by Duffy Brown
“Someone who doesn’t like Rudy.”
“That’s interesting. Why are we just hearing about this now?”
Mother was cleaned, pressed, fed and out the door in under thirty minutes. As I got the shop ready for business, Irish Donna came in. “Blessed be Saint Patrick, I hear that me shamrock’s working overtime just keeping you sucking air.”
“By any chance, you didn’t leave a note to meet at the docks last night, did you?”
“And be missing America’s Got Talent? Can’t even imagine such a thing.”
“Well, Sutter’s got Rudy over at the police station and there’s an eyewitness who saw him cut Bunny’s brake cable. What the heck’s going on?”
Not looking one bit surprised, Donna leaned against the pool table and let out an audible sigh. “Mira just couldn’t be keeping her mouth shut, could she? I told her she must be mistaken, but she said she saw Rudy right there under the streetlight big as you please. He’s a man hard to miss with wild gray hair, wrinkled jacket, that crutch and smoking a cigar of all things.”
“But with a broken leg, how could he possibly hunker down to cut the cable?”
“Mira’s a lot of things, she is,” Donna went on, “but I can’t see her lying about something so important as this. What should we be doing to help Rudy?”
A woman came into the shop to return a lilac bike she had rented, but wanted to rent it again on Saturday afternoon. I wrote the woman’s name on the workbench because I didn’t have paper handy. Two more ladies came in to rent the rose bikes. I took the money and information and watched them pedal off. “This is terrible,” I said to Donna.
“That you have customers?”
“That Rudy’s not here to see it. I’ve got to fix this. What do you know about Speed and Bunny? I think she might have been blackmailing him. Something that would hurt his chances of raising money for the Speed Challenge and a reason to get rid of her.”
Donna leaned closer. “Blackmail? Are ye sure? Her family has money.”
“Had money. Dwight was bleeding her dry, the stock market’s not what it used to be and she hadn’t done anything to SeeFar in years. Then suddenly she puts a new roof on the place and was starting to get the inside painted all within a few months. Where’d that money come from? And she’s got that new yellow bike.”
“Ye be thinking Speed gave it to her? I like it, I do. I got scone deliveries to be making and can ask around if Bunny’s been spending money like a drunken sailor.”
“Keep it casual.” I looked Donna square in the eyes. “I didn’t fall in the lake last night. I was pushed.”
“Stands to reason you were, dear, ’tis the black cloud and that ye got a meddling way about ya that genuinely ticks everyone off to no end. I’d be staying away from the cliffs if I were you.”
Donna took off as three floral bikes were returned, then rented right back out again. A husband wanted a bike that could carry fishing gear and another wanted a cart to hold his golf clubs. Like he said, taxis made stops, and he wasn’t into stops. He wanted to get where he wanted to go and he wanted to haul—a guy’s gotta haul, even if it’s on a bike.
By three Rudy and Irma still weren’t home, Mother wasn’t picking up her phone and I was trying to figure out how Mira saw Rudy cut Bunny’s cable when he didn’t. To keep busy and not panic, I’d painted a bike with a fly-fishing theme that I named The Angler and another with a golf motif that I named Tiger Woods. If the Grand could have the Dolly Madison suite and the Lady Astor suite, I could name my bikes.
Sheldon had bars, so using the last of my credit card limit, I ordered three tall, skinny golf club/fishing rod two-wheel carts that snapped onto the back of the bikes and that looked easy to pull. I started on a Martha Stewart bike with cookbooks and whisks and spatulas and a plate of spaghetti—I’d kill for a plate of spaghetti right now—as Mother came through the door.
I rushed up to her and hugged her. “I thought maybe Sutter locked you up too.” I sniffed. “Wine? Really? I’ve been worrying myself into a stupor and you’re having wine?”
“Angelo took me to lunch at the Gatehouse and we shared a nice pinot. He loves it so much here on the island that he talked his Family into coming up for a team-building symposium at the Grand next spring during the Lilac Festival. Not exactly sure who or what his Family is, but it seems some of the boys aren’t working together like they should and aren’t getting along. He thinks a team-building week would do them all good.”
