He carefully scoots back and his boots squeak against the flooring. “What news?”
“My step-gramma was feeling chatty this morning.” I smile in what I hope looks like a cat-that-got-the-canary kind of grin.
He shakes his head in defeat. “It’ll be in the official report soon enough. The ME recanted the initial time of death.”
I lean toward the lovely specimen of manhood. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say any more. The new time of death could be critical to uncovering additional suspects.”
I can’t seem to stop myself from putting a hand on his arm. Goodness, that bicep is exactly as firm as I imagined.
“Excuse me, Miss Moon.” He flushes pure magenta and tugs his arm.
I tighten my grasp. “Would it interest you to know that Kitty said the last time she saw Cal was Monday morning?”
His eyes widen and his pupils dilate. I hope I’m the reason for the dilation, but my celebration is short lived.
He pulls free and hustles out of the diner before I can say another word.
Twiggy gives me a slow clap. “Looks like you’ve got ’em on the run.”
I turn back to the booth and look around in confusion. Gosh darn it, that man makes me lose all sense of time.
“Your burger’s comin’ out in a minute, Mitzy. You want a bib or something?”
I toy with a witty comeback, but when I remember the pride in Isadora’s eyes as I slipped into this piece of her history, I choose propriety. “Yes, maybe a couple.”
Covered in clean dishtowels and fortified with fries, I remember why I’m meeting Twiggy. “I didn’t get a chance to stop by the bank.” I gesture to my getup.
“I figured,” she responds.
“I’ll be heading over there after lunch and then I can meet you at the bookshop to discuss your pay.” I shove the last fry in my mouth and lick the salt off my fingers.
Twiggy looks me up and down. “Talk about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
I stop with my pinky finger half in half out of my mouth. What can I say? She’s right. I shrug.
“Before you turn yourself inside out”—Twiggy slides out of the booth—“your Grams never paid me. We were best friends.” She walks past me and calls back. “You and I—we’re good.”
The door swishes open and closed. I look at Odell and he salutes me with his metal spatula. “That’s a tough nut to crack, that one. Good for you.”
I’m not sure what I did to earn Twiggy’s loyalty, but I’m in no position to refuse allies. I thank Odell for the delicious food and stroll over to the bank.
I bask in the effect of my luscious outfit on the public at large.
Tilly rushes to my side when I enter the bank. “Good afternoon. How can I help you, Miss.”
“Hi, Tilly. You told me to stop by to get something called ‘checks.’” I smile broadly.
She’s obviously taken aback. “Miss Moon? Oh my stars, I didn’t recognize you in that—” She stops herself and blinks rapidly. “Well, don’t you just look divine?”
Looks like I’m not the only one who defaults to that word under pressure.
She walks back to her meager brown desk and beckons me to follow.
I press my advantage while she’s discombobulated. “Tilly, are you familiar with the Wells Iron Ore Refinery?”
“Of course. They were the largest employer in the region during the boom years.” She doesn’t look up from her paper shuffling but takes a form and loads it into a typewriter.
I lose my train of thought as I stare in fascination at the device I have only read about in old books.
“Why do you ask?”
Oh, right. I’m supposed to be gathering information. “When did the refinery go into receivership?” I hope that’s the right word . . .
“Receivership?”
Crap. Wrong word.
“Oh, no dear. The bank doesn’t own that property. Finnegan settled the loan almost two years ago.” She cranks the little knob and feeds the form through the typewriter.
“Finnegan?”
“Yes, Finnegan Wells. He’s the great-grandson and current owner.”
“But I thought the refinery was abandoned. How could he afford to pay off the debt if the iron ore business dried up?”
Tilly looks up from her forms. “I’m sure I have no idea, dear. What’s your sudden interest in iron ore?”
Oops. Pushed too hard. “No interest. Just making conversation.”
She pinches her lips together and raises an eyebrow.
