Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  It's almost one A.M. I'm sure the neighbors are going to love us.

  “What about the q.t.?” I ask.

  “Come again?”

  “You know. The chief told us to keep this thing quiet. If we start asking questions, people will wonder what happened.” I point to my yellow-green chest.

  Ceepak nods. Slow. Up and down, up and down. He's thinking.

  “You make a valid point, Danny.”

  “We'd have to tell them something.”

  “Yes. But, I am disinclined to disseminate misinformation.”

  The Code. He will not lie. If we want witnesses, now is probably the best time to talk to people—while memories are fresh. But if they ask us questions and we truthfully answer them, this thing could spin out of control fast.

  “Perhaps we should do a little legwork first. I suspect the chief and Santucci are correct. This is most likely the work of teenagers who pose no imminent threat.”

  “Right. The kind of guys who play mailbox baseball.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know—you drive around, lean out the window, and whack people's mailboxes with a baseball bat.”

  “You've done this sort of thing?”

  “Me? No. I've, you know … heard about it.”

  “I see.”

  I'm not lying. If I was, Ceepak would know and then he'd never trust me again. That's how The Code works.

  “I'd like to visit this paintball arcade you mentioned,” he says. “On the boardwalk?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Ceepak punches the digiglo button on his Casio G-shock watch.

  “Let's regroup at oh nine hundred hours.”

  “Pancake Palace like always?”

  “Perhaps some place closer to the boardwalk.”

  “How about The Pig's Commitment? You know, over on Ocean and Oyster. Catty-corner to King Putt Golf.”

  “Roger that.”

  Suddenly, he turns around and walks a few steps back toward the beach. I do the same. We walk up the half-buried planks, reach the crest of the dune, and stand behind that shoe-changing bench. Down on the beach, our little circle of chairs is still there. The trash barrel. In my mind, I can see Katie dancing.

  Ceepak crouches one more time.

  He looks at the back of the bench. We didn't think to do that when we came up from the other side. We were just staring down at all those footprints that weren't going to help us.

  Ceepak fishes out his flashlight and shines it on the back of the bench.

  There's a splat of green-yellow paint, like somebody slammed a neon egg against it with their palm, smooshed the shell and let all the yolk dribble down.

  “Any prints in the paint?” I ask.

  “Negative. The perp wore gloves. See the blurring here? The smudging?” He swings his light to the right.

  Next to the paint splotch there's this pushpinned plastic sleeve with something inside it. It looks like a baseball card. Only, when I look close, I see it's not. It's a trading card that shows a superhero in a purple diving suit with a black mask over his eyes.

  The Phantom.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Pig's Commitment is probably the most popular restaurant on Ocean Avenue.

  It's open twenty-four hours a day so it's great for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, especially if you like bacon and barbecue. Pork, as you might guess, is the common denominator all day long.

  The owner, Grace Porter, an elderly and elegant black lady who swears she improvises her secret rib sauce recipe every time she whips up a batch, named the place after her favorite joke. You know—the one about the chicken and the pig and a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon. The chicken is involved. The pig is totally committed.

  I'm a little early because I need coffee. Jess had swung back by the beach with my van around two A.M. He told me Becca was doing fine. Great news. The emergency room doctor didn't think there would be any permanent damage and sent her home with some drugs and a higher-quality eye patch. Then Jess and I had to pack up our beach chairs and coolers and stuff. My head didn't hit the pillow until sometime close to three thirty. Maybe four.

  Like I said, I need coffee.

  Grace brings it over in one of those plastic thermal pots that hold about a half gallon and you can pour yourself.

  “Here you go, Danny. You look like you need it.”

  “Thanks, Grace.”

  Even though she spends most of her day in a kitchen with fattening food, Grace Porter at age sixtysomething is as thin as one of the mint toothpicks they keep near the cash register up front. She's wearing one of those cool Kofi hats with tribal squiggles all over it and this blousy mudcloth dress. She looks like a jazz musician or, as she likes to call herself, the Queen of Cuisine.

