by Duffy Brown
“How’d you do that?”
“Practice.” We stopped at the second floor and turned down the hall to the cheap rooms, and Sutter banged on Zo’s door. “Fiona, I know you’re in there.”
“Like, what’s going on?” came Zo’s voice behind us. “This is my room.”
Sutter turned around, dragging me with him to face Zo in green biker shorts, pink helmet and skinned knees. I could relate to the skinned-knees part.
“Betsy Ross, I assume?” Sutter said to Zo.
“Like, what is a Betsy Ross?” Zo fluffed her helmet hair, smiled hugely and assumed a sexy pose. “Hey, like, you know, like, I like it. Great name.”
I figured Zo just set some kind of world record for the number of times like was used in a sentence.
“Betsy Ross has like a really nice ring to it,” Zo went on. “Do you think it should like be my new stage name?” Her lower lip wobbled as a tear slid down her cheek, then another and another. “Peep would have loved that as my stage name. He always said I need something fresh to make it big in the newspaper world. He said Zo was so nineties.”
Zo opened her arms wide and looked to the heavens. “Oh, Peepy, my honey bunny, how could you leave me at a time like this when I needed you most?”
Sutter snagged the key card out of Zo’s hand and jammed it into the lock. He turned the handle and the three of us stepped inside Zo’s room. Betsy Ross, aka Fiona, was on top of the dresser unscrewing the air vent. She jerked her head around, her frontal padding throwing her off balance.
“Help!” Eyes wide and arms flailing, Fiona fell backward. She landed on the green-and-pink bedspread looking like Miss Fourth of July in a garden with Zo screeching, “Like, what are you doing in my room?”
“Cleaning?” Fiona forced a smile. “Would you believe this is the new maid’s uniform?” Fiona held up the corner of her white apron, rolling her eyes at Sutter as she sat up. “And you know what, that explanation would probably work if you weren’t here.”
Sutter yanked off Betsy’s bonnet and wig. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Fiona?” Zo gasped. “Like, is that really you? Why are you dressed up? Is it an island thing? Very Hollywood. Makes me homesick.”
She folded her arms and studied the toppled chair. “But why are you on a chair?” Zo’s eyes thinned to slits. “You’re here for that cell phone, aren’t you? That’s what you’re looking for and that’s why you killed my darling Peepster. He knew all about that affair you had and thought you should come clean about it and—”
“There was no affair.” Fiona stood, jabbed her hands on her padded hips and faced Zo. “I didn’t do anything, and Xavier didn’t do anything. Peep just made it look that way and was blackmailing me. But I didn’t kill him, though Lord knows he had it coming.”
“Fiona!” I hissed, shaking my head in shut up fashion.
“Well, it’s the truth. Peep was a cretin.” Fiona aimed her finger at Zo. “You’re the one who killed him when you realized he was just using you for a fun roll in the hay all these years and had no intention of divorcing Madonna. Her family had money and we all know Peep was about the money.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Zo screeched. “I would, like, never hurt my Peep, and I was out riding a bike when he was . . . you know . . . done in.” Zo pointed at me. “Ask her about the bike riding. We passed each other. She’s the only person on this island who rides a bike worse than I do. Besides, how could I have pushed Peep . . . my darling Peepy . . . off the porch without being noticed, tell me that, huh?”
She held out her arms. “I had on a red biking outfit that I, like, bought in the hotel shop ’cause red is . . . was . . . Peep’s favorite color? Red does not blend in with the evening dinner crowd in the hotel lobby around here. Like, someone would have remembered me, don’t you think? Instead, they remember seeing that stupid purple hat Fiona wears all the time! She’s just a terrible person. I told Peep not to hire her and that she was nothing but, like, big trouble.”
Zo yanked a ruffled pink pillow off the bed and swung it at Fiona, hitting her smack in the face. “How could you, like, do this to Peep? To me?”
“I didn’t, like, do anything.” Fiona’s eyes shot wide open. “Did I just say like?” She smacked Zo with a green pillow. “You’re contaminating us all.”
“Don’t you like make fun of the way I talk, you . . . you hillbilly.”
