
“We handle the occasional cold case,” Lizzy said. It was my turn to give her an elbow poke. We’d pressed the fib button one too many times.
“I’m late for an appointment,” Sam said. “You have my card—call me. Let’s get together for lunch. You gals might have something I can use in my book. I’ll make it worth your time.”
I turned to see Lizzy dash back to my car. Was she worried about Grams and Pam or was she afraid for her father’s reputation? I ran after her, slipped behind the wheel, started the car, turned the air conditioning to high and closed my door. “Any thoughts on Sam Silas?”
Lizzy slammed her door. “If he builds a case against my father and writes his book, the Dingler name will be mud.”
“You’re a Kelly now—by marriage—but I understand how you feel. Neither you nor Grams or Pam can be blamed for what your father may have done—probably did do. One rotten egg in a dozen doesn’t make the other eleven stink.”
“Not unless the shell is cracked wide open.” Lizzy leaned over and turned the air vents onto her face.
“Any idea who that foreign guy could be holding your grandmother hostage in a limo in the parking lot of Nonna’s Cold Cream?” The question came out in one long breathless rush.
“More likely Grams is holding him hostage, but no—I can’t even guess. Maybe she met him at the Yacht Club. Step on it!”
Five miles over the speed limit was the best I dared do—getting pulled over was not an option. Dressed in our Elvis jumpsuits and painted like hussies, Kal was bound to hear about a traffic stop within minutes. Even double-speak wouldn’t cover the explanation.
Dusky dark spread a lingering purple haze over the Gulf, it felt like an omen as I drove down Starfish Boulevard. My heart lodged in my throat. My right leg shook—unsteady on the pedals.
If I had to explain myself to me I couldn’t. It felt like the crescendo to the music in a horror movie. Something big was about to come down or maybe I was just hungry.
The nightlights illuminated the shop. A dark stretch limousine with tinted windows parked sideways at the front steps.
Friends of Myron?
Chapter 29
I blocked the limo with my car. If this was a kidnapping, it wasn’t going to go down easy. Holding a ninety-four year old lady locked up in a luxury sedan—how low can you get?
Lizzy leapt from the car. I ran around and joined her. We were about to yank the passenger doors when one popped open and a male figure emerged silhouetted by the interior car lights.
A quick glimpse of Grams sitting with a champagne glass in her hand. I cut my eyes to the backlit guy who’d exited the car.
“Fabio!” The sight of Sophia Napoli’s bodyguard sent a flush of relief flooding through me. The visions of Myron’s minions and deadly danglers evaporated in a poof.
Sophia told us Fabio would visit our shop and check out Nonna’s Cold Cream as soon as she was settled in London. It had slipped my mind. Fabio was here to inspect our operation. Lizzy and I exchanged horrified looks. We’d blown the endorsement deal.
The expression on Fabio’s face was a collage of question marks. Our tiny shop would be understandable as a fledgling business but our jumpsuits, painted faces, and flibbertygibbet hair could never be associated with an international film star.
My makeup began to thicken, itching as if a thousand ants crawled over my cheeks. Humidity or humiliation?
“Miss Olive. Miss Lizzy.” Fabio took each of our hands in turn. “Please step inside my car.” He moved aside beckoning us to enter the limo.
Grams took the last gulp from her champagne flute and muffled a ladylike belch with her hand. “Lots to tell you,” she said. She reached for the bottle sitting in the ice bucket.
Pam put her hand over the bottle and slid the bucket out of Grams’ reach.
She did enjoy a glass of champagne now and then. “Just one more,” she grumbled.
Pam shook her head. “Not tonight.”
Fabio followed us into the limo, pulling the door closed—the lights softened to a candlelight glow. He settled into one of the seats. “It’s more comfortable in here. Your grandmamma says there is no table inside your shop. Here we have more than one.”
The table was on the table again. I could see a cold cream shop table in our future.
Twice the length of an ordinary sedan, with cushy black seats on both sides interrupted only by small shiny walnut counters—the car smelled of new leather and a hint of male cologne.
Fabio centered two flutes on the nearest end table and poured a glass for Lizzy and one for me. As he handed me the flute his eyes made lingering contact. Still processing the surprise I couldn’t get a bead on him—was he curious or furious?
“It’s impolite to remark on a lady’s appearance and so I will say nothing about your tootsie costumes.” I blushed. A man in a limo is like a man in a tuxedo—able to induce mini-quakes even in a quake-proof gal.
Our host handed Lizzy a glass. “Your grandmamma told me the sad tale of her son’s death. The criminal element was at one time familiar to me. I grew up in Naples and saw many bad things before Miss Sophia rescued me. She took me off the streets and into her employ. I promise what has happened to your family will be held separate and discreet from your beauty business.”
I could have hugged Fabio. Sophia Napoli’s endorsement might put Nonna’s Cold Cream in lights—to lose it over Nelson’s dangling would have been unfair.
“The tale of the dangling death is horrible. A man does not han
g himself by his feet. I know of feet hangings but such things were done long ago to spread the fires of fear among the peasants.”
He reached across the aisle and patted Lizzy’s hand. “I will help you in whatever way I can.”
“See! You don’t have to worry about your business.” Grams looked tired even as the excited words tumbled from her lips. We needed to get her home in her own little bed before she keeled over.
“Guess what Pam and I learned at the Yacht Club!” She motioned with her glass towards the bottle.
In a single swoop Pam took the champagne flute from Grams. “One glass will do.”
“Who made you the boss of me?” Grams growled.
“I did.” Pam said. “We’ve all had a long day. One glass is enough, Grams. Now tell Lizzy and Olive what we learned at the Yacht Club—or do you want me to do it?”
“It’s my story. I’ll tell it!” Grams crossed her arms over her chest. She looked like a half-plucked chicken facing off in the barnyard.
“Freddy the doorman at the club was on break. We took him across the street for coffee and Danish. They have the best blueberry—”
“Grams!” Pam cut her off.
“Turns out, according to Freddy, Rex Marchmain isn’t happy about being Commodore—not yet,” Grams said. “He planned on taking his yacht across the Atlantic and sailing around the Mediterranean Sea for a year before the Commodore title came up for grabs.”
Grams was on the same trail we’d just hiked but her intel on Rex Marchmain’s plans confirmed his innocence. I poked my tongue into my cheek. Let her command the stage. Lizzy and I would fill in any gaps.
“The old fox married some young chippie around Christmas Time,” Grams said. “He intended a delayed honeymoon—figured he had a couple of years before the Commodore post became vacant. Nelson’s death threw a monkey wrench into his plans. He has to go after the title—now.”
With a firm nod of her chin she pronounced her verdict. “As far as I can tell Rex Marchmain had nothing to do with Nelson’s death. We hung around the Yacht Club for hours until we were getting suspicious looks, then we left.”
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