Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries)

by Fiffer, Sharon

  “Can you use an extra?”

  “Sure,” said Nellie, snatching it up. And then a small miracle occurred on the south side of Kankakee. Nellie smiled. Jane saw it. She wanted to grab her phone and snap a picture of it, but it was gone too quickly. No matter. Jane saw it and she wouldn’t forget it.

  “You working on a detective case right now?” Nellie asked.

  Jane shook her head.

  “Good. I got a job for you,” said Nellie. “And you only got a few days to get it done because I’m not paying out-of-town expenses.”

  Jane sat on her bed and patted the spot next to her.

  Nellie ignored the invitation. A smile was one thing, but cozying up for a conversation was another.

  “I want to know what Lucky Miller’s up to,” said Nellie.

  “Other than staging a comedy roast in a charming little town that gave him pleasure as a child?”

  “Bull,” said Nellie. “Hermie Mullet wasn’t charmed by Kankakee. And Kankakee isn’t charmed by Hermie Mullet. There’s something fishy going on here. Lucky Miller’s a crook of some kind and I want to know what he’s up to.”

  “Mom, I can ask around, but—”

  “Use that computer of yours and find out stuff about Hermie Mullet. Maybe Bruce can help you on this.”

  “I can call him and ask him to check on the family. You’ll have to give me the year they left. He was in your class?”

  Nellie nodded.

  “Just one year, then the nuns and priests split up the boys and the girls in different rooms.”

  “Yeah, but you were in the same grade, that’s all … wait a minute. You call Detective Oh … Bruce?”

  “That’s his name, ain’t it? Just find out what Lucky Miller’s up to,” said Nellie.

  Jane finished hanging up her clothes and stowing away her bags, and climbed into bed. She expected it to feel too small and hard, but it was cozy. She had e-mailed Nick about what happened, even about the moving truck and found herself smiling through the story. She didn’t have the slightest urge to cry herself to sleep. Instead, she closed her eyes thinking about Nellie wanting to know about what Lucky Miller was up to. Questions swam below the surface of her thoughts: Of all the towns Hermie Mullet had lived in, why Kankakee? Why all the re-created stuff of his childhood? Then the current brought her right back to Nellie and her obsession with Lucky Miller. The last question that finally floated to the surface just before sleep?

  “What was Nellie up to?”

  7

  On Thursday morning, when Jane woke up in her old bedroom, she lay perfectly still, making a list in her head. It was a habit that served her well as far as giving her a few extra minutes under the covers. It didn’t help her organizational skills all that much, since she found that a day usually unfolded demanding that its own list be obeyed.

  She got as far as Mr. Toad—or was it Frog who wrote “1. Get up”—before she heard Nellie yelling at someone or something. She pulled on yesterday’s clothes as quickly as she could and ran out to the living room, where her mother was hanging out the front door, yelling at children on their way to school.

  “I don’t like it when they cut through the yard. There’s a sidewalk there and they ought to be using it,” said Nellie, offering the explanation without turning to look at Jane standing behind her.

  “How do you get all the eggs off your house on Halloween?” asked Jane.

  When the phone rang and Nellie, still busy giving the evil eye to fourth graders, made no move to answer, Jane ran to the kitchen to grab it.

  “Put your mother on, honey,” said Don.

  “You kids use the sidewalk. That’s what it’s there for.”

  “She’s yelling at the neighborhood, Dad, what’s up?”

  “It’s Carl.”

  Jane heard the break in her father’s voice before he cleared his throat.

  “I found him when I got here. He had closed and locked up the front, but the back door was still unlocked. He was on his way out. He had his jacket on and that little cap of his. He was sort of awake, but…” Don broke up midsentence and cleared his throat. “Doc says stroke.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “He’s in intensive care, but they don’t seem very hopeful he’ll come out of this one.”

  Jane pulled her mother in from the doorway and closed it behind her. She told her as gently as she could that Carl was at the hospital and it was serious.

  Nellie continued to stare out the front door.

  “So Carl’s dying?”

  “Maybe,” said Jane. “I’ll get dressed and drive you to the hospital.”