“This is the Midwest, you geographically challenged Valley girl.”
Zo clobbered Fiona over the head, and feathers flew everywhere into the room. “I’m the only one who loved Peep. You, like, hated him, and his rotten wife only wanted his money. That’s all she ever thought about; she never had enough. He was my little Peepy and there will never be another one like him.”
“God willing and a little bit of luck.” Fiona pillow-punched Zo in the gut.
“That’s it!” Sutter stepped between Fiona and Zo and a flurry of pillow feathers littering the floor. “Fiona, you need to come down to the police station.”
“Me? What about the avocado queen here? I don’t care what the evidence is, she’s in this up to her eyeballs.”
“Avocado queen? Like, you’re nothing but a two-bit pencil pusher.”
Sutter yanked away the pillows and tossed them on the bed. “There is no way Zo could have been dressed for dinner, pushed Peep off the porch, run around and clobbered him with the olive oil, then changed and pedaled off for Evie to see her on the way to the hotel. The timeline just doesn’t work. I was at the Grand and would have remembered seeing a red sweatsuit in the throng of evening wear.”
Sutter took out his handcuffs and faced Fiona. “I need answers right now from you, and you keep running off. It’s not going to happen again, and how’d you get the split lip and bump on your forehead?”
Fiona took a step back. “Nate, we . . . we’ve known each other forever, I sold you Girl Scout Cookies, and saved all the Thin Mints just for you. You owe me!”
“And I got you through geometry. We’re even.”
“You can’t put Betsy Ross in handcuffs,” I added. “What will the kiddies in the lobby think of Betsy Ross, seamstress of the first American flag, in handcuffs, huh? They will all be in therapy for years over that one, their Fourth of Julys ruined forever, and they’ll cry when they salute the flag. And . . . and the mystery groups will assume Fiona’s the killer and that the game is no longer afoot.”
“Afoot?” Sutter arched on eyebrow.
“You have to admit that you aren’t one hundred percent certain Fiona is guilty. What about Madonna?”
“She’s on the list.” Sutter reached for Fiona.
“See? Not one hundred percent,” I shot back. “And it will crush Fiona’s parents, who are here for your very own mother’s wedding. What will they think of their darling daughter hauled out of the Grand Hotel, the soul of grace and decorum, in handcuffs of all things by the best man and someone they’ve known since he was in diapers?”
Sutter pulled the yellow bag from his jacket. “Fiona put the olive oil bottle in this, and it was found at the scene of the crime, and people saw the purple hat last night at the crime scene, and she has motive.” He gave me a hard look. “I bet you saw Fiona on that path last night, didn’t you? I should lock you up too.”
“And if you’re not guilty,” Zo said to Fiona, “why are you running all over the place and not talking to the police like I did?” She jutted her 36-Bs and added a superior smirk. “You’re just like making excuses.” Zo shook her finger at Fiona. “You did it, I know you did.”
Sutter looked mutinous, but he did put away the handcuffs—thank you, Lord—and said to Fiona, “We as in you and me will walk casually and together out of this hotel and all the way down to the police station.” He turned to me. “You get Shakespeare.”
“Sometimes I get Shakespeare, sometimes he mystifies the h
eck out of me,” I said, having no idea how Macbeth played into this, but I needed time to figure a way to help Fiona.
“My horse. He’s around back, and Fiona and I will meet you in the front by Sadie’s. Don’t try anything cute,” he said to me. “I’m not in the mood.”
Sutter took hold of Fiona’s arm, tossed the flag over her arm and then hauled her out the door as Zo called, “Justice is served.”
I grabbed a pillow and swatted Zo upside the head, adding more feathers to the occasion, then headed for the back stairway. As much as I was hell-bent on helping Fiona, she was the one with all the info. She knew what was on that phone, who was tickled to their toes that Peepster was out of the way, and she knew the island and the people here way better than I did. Fiona was loved, trusted and accepted, and people would tell her what was going on. I was still a come-here, and the trusted part was up in the air.
Sutter hadn’t locked Fiona up yet, but I knew he had enough circumstantial evidence to do the deed. Being from a family of Chicago lawyers, I’d been exposed to more than my share of legal chitchat over breakfast, lunch, dinners, any and all family gatherings. From time to time the brain-numbing information actually came in handy.