  “Will you be eating alone this morning?”

  “No. Ceepak's joining me.”

  “Mr. Ceepak? How wonderful. I'm looking forward to finally meeting our local hero.” She studies the silverware next to the empty place setting. I see water spots and dried egg yolk on fork tines. So does she. “Excuse me.” She scoops up the offending cutlery and hustles off to find a clean fork and maybe have a word or two with her busboy

  I check my watch. Eight fifty-three. Ceepak will march through the front door at eight fifty-nine at the latest. My man is always on time. I sip some coffee and look around at all the porker paraphernalia. The walls are covered, the shelves crammed. Ceramic pigs, plastic pigs, piggy banks of all kinds, pig-shaped cutting boards, pigs on tin signs for overalls, a weathervane with a winged flying pig.

  “Danny?”

  The voice interrupting my pig appreciation comes from a man in the booth underneath the weathervane. He has oiled-down silver hair, glasses, bright-green shorts and a rugby-striped polo shirt that sort of matches the shorts. I think he used to go to church with my parents. Weese. Right. Mr. Weese.

  “Hello, Danny.”

  His wife. Mrs. Weese. He's tall and lanky; she's short and stout. A classic case of Jack Sprat-itis. There's a younger couple in the booth with them. The guy is kind of tall, and even though I figure he's only my age or maybe a little older, he has this receding hairline coupled with wavy, swept-back hair that makes him look like he might sing country music, only he's wearing clunky glasses with a paper clip pinned through one hinge, and country stars seldom do that. He's sitting next to a short girl with dark hair and a sour face. She looks like somebody just poured last month's milk into her coffee.

  “You remember our son?” Mrs. Weese says with a big, proud smile. “You remember George?”

  “Of course.” I'm glad Ceepak isn't here. I'm lying through my teeth. I don't remember George Weese at all.

  “He's visiting. With his wife.”

  I guess the wife doesn't rate her own name.

  “We're grandparents,” says Mr. Weese.

  “Boy and a girl!”

  “Twins?” I ask.

  “No. Nine and twenty-three months.”

  Wow. Georgie Boy and Sourpuss have been busy. If we were playing that Milton Bradley board game Life, their little car would have four pegs in it. Two blue. Two pink. Me? One peg. And I'm nowhere near that Getting Married space.

  “How about you?” asks Mrs. Weese.

  “Me?”

  “Any children?”

  “No.” I almost add, “None that I know of.” But then I remember these were my parents’ friends, not mine.

  “What’s stopping you?” Mrs. Weese gives me a country club smile—the kind some queen flashes to her peasants. Now I remember. He runs a bank. She sells real estate. The Weeses play golf, live in a huge house, and love to remind everybody how rich they are.

  “Danny doesn't have time to settle down,” says Mr. Weese. “He's a hero. That awful murder and everything. Read all about it. Sent George the clippings.”

  George, whom I'm supposed to know, sort of grunts in my general direction. I get the feeling he's not so crazy about his parents. I'll bet he's glad he has to visit Se
a Haven only once or twice a year.

  “Way to go, Danny.” Mr. Weese gives me a stubby thumbs-up.

  “Just, you know, doing my job.” I've heard a lot of cops say that in the movies. TV too. Figure it might work for me.

  “Still just a part-time job?” Mr. Weese asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we need to skeedaddle.” Mr. Weese stands up so everybody can fry their eyes on his green shorts. “Anybody need to use the facilities? George?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “You sure, son? It's a ten-minute drive back to the house.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “How about you, Natalie?” he says to his daughter-in-law. “Need to powder your nose?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “You kids sure?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Mr. Weese leads the way to the cash register. George and his wife slouch out behind Mrs. Weese. They so don't want to be here.

  I return to my coffee. It's good. Strong. Loaded with Colombian caffeine.

  Someone taps me on my shoulder. Mr. Weese. I guess he circled back.

