Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select)

by Harden, Marianne

  He didn’t answer right away. “I won’t press,” he said at last, very softly, very kindly.

  And it shocked me when I grasped in that quiet moment, in those quiet words, his sincerity.

  “Promise me this,” he said. “Give my words a chance to breathe. That’s all I ask.”

  I pictured it, how stupid my constant confusion over him must appear. “No, I’d rather not.”

  Standing there, in that awkward moment, feeling a pang of regret when he smiled again and nodded, I studied him. He was too beautiful a man for a girl like me to hold onto for a month, or even a week, let alone a lifetime. “I’m sorry,” I said, and he surprised me with an even deeper smile.

  “Everything has beauty, Rylie,” he said as if my thoughts were open, “but not everyone sees it.”

  “More Robert Lewis Stevenson?”

  “Confucius.” He stepped back as Solo rounded the corner. “I’ll leave you to your friend.”

  I stood there for several minutes watching him navigate the crowd toward the station. He was so perplexing, so enigmatic. I found it all too much to take in, especially on an empty stomach.

  ~I have the answer in my head. I just haven’t found it yet~

  I caught Solo up to speed on my chat with Booth. He hadn’t said a word as I relayed the sad news of Elsa’s STD and Gilad’s infidelity with Sunny, but he did a lot of head shaking.

  “Just the tip of the iceberg.” Solo leaned on a light pole outside the deli. “Color me surprised. I didn’t peg Gilad as a slime ball.”

  “Yeah, but if Elsa didn’t get herpes from him, then she got it from another man. That makes them both slime balls.”

  “But who is the other man?” he asked.

  I reminded him of what Gilad had said at the start of the bonfire, of his anger at Otto.

  “Nooooo,” he said. “You cannot think—Otto and Elsa. Gross.”

  Otto and anyone was gross. “Exposing a germaphobe to herpes just might be enough to make him crack. Add in jealousy, and he might murder. We know Gilad is capable of killing, but we don’t know for sure another man exists. We need to look at FoY’s medical records to—”

  “Find out what other senior has herpes,” Solo finished. “But that’s against the rules.”

  I grinned. “What fun are rules?”

  It was fifteen minutes later, and we were standing at the curb waving good-bye to Tita as she drove away in her ancient Pinto Wagon to collect Elsa at the Ready Clinic. I decided not to mention Elsa’s STD, as I feared she would have the tiniest bit of fun with the news. My Latina comrade deemed misfortune a lucky reason to poke fun.

  “Do you think Booth suspects we’re onto him?” Solo asked me.

  “What Booth thinks is anyone’s guess.” I took a bit of the cinnamon bun he’d saved for me from the Oy Vey special. “He is just spinning a web of vague comebacks.”

  “He killed Otto to keep the watch, I just know it,” he said. “Fifty grand or even twenty grand is a lot of money. Premeditative murder, the big kahuna, murder one is what he did.”

  I was more open-minded. “I wish I knew if Otto had known the watch’s value.”

  “I don’t think he did,” Solo said. “Otherwise, he would have sold it. He always complained of being broke.”

  “It might have been his safety net, to use in an emergency, for a health crisis perhaps.”

  Solo shrugged. “One thing is for sure, without a witness to the game, it’s gonna be hard to find out if he bet the watch or used it as a marker.”

  I chewed on that and the cinnamon bun, staring at the police station. “Solo,” I said. “Talon implied—well, more than implied—he sort of came right out and said it. It’s all so odd, but he is willing to discuss this case with me. Why do you think that is? Solo?” I turned when he didn’t answer. “What’s that grin for?”

  “It isn’t a question of why, but a question of why not. He likes you.”

  I let out a steadying breath. “But it’s against the rules. I’m a suspect.”

  “What fun are rules?” he asked with another grin.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned the issue is closed. I will not jeopardize his career, which means we must get cracking if we’re to do this on our own. It’s already one thirty. So, what did you find in Booth’s call history and don’t tell me again to wait and see. I wanna know now.”

