by Penny Drake
“Dunno. Paper burns, though, and that would explain why people might believe the treasure was destroyed in the Detroit fire.”
“What kind of papers could be valuable enough to cause this kind of brouhaha?”
“A diary of a famous person,” Zack hazarded. “Abraham Lincoln or Ulysses Grant or something. Or maybe it’s a famous document. An original copy of the Declaration of Independence turned up a few years ago and went for something like eight million bucks at auction.” His green eyes tracked further down the microfilm page. “It also has a little history on the Peales. Not much, though. They probably just needed to fill some column space.”
I tried to read it over his shoulder, but my eyes rebelled. “What’s it say?”
“Just that the family originally came from Philadelphia and was there long before the American Revolution. The Peales are quite the old American family, then.”
“Huh.” I straightened, and the caffeine monster roared for attention. “Let’s make copies of all this and call it a day. I need coffee.”
Zack agreed, and we were outside in the harsh August sunlight a few minutes later. The air had gotten muggier, pressing down like a hot, wet weight. Leaves hung limp from the little sidewalk trees in front of the library. The effort of breathing was enough to make me sweat.
“Do you think Belinda knows about the treasure?” Zack asked as we walked slowly to my Jeep.
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Let’s call,” Zack urged.
I shook my head. “Much better to talk to her in person. Easier to tell if she’s holding something back.”
“Got it.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with one sleeve. “We heading over there now?”
“We aren’t doing anything,” I said, pointing my remote key ring at the Jeep. It chirped like a baby bird and unlocked itself. “I am getting something caffeinated. I was thinking iced coffee. And then I have a few other leads to follow, including talking to Belinda.”
Zack opened the passenger door and jumped in before I could say anything further. “I thought we were a team.”
“We’re a team only on my terms. Get out of my Jeep.”
“I’ll buy the iced coffee. How about that? And then, if you don’t want me to come along, I won’t.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, order him to get his bike out of my Jeep, say I don’t work with someone looking over my shoulder—unless it’s Ms. Hawk.
What I said was, “Okay.”
Chapter Eight
To make myself feel better about my runaway mouth, I chose the most expensive coffee shop in downtown Ann Arbor. It’s on State Street near the University, a marble-walled place furnished with spindly wrought-iron furniture. I privately call it “Café Pretentious” because a thimbleful of coffee costs more than a gallon of gasoline. I ordered an iced latte, extra sugar, while Zack got an iced tea. For what he paid we could have bought dinner in a mid-priced restaurant, and I gave him a mean smile which seemed to go totally over his head. We found a table in the rear, and icy air from the air conditioning turned the sweat on my back into a clammy second skin.
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?” Zack asked.
“Oh man,” I said. “What’s a nice boy like you doing with a pick-up line like that?”
“I’m terrible at pick-up lines,” Zack sighed. “I have to rely on my dazzling good looks instead.”
He gave a wide, sexy smile that went all the way up to his enormous, sea-green eyes, and any appropriate retort I might have had sailed straight out the plate glass window. Suddenly the AC didn’t seem quite so cold. A little flush started at my cleavage and worked its way upward—and downward. I snorted in completely fake disdain and took a long pull from my iced coffee. Good move, as it turned out. Mama Caffeine worked her magic again. The jonesing instantly stopped, and revitalization flooded me down to my toes. Flush? What flush?
“Oh yeah,” I said huskily, licking milk from my upper lip. “That’s what I need.”
Zack gave me a long, peculiar look. “You’re a real addict.”
“Yep. I’d sell your mother for a good cappuccino.” I took another drink. “So where’d you grow up, Zack?”
“Small talk?” he said. “That mean you like me enough to find out about my past?”
“Talking about you is a way to stop you trying to weasel my background out of me,” I told him.
He rested his chin on one hand. “I love a mystery woman.”
“So where’d you grow up?” I repeated. “No—let me guess. ‘Here and there.’”
“You guessed!”
I saluted him with my coffee but didn’t answer, deciding to see if he would fill the silence. An old trick, but people still fall for it.
Zack was no exception. “It didn’t start off that way. I was actually born into a hippie commune.”
I set my glass down with a click on the iron tabletop. “Get out.”
“Absolute truth. Late seventies, and my parents were still totally into the hippie thing. They’d joined with a bunch of people who had a farm in Indiana. They grew their own food, as much as they could, and sold organic produce for what they couldn’t. I grew up running around bare-ass naked among the tomatoes.”
“Naked?” I laughed. “You didn’t really.”
“I did. The whole place was clothing optional. During summer I’d go days without wearing a stitch. So did most of the other kids.”
I tried to imagine a troop of children rampaging through a vegetable patch while adults dressed in fringed ponchos pulled weeds and passed lit joints from hand to hand. “What about school?”
“We were home-taught. Mom told me later that she and the others took a lot of flak from the locals, actually. I remember the cops showing up a couple times. We kids were told to hide in the woods. We thought it was a kind of adventure, but I remember being scared they’d arrest Mom or Dad. They never did, though.”
“So it really was a commune,” I said.