“Do you need me to sign anything? Oh, Twiggy mentioned that there’s more than one account. Do you have statements for me?”
She gets up without a word and returns with two thick files. “We keep the records in the vault. I’ll have the clerk make copies for you.”
“You don’t have electronic records?”
“How’s that, dear?”
I slowly scan across the tidy wooden desks in the bank. I don’t see any computers. What if I slipped through some kind of time portal when I stepped off that bus? Maybe I did fall into an old black-and-white movie. No computers? I open my vintage handbag in a panic. I touch my smartphone and breathe a sigh of relief. Okay, technology does exist—just not in this bank. “How do you keep track of deposits and withdrawals?”
Tilly looks at me as though I have a tentacle growing out of my neck. “That’s what the passbook is for, Miss Moon.” She slides three small books the size of passports across the desk and lays a form in front of me. “Sign at the bottom. Press firmly. You have to get through three copies.”
I sign the top page and lift it up to sign the next page. There on the yellow sheet my signature already exists. “What is this?” I lift the yellow sheet and my signature already exists on the pink sheet, too. “How did—?”
Tilly looks at me for a moment. “It’s called NCR paper. The carbon is built into each sheet so the signature transfers through. That’s why I told you to press firmly.” She smiles and shakes her head in amusement.
I stare at the paper as though it possesses magical powers.
“You get the pink copy. The white copy goes in your permanent file, and the yellow copy stays at the teller window in case you need to make a withdrawal and forget your passbook.”
I don’t have a clue what any of those words mean. I take the pink sheet and the three little books and walk out of the time machine in a daze.
Chapter 16
The Bell, Book & Candle is as “not busy” as usual when I return. Twiggy carefully shelves books and Pyewacket is nowhere to be found.
“Grams? Grams?”
“Don’t look at me,” volunteers Twiggy. “I can’t see her.”
I negotiate the chain in my heels and teeter up the stairs to the apartment. I drop the paperwork on the bed and unbuckle the tiny T-straps on the Valentinos. As my feet sink into the thick area rug I let out a sigh.
“Don’t complain, honey. I know ten women who would kill to wear those shoes for five minutes.”
“Grams!” I smile and rub my poor tootsies. “Trust me, if I’d only had to wear them for five minutes I wouldn’t be complaining.” I wiggle out of the dress and eagerly slip back into skinny jeans and a snarky tee. However, when I look in the mirror I have to admit that I miss the knockout a little.
Grams shoots ahead of me into the closet. “You can’t hang that up in here, Mitzy.”
I look at the dress and then at Grams. “I’m not sure what you’re saying. Where am I meant to hang it?”
“Darling, you wore it for hours. You have to take it and have it properly cleaned.”
“Like a dry cleaners?” Girls with skinny jean and T-shirt wardrobes don’t get much dry-cleaner action.
“Exactly. Take it down to Harbor Cleaners on 3rd Avenue. Tanya knows how I like it.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Copy that, as they say in the film business. I slip on my kicks and march down the street to see
Tanya about my fancy ghost gramma’s couture cleaning needs. There’s a sentence I never expected to utter in my life.
Shockingly, there’s a man in line in front of me at the cleaners. It’s the first time I’ve had to wait for anything in Pin Cherry and the experience intrigues. He’s mid forties, fit for his age, with a surprising amount of thick black hair. I imagine he’s a hot property in these parts.
A woman returns from the back. That must be Tanya. Her movement stirs the atmosphere and a fresh wave of chemically impregnated air wafts over me. Ew.
“I’m sorry, Finnegan, I wasn’t able to get the stains out completely. I’m not sure what kind of wine it was, but it really dug in.”
He nods and hands her a credit card. I notice a ring on his right hand. The symbol looks familiar, but I can’t place it.
Tanya pulls a small device out from under the counter and lays the credit card in it. She places a slip of paper over the card and—
This can’t be happening! I’m witnessing someone use one of those old credit card slidy machines from the eighties. It’s like I’m visiting a pioneer village attraction where people still make their own candles and brooms. It’s fascinating.