  “Give me a call after Labor Day.” He flicks a business card on the table. He's not a banker but a mortgage broker, whatever that is. “If interest rates hold steady, I might have some telemarketing slots opening up.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He tugs on his belt. It's white. He's wearing monogrammed tan knee socks that blend in with his skin.

  I want him to go away, but he just stands there, sucking on a toothpick.

  “Good morning, Danny.”

  Thank God. Behind Weese I see Ceepak.

  “Enjoy your breakfast.” Mr. Weese gives his belt a final hike and walks away. He jingles change in his pocket and studies the bill from breakfast. “Grace?” he calls up to the register. “I think you overcharged us on George's milk. He ordered a small. I know the girl brought him a large, but we ordered a small.”

  Ceepak sits down. “You okay, Danny?”

  “Yeah. Now. Thanks.”

  “Sorry I'm late.”

  I check my watch. Nine-oh-one. Wow. I let it slide.

  “I swung by the Mussel Beach Motel,” he says. “Checked in with Becca's folks. They say she's fine. She has a contusion coupled with ecchymosis.”

  I think that means she has a shiner.

  “But no permanent damage.”

  “Yeah. Jess told me. Last night.”

  “Excellent.”

  Ceepak is always bright and chipper first thing in the morning. Me? I'm more your nocturnal type.

  He opens a pants-pocket flap and pulls out that plastic-sealed trading card of the Phantom we found last night. He's tucked the clear sleeve inside another plastic protector. I wonder if he's checked the first pouch for fingerprints yet? Probably.

  “Mr. Ceepak?”

  It's Grace.

  “Yes, ma'am?”

  “I'm Grace Porter. Welcome to my establishment.”

  Ceepak stands to shake her hand. The guy's classy that way.

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Grace has brought some clean silverware to the table and places the rolled-up paper napkin in its proper position on the left. I know. I used to be a busboy.

  “What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Ceepak? My treat.”

  “You don't have to—”

  “If I had to, I probably wouldn't.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says with a grin. I can tell he digs Grace because she's totally his type: a no-bullshit straight shooter. He glances down at the laminated menu. “May I please have corn flakes and fresh fruit?”

  Grace glares at him for a second.

  “No, you may not. This is not ‘The Corn Flake's Commitment.’ ”

  “Right. How about bacon?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And some sausage? Maybe the ham. And let's see … scrapple. That sounds awesome.”

  “Very good. How do you like your eggs?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Scrambled. With onions, green peppers, and jack cheese.”

  “That'll work.”

  She pours Ceepak coffee from a fresh pot I know she brewed especially for him. She sees the sealed photograph of the guy in the purple diving suit.

  “Is that the Phantom?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “He operated in Africa, if I'm not mistaken.”

  “That's right.”

  “Tell me—why did he wear that mask?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why'd he wear that Lone Ranger mask over his eyes? Everybody had to know who he was.”

  “How so?”

  “He was the only white man for hundreds of miles in any direction. I'm certain even the elephants knew his secret identity.”

  Ceepak grins like crazy. His dimples wiggle up and down.

  “Yes, ma'am. I suppose you're right.”

  “Tell me, Officer Ceepak, are you on duty today?”

  “Is there some problem?”

  “Nothing of earth-shattering significance.”

  “I'd like to help if I can.”

  “It's nothing really. A young man, who thinks he's funny, vandalized my property last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Out back.”

  “Let's take a look.”

  “But your coffee will go cold.”

  “You can bring me a warm-up. Let's go see what we can see. Danny?”

  I gulp one last swig of java.

  “Let's roll,” I say.

  Grace escorts us to the kitchen. There's all sorts of sizzling going on and the rich, greasy smell of bacon dripping off the walls. I'm drooling.

  “Out this way.” She leads us past the sputtering skillets. “I know it's that one boy. The one with the spiky blond hair and tattoos up and down his forearm. I've seen him out back here before. Probably sizing up his opportunity, casing the joint, as you gentlemen might say.”

  She pushes open the screen door and we're out behind the building in a small parking lot big enough for two cars and one Dumpster. She walks past the cars, turns around, and points at the brick wall.