  “All right. All right. Check your cell phone.”

  I hit the power button and scanned my messages. “Are these last three texts Booth’s?”

  He nodded. “Copied, pasted, and sent to your phone.”

  “Omigod, you’re brilliant. What would I do without you?”

  “It’s so nice to be needed.” His massive arms crushed me into a hug.

  I struggled to breathe. “Solo—you are—you’re killing me.” I gasped, gasped again. “Seriously—you’re killing me.”

  “Oh,” he said, jumping back. “I got sort of carried away.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and laughed. “I’m sure glad you’re on my side.”

  His eyes twinkled. “So what do you think? Too cool, huh?”

  I read the messages again, slower this time, finding it hard to see a reason for his excitement in these three short messages from only initialed senders. To wit:

  1) Call me from Q.

  2) I’m here from J.S.

  3) Answer your damn phone from H.H.

  “HH has to be Happy Hye,” he said.

  “It sounds like her. And Q is probably Queenie, but who is JS?”

  “Him.”

  I lifted my gaze to see Solo pointing a finger at a car rounding the corner. I looked back, confused. “A taxi?”

  “Listen,” he said.

  Then I heard it. The sound of an engine squealing as the cab pulled to the curb in front of us. “This is the cab Booth took this morning. The squeal is the same.”

  “Ya, mawn,” he said. “I heard it when I called the number. That’s why I asked him to pick us up. Come on, we have some investigating to do.”

  I remembered giving Tita all my cash. “I don’t—”

  “Before you say no,” he said, misinterpreting my hesitation. “Look at the time of the cabby’s text. Nine forty-five last night, which means he picked up Booth from the fundraiser. Maybe he saw something, like Booth and Otto arguing?”

  Solo bent as the cabbie rolled down the passenger window. “We need a ride to Fountain of Youth Retirement Home on Northeast 156th, between Northeast 24th and Northup,” he told the bearded driver. The man wore a navy vest over white pants and tunic along with a bright orange turban.

  “How much to you charge per mile?” I asked the cabbie.

  “Two-fifty drop off. Two dollars per mile. Get in, please.” His voice lilted with a strong East Indian accent. “You are my last fare. Hurry now. I wish to go to temple and pray.”

  “Do you take credit cards?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Cash only. Oh, look at that, a bird made a mess on my back window.” He climbed out of the cab and went to work on the splatter with a wad of napkins.

  I turned to Solo. “I gave Tita all my cash. How much do you have?”

  “I used my last five on Gilad’s blintz.” But he waved a ten. “Tita returned yours since the Oy vey special was on the house.”

  Awesome. “Let’s go, then.”

  We climbed into the backseat, finding it tattered and torn. I twisted, gazing around. Gray duct tape held together the headliner, while the driver sat on a worn out beaded seat cover. Draped across the front seatback was a banner saying: I am not Muslim.

  Solo caught my interest. “He’s Sikh, a religion born out of Hinduism, without the idols and caste system. It’s the fifth largest religion in the world.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “PBS,” he said simply.

  I scooted forward and peered over the seatback, looking at the many colorful beads hanging from the rearview mirror, and spied the driver’s name on the dashboard. Jasp
al Singh.

  “You go to Northeast 156th?” Jaspal Singh said as he clambered in behind the wheel. “That is most funny. I live very near there, across from Crossroads Park.”

  As we drove away, Solo told him about the dogs that had escaped from the shelter.

  He slammed on the brakes, whipped around, a loose end of his turban flopping. “Stray dogs are loose in my neighborhood, no! That old woman with pitchfork got crazy when that happened last time.”

  “Pitchfork?” I said.

  “Yes. Evil woman, Ma Hye.”

  “Do you mean Happy Hye?” Solo asked.

  “No, no, Ma Hye. Happy Hye is her daughter. We are neighbors. Their house is on the corner of Northeast 8th, very pretty garden, crazy people,” he said. “Praise God if all the dogs are captured now. My daughter works at the shelter. Many dogs are stolen.”