“Yep.” Zack sipped his tea, made a face, and stirred in several packets of sugar. “It didn’t last, though. Eventually in-fighting started and people started leaving. I kind of suspect the free love thing works better on paper than in practice. When Alice slips out of Ben’s bed and into Charlie’s, Ben can’t help feeling jealous, you know? And you have the people who get high all the time instead of working the farm but still show up at every meal. Puts a strain on relations. When I was about nine, my parents put their few possessions into a VW bus and we took off.”
“A VW bus?” I said. “Now you’re going to tell me you followed the Grateful Dead around.”
“Well, yeah. Mom and Dad lived by selling beadwork and stuff to Deadheads. We drifted around for three or four years, actually. Finally, though, Mom had enough. I remember the night she and Dad had it out. I knew it was serious because she called him Arthur instead of Stardust.”
“Nooooo,” I said. “You can’t mean it. They used actual hippie names? It must’ve been the eighties by then.”
“Not to the Deadheads. I was eight before I found out Dad’s real name.”
“What was your Mom’s name?”
“Her real name is Eileen, but she went by Greenflower.”
“And your name?” I asked, blinking coquettishly.
“Not important.” His face went a little pink.
“You’re blushing,” I said, quick to press my advantage. “I don’t believe it! Come on, come on. Give! I saved your life twice, so you owe me.”
Zack picked up his iced tea and muttered something into it.
I leaned forward. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“It was…they called me…Rainbow Sunshine.”
Okay, I tried. I really, really tried. But the laugh burst out before I could stop it. Zack’s blush deepened even further. I laughed again and dabbed at my eyes with a napkin.
“Rainbow Sunshine,” I said. “That’s some fine blackmail material there.”
“That’s right—mak
e fun of my childhood tragedies, including my broken home and rootless upbringing.”
“I’m sorry,” I giggled, and reached across the table to pat his hand. “I’m imagining your mother calling you in to dinner. ‘Rainbow Suuuunshiiiine! Time for dinner! And the cops are coming later, so put some clothes on!’”
Zack gave a small laugh at that. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”
“So what happened that day your mom called your dad Arthur?”
“Mom said that they couldn’t raise a kid in the back of a bus anymore. Dad said I was turning out just fine, but Mom wouldn’t hear it. Either Dad had to settle down and get a real job or she would get a divorce. In the morning, Dad was gone. I never saw him again.”
“Oh God,” I said, feeling suddenly contrite. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” Zack said with a shrug. “Mom got a waitress job and then a secretarial job and I went to a real school for the first time. Eventually I grew up and I became a photographer. So it’s really true—I did grow up here and there.”
These last sentences came out in a rush. Zack was leaving out quite a lot, that much was obvious. On the other hand, how much detail could you go into over iced caffeine?
“Does this place have a restroom?” he asked, intruding on my musing. “I’m starting to realize I didn’t go once the whole time we were in the library.”
I know all the caffeine joints in Ann Arbor like I know my own bedroom, and I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Back that way.”
While he was gone, I pulled out my phone and called Ms. Hawk’s cell. She answered on the first ring.
“Don’t we have a favor coming from a police detective in Chicago?” I asked.
“We do,” Ms. Hawk said. I heard birdsong behind her and figured she must be outside somewhere. “Why?”
I glanced at the restroom door. Still shut, but how long would Zack be gone? “I don’t have time to give details now,” I said. “Can I call her up? I need some information for the Peale case.”
Ms. Hawk paused only a moment. “Of course. Let me put you on hold and I’ll check my phone records.” She clicked away, then came back to read me a name and Chicago phone number. I thanked her, promised again to explain later, and hung up. Still no sign of Zack, so I dialed the number. Two rings later, a woman picked up.
“Is this Jackie Gold?” I asked.
“It is,” she replied. “Who’s calling, please?”
“My name is Terry Faye, and I work for Hawk Enterprises. We helped you with a personal problem several months ago? When your daughter was dating that drug dealer?”
“Oh, right.” Jackie gave a little laugh. “I think that guy is still running. How are things in Ann Arbor?”
I did the small talk thing, then said, “I wanted to know if you could help me with a little favor.”
Most clients get a little quiet at this point, and Jackie Gold was no exception. I think they’re afraid we’re going to demand more money or ask them to do something dangerous.
“What sort of favor?” she asked at last. I heard a chair creak and imagined she was at her desk, leaning backward.
“I want to know if you have anything on a family named Peale. They’re out your way.”
“The Peales?” She sounded startled. “Why do you want to know about them?”
“It’s for a case,” I said. “I take it you’ve heard of them.”
“Of course I’ve heard of them. Everybody in Chicago has heard of them.”
I cocked an eye toward the bathroom door. “What can you tell me?”
“They specialize in…imports,” Jackie said dryly. “Have for generations, near as we can tell. It’s a family business that goes all the way back to the Civil War, when they brought in illegal rum. Once Prohibition started, it was alcohol of any kind. From there they got into drugs. The current head of the family is one Quentin Peale, and he’s a right bastard.”
Interesting. “Any busts?”