In my own personal preferences of island transportation, horses were one step behind bikes. The only time I’d ridden a horse was on a horse’s rump behind Sutter with my arms around his rock-solid chest and bouncing up and down. Truth be told, I’d had dreams of Sutter, his chest and the bouncing-up-and-down part, but it did not involve being on a horse.
“Here you go,” I said, handing the reins off to Sutter as we stood in front of the ice cream parlor with carriages and walkers and bikes maneuvering around us. “And once again in case you forgot, you’ve got the wrong person in custody.”
Sutter let out a deep sigh and cut his eyes to Fiona. “I don’t like this any better than you, and maybe you had every right to knock off this Peep guy. That should count for something in court.”
“Like twenty years behind bars instead of thirty?” Fiona wailed to Sutter, and then she said to me, “You’d better get to the bike shop. I put a Be back in thirty sign on the shop, but that was hours ago. You’ve got a business to run.” She grabbed my hand. “Thanks for believing in me.”
I stuck my tongue out at Sutter as the group of three headed down Cadotte, fading into the crowd of tourists enjoying the evening. Okay, the tongue thing was childish, I’ll give you that, but I was ticked off and it was the only thing I could think of to do or . . . or was it? The Yankee bike I’d dropped off earlier was still parked where I’d left it in front of the hotel. This was a sign from the gods of the wrongly accused to use my biking ability—or lack thereof—to make things right.
I kicked up the stand, climbed on Yankee and coasted down Cadotte. I didn’t need a lot of speed; I just wanted to startle, not maim. I aimed for Sutter’s derrière . . . I’d seen worse targets in my life, I can tell you that. I got closer and closer, gaining a little more momentum till my front tire made contact with Sutter’s most excellent tush, propelling him forward.
“What the heck!” Sutter let go of Fiona and Shakespeare, using his hands to break his fall. I hit the brakes, then accidentally-on-purpose toppled over on top of him; the bike landed off to the side in the grass. And here again was another dream I’d had of me on top and Sutter underneath, but not in front of the Grand Hotel.
“Gallop!” I yelled at Fiona, her mouth gaping, eyes bulging as she looked on, nothing registering. She couldn’t ride Yankee as her skirts would tangle in the spokes, so gallop was the escape of choice. Sutter struggled to get up, but my one hundred twenty-five pounds kept him pinned to the road. Okay, a hundred thirty but not a pound more, I swear.
“Shakespeare!” I yelled at Fiona and nodded at the horse. “Go! Now!”
Fiona grabbed for the saddle, flung herself up onto the horse and took the reins. “Thanks!” she yelled down to me. Then Betsy Ross in full red, white and blue regalia with a flag draped across her shoulder thundered off into the sunset.
I rolled off Sutter and stared at the sky as a throng of tourists gathered around. “Are you okay?” A young blonde woman hunkered down next to Sutter, her foot in my ribs. She swept Sutter’s hair off his forehead. “You poor thing.”
“This crazy woman here ran you down. I saw it all,” another woman added.
“Want me to call the doctor?” a brunette asked, her behind perched on my chest. Terrific. The female contingent of the Nate Sutter fan club was now in session. “You should arrest her, she’s a menace.”
“That’s the plan.” Sutter reached around the woman and grabbed my arm.
“What?” I protested as I sat up. “You can’t arrest me for having a biking accident. Everyone has biking accidents around here. We are probably the biking accident capital of the USA.”
Sutter stood and hauled me to my feet, his face inches from mine. “I want to know what’s going on now, no more excuses. There’s a dead guy and I need to find the killer, got it?”
“This is part of the mystery weekend, isn’t it?” Gabi asked, all excited, as she ran up with her iPhone taking pictures. “This woman ran into that dead body last night,” she explained to the crowd. “It stands to reason she’s a suspect, and now the policeman just confirmed it.”
Gabi rubbed her hands together, a crazed look in her eye. “I’m going to win that free weekend at the Grand Hotel if it kills me.” She winked. “A little mystery humor thrown in free of charge.”