  Solo and I looked at each other, both knowing why. Dog soup.

  “Mr. Singh,” I began. “Will ten dollars take us to where we’re going?”

  “Very nearly.” He hit the gas, detouring due to the marathon before he stopped for a red light. “I saw you two this morning with the police.”

  “I had an accident,” I said. “About the fare you had then. Where was he going?”

  “Home.”

  This confused me. “Didn’t you say Happy Hye was your neighbor, in the Crossroads Park area? Isn’t she his wife?”

  “Hope for his soul,” Mr. Singh said. “Booth has new place. He visits there only sometimes. He has big plans.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  Mr. Singh frowned. “I drive Booth a lot, but I want nothing to do with such plans, understand me? Why you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious.”

  He glared at me in the rearview mirror. “Maybe I tell Booth about you, maybe I find out what is up your leg.”

  My mind blanked on an excuse. “I think—”

  “She thinks he’s hot,” Solo said in a rush.

  What! I gaped at him.

  “Rylie really loves her some Booth,” Solo continued. “She thinks he’s USDA prime beef, bacon-wrapped tenderloin, porterhouse terrific, sexual chocolate, don’t you, Rylie?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And now with him leaving Happy Hye. That’s what you mean by big plans, I assume,” Solo said. “Did you hear that, Rylie? Booth will soon be free.”

  If only murder was legal. “Terrific,” I said, my voice half-hearted.

  Mr. Singh spat sideways. “That is you throwing yourself down a rat hole. Astounding. You American girls” —Spit. Spit— “you are most gullible. Booth is bad. He is most wicked.”

  “Has this wickedness something to do with his big plans?” I asked.

  Mr. Singh braked when another light turned red. “My wife says it is not my business. I will not say any more.”

  “Will you tell us where Booth went last night? Please.”

  Brief pause. “Most strange.” He appeared calmer with the change of subject. “I no pick him up at his work like usual, but at the lake. But God prevailed, he gave me another fare to the area. Grumpy man he was, refusing at first to get into my cab, waiting and waiting by a fountain until nine thirty-six exactly. Fine, I meditated, charging him for the wait.”

  “Sabbath,” Solo said. “Nine thirty-six would be about the time it ended. Strict Jews won’t ride in a car until it’s over.”

  I grinned. “Mr. Singh, was your fare a small man with a long white beard and a Jewish hat? Did you pick him up at a retirement home?”

  “But how do you know these things? Yes, yes, that was him.”

  “So you drove this man to Leland’s?” I said.

  “I know nothing of this Leland.” He maneuvered the cab off one road and onto another. “But if you mean the house with giant numbers on a sign by the garage, then you are most correct.”

  “One hundred and fifty-five?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “That’s Leland’s!” Solo exclaimed.

  “Did you wait for Booth after dropping off your fare?”

  He shook his head. “Life is full of roadblocks. I tried to wait, but there was no parking on the parkway. And then a nasty woman with a garden trowel ran me off her private street. So I drove to 7-Eleven, came back a little after ten with a winning Lotto ticket. God is good. Forty American dollars I won. Booth was not angry about my lateness. He was not on time either.”

  So Booth had been late. “Your fare, did you see him talk to anyone?”

  He shook his head. “He just pressed buttons on that machine for going up and down.”

  “Leland’s broken tram,” I said.

  “Then he went into the garage.” He pulled the cab to the curb. “We are here now.”

  I looked around. “But Fountain of Youth is several blocks away,” I said.

  “Ten dollars brings you this far. Pay me, please, and get out. I must go to temple.”

  I grabbed the door handle. “Thank you, Mr. Singh. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “About Booth? Let him go,” he warned. “Stay away.”

  I said nothing as my heart had just tripped.

  Zach, driving his old Porsche, had stopped at a nearby red light. He was not alone. His focus was away from us, but I saw a woman’s fall of chestnut hair as she bent forward in the passenger seat. He was caressing a loving hand across her back, pausing only to run his fingers through her hair. When she curved into him, he kissed the top of her head, left his lips against her hair. It was Mackenzie Desmont.