  “Nope. You finish getting dressed, make yourself look presentable, and go tend bar while Dad and I go to the hospital. Carl hasn’t got any family but your dad and me so we should be there together, not one at a time. Hurry up.”

  Jane ran into her bedroom to put on her boots. She ran a comb though her hair and put in her hoop earrings. While she helped herself to a quick swipe of Nellie’s lipstick in the bathroom, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the front porch.

  “That’s right, go around and use the sidewalk. Grass won’t grow there if you wear out a path.”

  Jane drove to the tavern, and got a quick lesson in drawing a beer. Jane thought she had enough practice, but her dad gently shook his head.

  “You’re tilting the glass too much. Just like this,” he said, helping her hold the glass correctly in her left hand under the tap while drawing the beer with her right. Don picked up a coaster and smoothly slid it under the glass.

  “You won’t have too many people, Janie,” said Don. “And if you have any questions, call this number.”

  Don withdrew a cell phone from his pocket, looked at a piece of masking tape on it, and copied down the number, then placed it by the landline phone behind the bar.

  “When did you get a cell phone?” said Jane, letting beer run all over her hand as she backed away from the tap to face her dad. “And why don’t I already have the number?”

  “I got it last week,” said Don. He looked a little flushed and Jane wondered if the pressure of finding Carl had been too much for him. Then she realized her dad was blushing.

  “I haven’t told your mother yet. I just thought we ought to have them. I got her one, too, but I wanted to get used to it … you know, figure out how to use it myself so I could teach her when I gave it to her,” said Don. “I want you and your brother, Michael, to be able to reach us. With you all alone up there in the city, I thought it would be good for us all to be able to get in touch easier.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea, Dad. But if I call you on it this morning, won’t Mom catch on pretty quick?”

  “Got it on vibrate and I can just excuse myself and call you back. Doesn’t really matter, I’m ready to start the battle with her to use one. I’m getting pretty good. See? I got your number, and Nick’s, and Michael’s, and the EZ Way Inn on my favorites. And Carl’s,” he added.

  Don’s voice got husky and he went around to his desk to pick up his keys and hat. He was swinging by the house to pick up Nellie and together they would go spend a couple of hours at Carl’s bedside. To anyone watching, they would make an odd triangle of a family.

  Jane watched her father put on his hat, tilt it back at an angle, and felt tears coming. She had known Carl forever. He was cranky and usually silent behind the bar, and a terrible hypochondriac. He called in sick a few times a month, always with a specific array of symptoms.

  “I have a rash on my left arm, an earache in my right ear, and both of my eyelids are twitching,” Carl would report.

  “For God’s sake, Carl, put on a long-sleeved shirt, take an aspirin, and get your ass in here,” Nellie would tell him.

  “I quit,” he’d answer.

  “You’re fired,” Nellie would answer back.

  Around six o’clock, Carl would come in through the back door, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and sunglasses. He and Nellie would shrug at each other and Don wo
uld repeat the closing instructions he had give him every night for thirty-odd years.

  Jane could see that her father was tired. He was tan and healthy-looking from a summer of golfing and lawn mowing, but the lines around his eyes and mouth were cut more deeply than Jane remembered. She hugged him as he passed by and promised she would hold down the fort.

  The bar was completely empty. After all, it was nine A.M.—how busy should a neighborhood tavern be on a sunny September morning? Jane took out her own cell phone and programmed in her father’s number. Good for him, Jane was thinking. He might be embracing technology a little late, but then again, Jane was only a few years ahead of him. She was racing forward, though, what with her smart phone and all. As she admired it in her hand, it vibrated and she saw on the screen that Melinda, her realtor, was calling. Jane steeled herself to hear that the deal had fallen through.

  “Everything’s a go,” said Melinda, all energy with a mouthful of toast.

  Jane surprised herself by feeling disappointed and elated at the same time. She couldn’t honestly tell which came first or which carried more weight. She opened her mouth, ready to be surprised by whatever words escaped.

  “Yay,” she said. It came out in a cracked whisper.

  She knew her response was anemic, but Jane hadn’t received good news in a while. She was out of practice.