“See something you like?”
I might have leaned in a little more than I intended. The man’s voice is too friendly and far too suggestive. I’d like to say something about how he’s old enough to be my father, but if this is Finnegan Wells—and according to the slidy-device slip it is—I’d like to ask him a few questions. “I’m new in town. What’s your favorite place for pie?” I may or may not have winked as I said this.
He smirks and looks me up and down. “I’ll get a booth at Myrtle’s on Main. Do you know the place?”
“I’m sure I can find it . . .” I pause for his name.
“Wells, Finnegan Wells.”
“I’ll be there in five, Finnegan.” One more wink. Why not? You get more flies with honey, right?
He walks out and looks over his shoulder to stare at my rear end.
Yuck. I hope that’s not what I look like when I’m lusting over Erick.
“How can I help you, Miss?”
“Hi, Tanya. My grams said you’d know what to do with this dress. It holds a special place in her heart and requires some TLC.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “The dress I recognize, but have we met?”
Right. In her world my grandmother is dead. “Haven’t had the pleasure, but my grams, God rest her, always said you were the best.”
A relieved smile spreads across her face. “Any stains?”
“I don’t think so. I only wore it for a couple hours. I tried to be careful.”
She examines the dress with a shrewd eye and peers at me over the half moons of her bifocals. “You’ve certainly done better than him. He brings that shirt in and tells me there’s a wine stain.” She shakes her head in disdain. “Forty years I’ve been in the business. I know a wine stain when I see one.”
“I’m sure you do.” I nod supportively. “What do you think it was?”
“I’ll tell you what I know. That was blood if I’m a day.”
I don’t follow her analogy, but I go with it. “Blood? Why would he say it was wine?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose his girlfriend doesn’t want him fighting anymore.”
“Who could blame her?” Imagine that! He’s got a girlfriend and he just invited me to pie. “Maybe I shouldn’t meet him for pie, eh?”
Tanya laughs. “I wouldn’t want to call down that woman’s diamond-studded wrath.” Her eyes go wide.
She clearly said something she regrets. I don’t have enough information to know what, but I make a mental note to add an actual note to my phone as soon as I can. “When can I pick up the dress?”
“Monday okay for you?”
“Perfect. Thanks, Tanya.”
I turn to leave.
“What name do I put it under? Isadora’s account was closed when she passed, bless her.”
“Mitzy Moon.” I derive a secret pleasure from watching her lips mouth the name silently. Word does travel fast in a small town. Now she has a face to put with the rumor.
I hustle over to the diner and pray that I can catch Odell’s eye before he blurts out a greeting.
Taking the slow and careful approach, I peer in the corner of the window. Finnegan is holding court with Tally, his back to the door. I can’t see Odell. I take a deep breath and hope for the best.
I push open the door slowly and search the orders-up window for some sign of life.
Tally takes no notice of me.
Odell’s face pops into the window and he raises his spatula.
I put a warning finger across my lips and shake my head. I nod toward the outspoken Finnegan.
Odell winks. “Tally, I need your expertise.”
Tally nods to Finnegan, giggles at something he says, and sashays into the back.
I rush over and put a hand on Finnegan’s shoulder. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
He tilts his head and grins up at me. The white of his teeth nearly blinds. I’m not sure if it’s over-whitening or grossly mismatched veneers. Upon closer inspection, I also notice the too-even blackness of his monochromatic hair.
He stands and purposely brushes up against me as he gestures for me to take a seat in the booth.
“What do you recommend?” I dare to steal a glance toward the kitchen.
Odell and Tally have their heads together and she’s whispering furtively.
“They have the best pin cherry pie in Birch County.” He catches my eye across the table and winks. “I always have the pie.”
“Oh, how quaint.” I nearly gag on my own reply.
Tally approaches the table and struggles to avoid my eye. “What can I getcha?”