  For years, the whole back wall of her two-story building has been a local landmark. That's because it's covered with this billboard-size cartoon of a pink pig, with chubby cheeks and a big smile holding a knife and fork, licking his chops in anticipation of eating, well, a friend, I guess.

  “See what he did? I wonder, Mr. Ceepak. Could you visit this child? Teach him what is considered unacceptable behavior in civilized society.”

  I look down at the pink pig's crotch. Somebody has given him balls. Two splotchy blue balls. Somebody shot Grace's big pig with a paintball gun.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Excuse me,” Ceepak says after he burps.

  When he ordered it, he didn't know scrapple was chopped pork and cornmeal mush, seasoned then fried. He'll probably remember all day long. Scrapple has a tendency to repeat on you, and we totally wolfed down our breakfast so we could hustle over to the boardwalk and nab our paintball Picasso. Seems the alleged artiste was busy last night. First The Pig's Commitment, then my annual beach party. Or maybe vice-versa.

  Anyway, we figure our perp must strut his stuff at the paintball booth on the boardwalk. People there might be able to ID him for us.

  In Sea Haven, the boardwalk runs along the beach for about a mile or two, all the way from Oyster Street north past Anchovy. It's one of the town's top attractions, especially for the under-twenty-one crowd. One side is mostly open to the sand and ocean; the other is cluttered with booths and arcades. There are food and souvenir shacks and games of chance like Whack-A-Mole and The Frog Bog, where you hammer these tiny green seesaws to see if you can flip a rubber frog onto a lily pad. I never can.

  The boardwalk is also where the big Labor Day blowout will take place on Monday—the day before I either become a full-time cop or start training for an exciting career in mortgage brokering with Mr. Weese.
>
  “Excuse me.”

  If Ceepak keeps saying that every time he burps, he'll wear himself out. Mr. Cereal-and-Fruit isn't used to scarfing down so much early-morning grease. Me? I'm an old pro at digesting partially hydrogenated oil of all types. Most of my meals involve some sort of deep-frying or lard.

  As we climb the steps up to the boardwalk, I can see the distant silhouette of the little roller coaster at the end of a pier jutting out into the ocean. It's what they call a Mad Mouse—a tight track with wicked sharp turns. Instead of a train of connected cars like a bigger roller coaster, it has tiny, individual cars shaped like mice. The undercarriage of each one is designed to make you feel like you hit the turns before the wheels do and every time you fly into a curve, you think you're going to rocket off the edge and die. Just when you recover, the little mouse car whips into another turn, throws you another curve, and you think you're about to die all over again.

  It's a blast.

  Near the north end of the boardwalk is another wicked ride: the Tower of Terror. You can see it no matter where you are because it's twenty stories tall. Basically, it's an open-air elevator that hauls you up, then drops you like somebody snipped the cable. The one time I took the plunge my stomach ended up somewhere behind my eyeballs.

  It's Thursday. August 31st. A practically perfect end-of-summer day. Not too muggy, especially for the last day of August. It rained Tuesday night, but I don't think it will today. Maybe we'll get a thunderstorm later. We usually do. The clouds are towering up on top of each other like puffy popcorn balls. I can even smell the popcorn. Hot. Buttery. They sell tons of it on the boardwalk.

  As we march up the steps, I'm hit with a cool breeze and the wafting aromas of not only fresh popcorn but sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, curly-cut fries, onion rings, charbroiled burgers, fried clam strips, cotton candy. I figure this is what heaven must smell like. At least the boys’ side.

  “Have you any idea who this young man Grace mentioned might be?” Ceepak asks.

  “Don't think so.”

  “Well, he should be easy to spot,” Ceepak says. “What with the large tattoo ringing his forearm.”

  I just smile.

  We join the crowd walking the boards, and just about everybody has a tattoo somewhere. This is a great place to show them off because the idea at the beach is to be buck naked except for your underwear. That's what swimsuits are. Drip-dry underwear.