  “Okay, Janie, you better plan on getting back here to clear out what you want and we’ll get all the rest of the papers in front of you to sign. You don’t have to come to the closing if you don’t want. She’s nice, though, this woman who appreciates your stuff. Since this is such a wild offer, I warned her that we hadn’t listed any furniture as exceptions since they’re never usually included and you might have to do some picking and choosing when you got here. She’s cool with it.”

  “Well, my desk and chair and books,” said Jane, “but I honestly can’t picture anything else right now. A lamp or two … oh there’s a hook on the wall in Nick’s bedroom, a brass horse’s head…”

  “Don’t even think about doing this from memory. You’ll forget something. There’s going to be some kitchen things, you know, favorite pans and stuff. I don’t know, maybe you already gathered up all your faves. Aren’t you so glad I made you pack up all that junk you collected? So now you’ve got all your personal stuff with you and this walk-through and pack-up will be a piece of cake.”

  Jane agreed, without filling her in on the fact that her personal stuff was on a three to five state tour. She had to hang up. Francis had walked in midway through the conversation and he was tapping all of his fingers, using both hands. Jane could tell he was uncomfortable without Don and Nellie in sight and the fact that Jane was behind the bar talking into a cell phone added to his discomfort. “I’ll be there this weekend. Maybe tomorrow. And have I thanked you? I’m so sorry if I haven’t, Melinda. Thank you so much.”

  Jane hung up, slipped the phone back in her pocket, and walked over to Francis. She had tended bar for her parents only a few times and when she had, either Don or Nellie had been working with her. Alone behind the bar, she had to admit she was nervous. And excited. She had been an adult for a good many years, but being on her own behind the bar at the EZ Way Inn gave her such a different grown-up feeling.

  “What it’ll be, Francis?” she asked, her voice squeaking like a ten-year-old.

  “Got any coffee?”

  Jane panicked. She had no idea how to make coffee with her mother’s contraption.

  Looking over at the big metal pot warmer that sat on the counter next to the kitchen door, she saw that Don had made a pot of coffee before he left. A carafe sat there, full, hot, and ready to strip away any protective lining that might still exist within the interiors of the regular customers.

  “Coming up,” said Jane. She poured coffee into the thick green jadeite cups that Nellie had used since the seventies.

  “Why do I need to get new ones? If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it,” said Nellie every time Jane mentioned that the cups were now collectible and Nellie might want to sell them since she really only needed about six cups and saucers at any one time.

  In the case of the Fire-King jadeite, it wasn’t likely to ever get “broke.” The thick china could be dropped over and over without chipping. This was a coffee cup that could take a punch, Jane thought, as she added a few packs of sugar to the saucer and a spoon from the top drawer of the cabinet.

  Jane’s phone vibrated and she reached for it after giving Francis his cup. She had no idea what Nellie charged for coffee. A tall coffee at her local Starbucks was around two dollars, wasn’t it? Doing a kind of Chicago-to-Kankakee math, a designer signature roast ratio to the no-name sludge she just poured, she guessed at a price.

  “Fifty cents? A dollar?” Jane asked. “Sorry, Francis, I don’t know what to charge.”

  Jane sent Tim’s call to voice mail, then looked up at Francis, who looked wounded.

  “I don’t get charged a thing, Janie. Your dad never charges any of his delivery men for coffee,” said Francis.

  Jane did a quick calculation. Francis hadn’t delivered anything to the EZ Way Inn in well over ten years. Quite the lifetime perk. Jane smiled to herself thinking about free coffee as a perk, even though no one really knew what a percolator was anymore, and her smile was immediately misinterpreted.

  “You can ask your mom and dad. I never get charged for coffee,” said Francis.

  “I believe you, Francis, I was just thinking about coffee … never mind. Of course it’s on the house. I’m new at this, you know,” said Jane.