“Uh, what kind of team are we talking about?”
“Thought it best not to ask. Sounds like a family reunion with attitude—I wonder how that’s going to work out. He wants to know if I’m coming back and, you know, I think I am.” Mother gazed around the shop. “I can set up an office here. Flying between Chicago and the island is a short hop.” She batted her eyes. “That will make Angelo happy. It makes me happy. I’ll need an office; something in town with a lake view would be nice.” She pointed out the window. “If Rudy moves in with Irma, we could convert the deck in the back into a terrific office. I think I need a sailboat. Call it Carmen’s Clubhouse.”
“Mother, what about Rudy?”
“Oh, I definitely think he and Irma are an item. A nice spring wedding and—”
“I mean how is Rudy right now?”
“When I left him, he and Irma were playing Scrabble. After an hour of my being a raving legal lunatic, Sutter still wouldn’t let Rudy go, but I did wangle Irma unlimited visiting privileges and a candlelit dinner from the Yankee Rebel that should be delivered anytime now.”
“You are good.”
Mother batted her eyes and fluffed her hair, something way more Carmen than Ann Louise. “I have my moments. After the third glass of wine, Angelo and I decided the eyewitness is a setup just like you and me going to the dock last night was a setup. Doesn’t take much to put on a gray wig and get a crutch. Everyone knows about Mira and her telescope. Going to be hard to dig up proof of who’s involved with Sutter watching us. And you already had one close call.”
“So let’s go for another one. I’ll spread a rumor that I know who the killer is. That will draw him out, and we’ll be ready this time.”
“We’re trying to find the killer for one murder, not cause another. You finish up here. The bikes look great, by the way, no wonder Rudy made you a partner, its a good business decision for him. You’re an entrepreneur like your Grandpa Frank, and that Chicago job you have sucks even if you do get that promotion you want.”
“How . . . how did you know about me needing a promotion?”
She kissed me on the cheek. “I know everything, dear. Now I have to get dressed. Angelo is picking me up early. There’s a terrific jazz group playing in Marquette Park this evening.” Mother started for the steps, then came back. “You should come with us.”
“And sit between you and Angelo? A dream come true for any daughter. I’ll stay out of trouble, promise.”
Mother held out her hand. “Then cough it up.”
“Cough what up? That doesn’t sound very ladylike.”
“Forget ladylike. You know what.”
I fished the lock-picking set out of my pocket and gave it to Mother. “Happy?”
“Delighted beyond words.”
“Now go get Carmen all slutted up and have fun.” Never imagined I’d be saying that to my own mother. At one time the thought of having Mother here on the island, even part-time, would give me an ulcer and make me break out in hives. Carmen . . . not so much.
I finished Martha Stewart, parked her on the sidewalk and rented her out in fifteen minutes flat. I started in on Babe Ruth . . . a baseball bike, not the candy bar . . . well, maybe a little candy bar on the back fender, as Angelo pranced inside.
“You sure clean up good. Nice suit.”
“Do you believe it?” Angelo said. “I’m driving a freaking horse. It’s an
automatic, one flick of the reins is go, two flicks is stop, and she gets twenty miles per bag of oats. If the guys in Motown could see me now, they’d laugh so hard they’d split a gut.”
“You look dashing.”
“What’s going to look dashing is Carmen on that seat beside me. I got a blanket for us to sit on and some wine and nice hors d’oeuvre things to eat that I ordered up over at that Gatehouse place.” Angelo stood straight and smoothed his jacket. “You should know my intentions with your mother are completely honorable. She’s some dish, I’ll tell ya. How’d a bum like me get so lucky to have a gal like that on my arm?”
“She’s pretty lucky to have found you too; we both are. She has your lock equipment. She confiscated it; she’s afraid I’ll get into trouble.”
“Smart lady. Always listen to your mother.” Angelo leaned close. “But if you get in a jam, cookie, a fingernail file and a bobby pin can do more than make a gal look good, if you get my drift.”