“Small-time stuff. Possession, usually. We’ve never gotten proof of anything worse than that, hard as we’ve tried. They just keep bringing stuff in, and we keep missing them. They probably have eyes and ears in the force, but no one’s been able to prove that, either.” She paused. “It’s funny you should call me about them just now.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Rumor on the street has it that Quentin Peale’s usual customers haven’t been getting their regular shipments lately. Coke, heroin and crack supplies—all running low. The dealers are getting antsy, and prices are going up.”
“Really.”
Zack emerged from the restroom and headed back to our table. I gave him a little smile but kept my attention on the phone.
“Yep,” Jackie said. “We’re hearing from the usual sources that the Peales are importing something new these days, but no one seems to know exactly what it is.”
“Is anyone speculating?” I asked. Zack cocked his head at me, silently asking who I was talking to, but I ignored him.
“Oh, sure. Weapons. Terrorists. Cuban cigars. You name it, someone’s brought it up. But come down to it, we don’t have a clue.”
“Can you e-mail me some names and addresses for these people?” I asked.
“The Peales?” Jackie said. “Sure. It’s public information, so that’s no problem. Is that all you wanted to know? I mean, it’s not like this was privileged or anything.”
“Maybe not, but the information helps me a lot. If there’s anything else you can think of, give me a call or send me an e-mail.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“This repays that favor,” I said, and we clicked off.
“What was that all about?” Zack asked.
I put my phone back in my pocket. “Nothing important.”
“It was about the case, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing you have to worry about,” I said, draining the last of my coffee.
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s because I’m a man. You don’t trust me because I’m a guy.”
“If you want to think that, go right ahead,” I said heartlessly and got up. “I have to get home. It’s almost supper time, and the Biemers wait for no one.”
He followed me to the door. “The Biemers?”
This necessitated a subject-changing explanation of my living circumstances, which Zack seemed to find fascinating.
“It’s an honest-to-God boarding house?” he said. “I didn’t think they existed anymore.”
“They’re hard to find,” I admitted, chirping open my Jeep. It was parked on State Street, out in front of Café Pretentious. “You’d better get your bike out of the back unless you want to walk home.”
He obeyed with poor grace. I gave him a little wave and turned the key in the ignition. My trusty little Jeep turned over, made some coughing noises, and died. Uh oh. I tried again. Cough, cough, sputter, sputter, death. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Zack was standing on the sidewalk with his bicycle, clearly trying not to smirk. I ignored him and tried a third time, with no better result. Swearing, I popped the hood, got out, and looked underneath.
I know some car basics. I can change a flat and change my oil, for example, and I can tell if the battery is disconnected or a cap is loose. Anything more complicated than that, and I’m lost. I could smell gasoline, which wasn’t a good sign, but other than that, I couldn’t see anything wrong.
Zack came up behind me. “Won’t start, eh?”
“No, I just thought I’d drive from under the hood for a change,” I said in a deadly even tone. “I don’t suppose you know anything about cars, he-man that you claim to be.”
“Nope.” He gestured at his bike. “Great reason to ride one of these. Not much goes wrong that you can’t fix on the spot.”
“Great.” I slammed the hood down. My hands had that swipe of greasy dirt you always get when you open a car hood. “Now I have to call a tow truck, and then I have to get home, and I’m going to miss supper. And no, I won’t go to supper with you.”
&nbs
p; “Wasn’t going to ask.” Zack mounted his bike. “Guess I’ll see you later.”
I stared after him as he pedaled away, not sure if his parting remarks made me feel better or worse. I called my auto club, and they said a tow truck would arrive within the hour. Nothing to do after that but wait. I stood fuming in the shade of the coffee house. I tried to tell myself that this was a minor inconvenience, that in a week I’d barely remember the incident, but I just got madder and madder about it. Caffeine fix notwithstanding, I was hot, I was hungry and I was tired from crawling around a filthy house and reading blurry microfilms all day.
At last the tow truck arrived. The driver hooked up my Jeep with easy efficiency and asked where I wanted it towed. I gave him the name of my usual mechanic. Dave’s place is a little pricey, but he’s downtown and easy to get to.
“You want to ride with?” the tow truck driver asked.
I checked my watch. Supper had just started at the Biemers’. With luck, I could make it before the dishes were cleared. “I’ll call a cab,” I said, and gave the driver my Jeep key.
The tow truck drove off. I called Dave to tell him my Jeep was on the way, then called a cab company.
“It’s rush hour,” the dispatcher said. “So it’ll probably be half an hour or more before someone gets there.”
More anger, mixed with disappointment. There went supper. I’m not sure why I had so much invested in getting home in time for dinner. Probably because the day was turning rotten and Mrs. Biemer’s cooking took the term “comfort food” to new heights. I didn’t want to grab something at a restaurant or pick through leftovers when I got home. I wanted a home-cooked meal, but I wasn’t going to—
A horn beeped, and an ancient brown VW bus pulled into the parking space recently vacated by my Jeep. I stared as Zack leaned across the cab and pushed the passenger door open.
“Hey, lady,” he said with a grin. “Need a ride?”
I could have kissed him. Instead, I hopped inside and slammed the door. The bus’s interior smelled of hot vinyl and old carpeting. An antique peace medallion hung from the rearview mirror.
“My God, it’s all true,” I said in awe.