  “You come by it naturally, you’ll catch on,” said Francis. Then he remembered that this was totally out of the ordinary. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

  Jane might be able to sub behind the bar. She could pour a coffee or draw a halfway decent mug of beer. She might even be able to pour a shot of whiskey without spilling too much, but she knew her limits. Breaking the news to the regulars about Carl was not her job. Don and Nellie had been the oddball parents, Carl the weird uncle, to this dysfunctional family for too many years and Jane was not about to be the dreary messenger.

  “They had to take care of something important this morning, so I told them I’d fill in,” said Jane. Francis accepted the nonanswer and Jane could tell by his scrunched-up eyebrows he was trying to think of anything that he and Jane might be able to talk about.

  “How’s your son?” asked Francis.

  Bless his heart, thought Jane. She filled Francis in on Nick’s school and how happy he seemed to be. Just last night Nick had texted about new friends, referring to Alex and Trevor and Ian as if he had known them for years. He would have done fine at Evanston High School, but Jane knew that he was thriving in a whole new way at the academy. Of all the second-guessing she practiced as if it were her own special brand of meditation or yoga, she could let her thoughts about this decision rest. Sending Nick off to this gifted program had been the right thing to do.

  Jane went over and wrung out one of the clean white terry-cloth bar rags and started wiping around Francis’s cup without realizing what she was doing. It was her mother’s “precleaning” routine. Nellie always had a rag in one hand cleaning under and around people’s drinks even as they continued to sit and order another round. Nellie liked to stay one swipe ahead of any drips that might be thinking of dropping. Maybe just being behind the bar at the EZ Way Inn conferred a kind of Nellieness, a constant motion—even when there was only one customer who, as of yet, hadn’t even taken a sip.

  Jane’s phone vibrated again and she checked to see if it was coming from St. Mary’s hospital or her dad’s secret number. Tim again. This time, a text.

  Wher r u? Pic up phon!!!!

  Jane slipped the phone back in her pocket. Yesterday, when Tim’s rock and roll movers had been trying to reach him, his phone was sitting in a pocket draped over the front seat of his truck. Let him stew for a while about where she and her phone might be.

  The front door swung open
and Jane’s heart raced. Francis was an easy customer. What if someone came in and asked for something she couldn’t make? She knew it wasn’t likely, since the EZ Way customers didn’t really ask for mixed drinks—they had been effectively trained by Nellie for years. “No blender drinks,” she’d growl at the mention of any drink that had a name. Rusty Nail? Sex on the Beach? Harvey Wallbanger? Rob Roy? A simple Manhattan, for God’s sake? All requests got the same answer from Nellie, wiping her hands on her apron like she had just finished the daily butchering, “No. Blender. Drinks.”

  Right, so whoever walked through the door at the EZ Way Inn wasn’t likely to order something fancy. Especially not this early in the day. Jane was more nervous about not finding something ordinary or, as she realized when she served Francis coffee, collecting for the order. She didn’t know the prices of anything. Old theater improv skills, don’t fail me now, thought Jane, straightening up and smoothing down her plain white apron tied jauntily at the side.

  “Got any Bushmills? Shot and a cup of strong coffee, honey, fast. And a word in private, too,” said Lucky Miller, as he walked through the door. Before he even took a seat at the bar, he had ordered and looked over his shoulder enough times to make anyone believe he was, indeed, being followed.

  “Damn producer has these teenage goons tagging after me every second. I think I escaped for a few minutes. We’re shooting some breakfast competition down the street. I told ’em I needed to light this cigar for a few puffs and slipped out the back. Haven’t lit this thing in twenty years,” said Lucky. He looked over at Francis. “That’s why they last so long with me. I’ve had the same Cuban in my mouth since Desi told Lucy…” Lucky stopped talking, looked at Jane, who looked disapproving, and Francis, who looked uncomprehending. He shrugged. “Why waste A material? Just set me up here, honey.”

  “My name is Jane. I’m not even ‘honey’ to my friends, Mr. Miller,” said Jane, pouring a cup of coffee. “And, I don’t think anyone would mistake that for A material.”

  “Got some of that Nellie sass in you, don’t you?” said Lucky, chomping on his cigar. He knocked back his shot and nodded at the cup of coffee. Grimacing, he took a sip, then slugged back the hot coffee just as he had the whiskey.