“How’s Dwight working out for you?” I asked, adding a bat and catcher’s mitt to the rear fender of Babe Ruth.
“Lousy cook, worse gambler. Only reason he didn’t lose SeeFar in some backroom game before we got it is I was having him watched ’cause he owed us a bundle. We moved fast when we got the word on Bunny, otherwise some guy from Vegas would be living up on that hill.”
I put down my brush. “Watched as in twenty-four/seven watched? Like if Dwight cut the brake cables on Bunny’s bike to get her money, you would have known about it?”
“Hey, Dwight’s a putz, and not exactly the milk-and-cookies type, but even he wouldn’t do in his own ma—and yeah, I would know. I only hire the best.”
Angelo pulled in a deep breath, his eyes focusing beyond me. “Va-va-voom,” he said with an appreciative sigh as Carmen sashayed into the room in a black dress with touches of red lace at the neck and hem. “Those are some shoes. Give a grown man a heart attack.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself, mister,” Carmen purred. My mother purred? Yeah, she really did.
I waved Carmen and Angelo off to their carriage as a perfect evening set over the island. The first notes of some sultry jazz piece floated my way from the park across the street. This wasn’t Paris, and I was sure Mother wasn’t over Dad and his French floozie, but she was coping, and if Angelo and Carmen made the coping a little easier, why the heck not.
The good news was that I could cross Dwight off my suspect list; the bad news was I still had three to go—Huffy, Speed and Bourne. Donna was gathering intel on Speed and who knows what she’d dig up and . . . and holy moly! Right here in front of me on the sidewalk with a blanket tucked under his arm and wearing jeans and a white polo shirt was Jason Bourne, sans silver briefcase, heading for the park.
He stopped in front of the shop to look at Tiger Woods and a birds-r-us bike that had the cutest woodpecker, then came inside. “Could you possibly make up a bike with a music theme? Maybe some instruments and notes? Piano keys would be a nice touch. I love music, and I should start riding more, get some exercise.”
I guess pulling a trigger didn’t burn many calories, not that I said that out loud. “I have one that’s a music theme, but it’s rented out. I can do another.” If he’d asked for dancing pigs twirling batons, I would have said yes to that too.
“I’m headed over to the park for that jazz group that’s playing. I hear they’re sensational. Sure is a lovely night.”
Bourne left and I puffed out a deep breath. Music, scones and murder—Bourne was a man of varied tastes, and . . . and if he was at the concert, he wasn’t at his house. Oh, I could not pass this up.
I locked the shop, stuck my nail file, bobby pin and flashlight in my pocket, headed out the side door and knocked right into . . . “Fiona?”
“Bourne’s at the concert,” she panted. She held up a crowbar. “We can use this to get into that room. ”
“Not very subtle.”
“Screw subtle. Rudy’s in the slammer. We’ll be less conspicuous if we walk. Do you still have Angelo’s lock-picking stuff?”
I held up the file and bobby pin and we took off. We crept along the back edge of Marquette Park, keeping in the bushes till we got to the beloved steps. Foot and carriage traffic on the bluff was light, with most people taking advantage of the concert below. Moonlight sliced through the Mackinaw Bridge, and Bourne’s house was dark and deserted.
“How are we going to get to the second floor?” Fiona whispered as we slunk around to the back. “We don’t have Angelo to boost us up.” She pointed to the side of the house. “The trellis.”
“How many leaves does it have?”
“This is no time for botany.” Fiona hooked the crowbar into the waistband of her shorts, the weight nearly pulling them clean off her skinny butt. She started up and I followed. The crowbar slipped, hitting me and falling to the ground.
“Are you okay back there?” Fiona called back to me.
“It hit my head.”
“You’re still talking, you’re fine.” We toppled onto the porch in a heap, I handed Fiona the flashlight, stuck the file into the lock and the door opened all by itself. Fiona and I exchanged yippee smiles at our good luck, and we headed for the locked room.
“You should have practiced,” Fiona said as I stuck the file in the lock.
“You could have practiced, you know.”
“Don’t be silly, I already know how to hold the flashlight,” she laughed.