  They moved on swiftly, leaving only empty pavement, where so much affection had been obvious. I turned away and sat there, staring out the windshield. I waited to breathe again and for the thaw that would follow. But it didn’t come. I didn’t move.

  Little by little, I felt Solo’s hand around mine on the seat, and when I heard Mr. Singh speak again, looking at me and frowning, I managed, “Excuse me.”

  “I said do not wait until it is too late,” Mr. Singh said.

  I knew he was referring to Booth, but I wasn’t when I said, “It’s already too late,” and climbed from the cab.

  Solo and I were silent as we walked to FoY, our friendship enough to fill the open space. A bald eagle was shrieking overhead in the trees, and I could see a crow defending its nest with its beak that was inferior and yet victorious at the same time. It was an ugly and spiteful thought, but Mackenzie was that crow and her spoiled brat attitude that beak. That was how the heart, my wounded heart soothed me.

  I had lost Zach to a lesser woman.

  But from the murky water that was my mind splashed a sudden awareness where a minute before there had been only sorrow and jealousy. I had some trouble with this awareness, a kind of reluctance, denying it as absurd at first, considering it again, denying, but when all was said and done, I came away knowing I had never loved Zach as more than a friend. He was a safe friend, one I could trust not to hurt me in the same way my father must have hurt my mother: heartbreak so greedy, so devouring her only recourse had been to abandon me. Oddly enough, I found this realization—with its air of tragedy—calming, somewhat heartening. I may never have Zach as a lover, but always, always he would be my friend.

  I looked at Solo, who walked close by, frowning and looking down at the sidewalk. He glanced over at me, his dark eyes heavy and discerning.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I only loved Zach as a friend?”

  “Some things need to be seen for what they are, not heard,” he said. “It’s a good thing.”

  “A good thing,” I repeated, meaning it.

  “Plus, the timing is right. Life is all about timing.”

  I attempted to look shocked, though I wasn’t. I knew what—who—he meant. “No, absolutely not. I’m putting one foot forward, not jumping off the cliff with a man like Talon.”

  “Go on, Rylie, spread you wings a little. You may turn a fall into a flight.”

  “Or I might crash and burn.”

  I was about to ask to change
the subject when he stopped me with a hand. “We never found out where Booth went last night.”

  “You know, you’re right.” I took out my phone and hit redial. When Mr. Singh answered, I first assured him I was not actually interested in Booth. “It’s complicated,” I said. “But I really need to know where you dropped him off last night.”

  He hemmed and hawed. “Pikes Place Fish Market,” he said finally and hung up.

  I pocketed my phone, pondering this further link to the fish market, and mentioned it to Solo when my cell rang. I fished it out again and scanned the screen. Alistair Barclay.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He sighed. “Rylie—”

  “You aren’t calling with good news.” I prepared to hear that Leland and I would soon be arrested by taking a deep breath.

  “I’ve got interesting news. We located the Dragon Fresh driver. He won’t be crashing into you again. We found him dead in the apartment. No word on a cause of death and no outward signs of foul play. Now to the interesting part, he was the Oleys’ son. He was also a software developer at Dragon. And it appears he stole the Dragon Fresh truck from a storage lot. We found it abandoned. His fingerprints were on the gas cap.”

  I sat down on the curb before my legs gave out. “Wow.”

  “Medical records show he had a history of seizures.”

  “Do you think a seizure killed him?”

  “We’ll know more after the ME does his magic. Could be his breakfast did him in.”

  “How so?”

  “We found bits of a poppy-seed muffin in his mouth. He could have had a seizure and choked. No matter the findings, it appears the Oleys had it out for you.”

  “Great.”

  Alistair passed on a warning to be careful and disconnected. Solo sat on the curb beside me. I relayed the news.

  He draped an arm over my shoulders. “You’re safe now.” He looked anything but relieved. “It’s weird, all three Oleys working together to kill you, but for whom?”