My companion stares at Tally with a look that I will dub “the buffet.” This accurately describes how his eyes move up and down a woman’s body as though he’s starving and she’s a multi-course smorgasbord for the pillaging. Oh, and let me add—yuck.
“I’ll have the pin cherry pie, as usual, Tally. And don’t skimp on the ice cream.” He winks.
The wink is as over-reaching as if he had smacked her on the ass.
She looks down at the table and says, “And for you, ma’am?”
I giggle and say, “When in Rome.”
Finnegan chuckles and winks.
Tally stares at me and shrugs.
“I’ll have the pie and ice cream, too.” I pretend to struggle to read her nametag. “Tally,” I manage.
She grins and practically runs back to the kitchen.
Finnegan leans across the table and whispers in what must pass for sexy in his one-track mind, “Tell me about yourself.” He punctuates the phrases with a little snap of his teeth.
Is it possible that he smells of scotch at two in the afternoon? I lean toward him in spite of my disgust and purr right back. “I’d rather hear what a powerful man like you does in a tiny little town like Pin Cherry.” I try to lick my lip in a sexy way, but the bile rising in my throat nearly chokes me.
He doesn’t notice.
“Big fish. Little pond.” He leans back and props his arm across the back of the bench seat. “My family just about owns this town. The Wells men ran the iron ore business around here since before this town was even incorporated.”
I would love to point out that the iron ore business dried up two or three decades ago, but more flies with honey . . . “Do you still run a refinery, or operate any of those big machines?” I bat my eyelashes to distract from my hideous delivery.
“We don’t mine any ore these days. I’m more of a local entrepreneur and philanthropist.” He spins the massive signet ring on his right hand.
If memory serves, every unemployed loser on reality TV refers to himself as an “entrepreneur.” “How fascinating,” I gush. “What sort of philandering do you do?”
He grins.
He thinks I don’t know what
I said. That pleases me deeply.
“Probably the biggest event I sponsor is the massive annual Halloween Masquerade. We convert the refinery into a mind-blowing haunted ball and raise a small fortune for charity.”
“How exciting.” I’m running out of exclamations of praise. “You said ‘we.’ Who can you trust to help you organize such an important event?” I cross my fingers under the table.
“Oh, no one plans a fundraiser like Kitty Zimmerman.” His eyes glaze over for a moment and it seems he’s enjoying a private mental picture.
“Don’t you mean Zimmerman-Duncan?” I try to maintain an absolute innocence in my tone.
“Of course, of course.” He looks at me with a hint of suspicion and perhaps concern. “Do you know Kitty?”
“We only just met today at the Duncan Club ladies’ luncheon.” I search my mental thesaurus for a word I can utter without choking. “She’s stunning.”
He leans back and smirks. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Mmhmm.” I can’t wait to tell Grams that I uncovered “the trollop’s boyfriend.” Check. Time to push a little harder. “So what charity?”
His eyes snap into sharp focus. “Beg your pardon?”
“I was wondering which charity you and Mrs. Zimmerman-Duncan support with all the money you raise?” I watch as his beady eyes dart left and right. I can almost smell the smoke wafting from the little gears in his cretinous mind as they whir toward disaster.
He shifts and the vinyl bench seat creaks under his sweaty backside. “I didn’t catch your name?” His fake smile strains.
“Oh, it’s Mitzy. Mitzy Moon.” Once again I derive a sick pleasure from watching his lips mutely form the syllables of my name.
Tally sets down two slices of glistening red pin cherry pie with mountains of creamy vanilla deliciousness melting over the flaky pastry.
Finnegan’s entire demeanor shifts from lascivious predator to threatened wild animal. “I don’t appreciate being played.” He slides out of the booth in a huff.
Tally scurries away.
I shrug and slide a slice of pie in for closer inspection. “Thanks for the recommendation. The pie looks delicious.”
Fries and Alibis Page 8