I fished around for the lever with the wide end of the file and after two tries flipped it open.
“Dang, girl, you’re 007 with boobs. Look.” Fiona pointed to a chair as we walked into the room. “Bourne has one of those expensive mesh jobs that fit your body like a glove.”
I sat at the desk and flipped open the computer.
“Wonder what Bourne’s password is? Bull’s-eye?”
“Do you password-protect your computer?”
“Never turn it off.”
“No one else does either.” I hit the space bar to bring the computer to life and Fiona read, “Her heaving bosom glistened in the silvery moonlight as he slowly slid himself over her.”
Fiona and I exchanged wide-eyed looks as a voice saying, “Getawayfromthat,” came from behind us.
We spun around to Jason Bourne, his silhouette framed in the doorway, a flashlight in one hand and something that was definitely not a scone in the other.
“What are you doing here?” I yelped as Bourne shone his flashlight in our eyes.
“This is my house.”
“You’re supposed to be at the . . .” Fiona started then stopped. “You set us up.”
“You came to the shop so I’d think you wouldn’t be here, that the house would be empty. The open door was a nice touch.”
Bourne walked into the room. “I was supposed to double back and be waiting when you got here.”
“How’d you know I’d come?”
“You’re looking for Bunny’s killer, everyone knows that. You were here before—the powdered sugar up the stairs that led to the porch door, the missing scone. You really suck at breaking and entering. You think I killed Bunny. You didn’t find any proof the first time, so I figured you’d come back if I made it easy for you. I wanted it on my terms so I could scare the crap out of you and make sure you’d never come back again. Except I got held up by Irish Donna asking a bunch of stupid questions about Speed as if he and I were buddies—yeah, right. You beat me here. And I really didn’t want you in . . . here of all places.” He nodded at the computer.
“If it makes you feel better,” Fiona said. “The scaring the crap part’s working great. I mean, you are a hit man.”
I looked back to the computer and the heaving bosom and the silvery moonlight. “Except you’re not a hit man.”
“Of course he is,” Fiona said in a how stupid can you be tone. �
��He’s got that silver briefcase and he wears a disguise.”
I pushed on, trying to make sense of everything I knew or at least thought I knew. “Bunny wasn’t blackmailing you because she caught you in the act of knocking someone off in New York, she was blackmailing you because she caught you at your publisher. The books.” I pointed to the computer. “You’re Sophia Lovelace. Bunny was going to tell everyone that Sophia Lovelace was a middle-aged man living on Mackinac Island eating scones.”
“Secret lovers, secret author, secret encounters, hot sex,” Bourne said. “It works really well and sells a lot of books. Bunny was in New York drumming up interest in her family history manuscript and saw me coming out of my publisher’s building. She knew my disguise and followed me the next time I left the island with the briefcase handcuffed to my wrist. I was always afraid of losing it in a cab or something.”
“Good grief, your book is in the silver briefcase,” Fiona offered.
“You know what the Internet service is like around here,” Bourne said. “And I didn’t want my books out there; too many people trying to figure out who I am. I put on a disguise and delivered my books in person. The hit man gossip took over here, so I went with it and Jason Bourne. It was kind of fun, and everyone left me alone, till the Chicago hurricane came along.”
“And Bunny,” Fiona added.
“Yeah, and Bunny the busybody. She even bought my books to remind me she had the upper hand. When you and I met in her closet,” Bourne said to me. “I was looking for the pictures she had of me in New York. She was shaking me down for a lot of money, but I didn’t kill her. I’m not Bourne; at heart, I’m Lovelace.”
“How do we know you’re not just BSing us?” Fiona folded her arms.
“I’m a writer. If I wanted to kill Bunny, there’re many better ways than cutting a bike cable. We have water here, deep water—a cement block at the head and feet and the body’s down for the count. ’Course a few puncture wounds to the lungs and stomach keep the gasses from building up and the body floating if the blocks break loose. Whoever did in Bunny wanted the body to be found. Rudy being accused could have been part of the plan to kill Bunny or just someone who didn’t like Rudy.”