“See,” Sutter smirked. “Now I have to lock you up on suspicion of murder. It’s all part of the game. After all, it’s murder and mayhem week at the Grand Hotel, so put on your deerstalker hat and get used to it, Chicago.”
The walk to the police station took about five minutes instead of the usual ten. I tried to think of something clever and disarming to say but came up empty. Instead of going right in, Sutter detoured to the side of the building to park the bike. Shakespeare was already there at the watering trough with a feed bag of oats and chomping merrily away.
“Yeah,” I said to Sutter, “that Fiona girl is a master killer all right. A real menace to society.”
Sutter led me into the newly painted white clapboard building that was multifunctional with the courthouse above and police station below. It was the island’s one-stop-shopping version of justice; you could get arrested and sentenced without having to go outside.
“Hey there, Evie.” Molly greeted me from behind her desk as we walked into the station. “Are you okay? Poor Fiona. This is such a mess. What are we going to do?”
Sutter stopped dead and glared at his sergeant. Molly blanched white. “Uh . . . I just heard that Fiona might be in a bit of trouble, is all.”
“If I find out you’re harboring Fiona in any way, you won’t be a sergeant for long. Got it?”
“But why is Evie here with you? I don’t get it.” Then Molly’s jaw dropped and she jumped up and wedged herself between Sutter and me, spreading her arms wide in protective police mode. “This is crazy. You can’t put Evie in jail!”
“Wanna bet?” Sutter hauled me around Molly and continued down the hall past his office door with his name stenciled on the frosted glass. I looked back to Molly, who was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
“You know,” I said to Sutter. “This is not Detroit, this is Mackinac Island. Everyone here, all five hundred full-timers, every man, woman and child, loves Fiona to pieces. She was the Lilac Queen three years in a row, Miss Fudge for two years, keeps folks’ dirty laundry out of the Crier and prints every anniversary, birthday and wedding. They will all lie for Fiona and hide her under desks, in pantries and in attics and you—”
“The mean old Sheriff of Nottingham?”
“If the jacket fits. You will not find Fiona until she wants to be found.”
“Think about this: She has a busted lip, so not everyone loves her.” S
utter pulled up in front of the jail cell and opened the door. I knew this moment was coming no matter how fast I talked, but gazing into an actual jail cell was downright terrifying. The closest I’d come to being behind bars was when I was a kid and Mother gave me a time-out on the steps and I gazed at the TV through white wood railings. Life was tough back in Chicago.
Holy freaking crap, this was the real deal! “You can’t put me in jail, and I can’t tell you anything about Fiona ’cause whatever I say will make her seem even guiltier.”
“Ever stop to think maybe she is?”
“Heck no!” I swallowed. “You’re really going to lock me up? I have a business to run, cats to feed, I’m the maid of honor for your very own mother’s wedding!”
“And I’m the best man, remember. Rudy will feed the cats and lock up the shop.” Sutter put his face in mine. He smelled of something woodsy and spicy and really-ticked-off cop. “You’ve lied to me, hidden evidence and led me down the garden path.”
“It is the Lilac Festival.”
His eyes bulged, little capillaries threatening to pop, his face red as the stripes in Betsy’s flag. You can only push a Detroit cop so far.
“Now!”
I stepped across the threshold and Sutter slammed the iron door shut, the metal-against-metal clang jarring clear through to my fillings. “I’m in jail! I’ll get you for this.”
“You’re threatening a cop?”
“I’m threatening you.” I grabbed the bars. “You locked me up.”
Sutter ran his hand around the back of his neck. “As you just said, this is Mackinac Island. There are cotton sheets on the bed, which happens to have a pillow top; the chair is from the new Pottery Barn catalog and there’re hardwood floors; and the Yankee Rebel serves the meals. It was written up in Midwest Living. This isn’t the Black Hole of Calcutta.”
“You’ll be sorry,” I growled, acting all brave and self-assured and feeling kind of sick inside. But hey, if Martha Stewart could handle prison, so could I, right? Sutter turned and walked down the hall. “You’re leaving me all alone?” I tried really hard not to whine.