6 A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  'Because you loved her and love . . .' I interrupted myself. 'Aww, geez, I think we're deteriorating into Love Story territory here.'

  'Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw.' Kevin grinned, though his eyes were still teary. 'Could be worse. The Bridges of Madison County, even.'

  'With all due respect to the fact that both our spouses cheated on us,' I said, gesturing for him to walk with me, 'Meryl should have left her husband and run off with Clint. He was hot.'

  That got an actual laugh out of Kevin. 'Afraid I'll have to trust you on that one. He's just not my type.'

  I sighed. 'Clint Eastwood's everybody's type. Like Sean Connery or George Clooney.'

  Kevin stopped at a fork in the sidewalk and pointed toward the lot to the east of us. 'My truck's there. I have to go help the guys break down.'

  'And I'm over here.' I indicated the center lot where Christy was still waiting, amazingly patiently. 'You'd better hurry. Ragnar was making good progress when I left. They might be finished already.'

  'Even better.' Kevin gave me a two-fingered salute and headed toward his car.

  I joined Christy. 'I'm sorry that took so long.' I wasn't quite sure why she'd waited. Maybe to solicit donations for Ronny's defense fund.

  'Who's that?' Christy asked, pointing to Kevin's back.

  'Kevin Williams.' I'd forgotten that, though Christy had identified his truck as heading downtown the morning of JoLynne's murder, she had never actually met him. 'Kevin is, or was, JoLynne's husband.'

  Christy fell into step with me. 'I saw him in the visiting room.'

  'Yup.' We had reached my Escape. 'Well, here I am. Can I give you a lift to your car?'

  'Actually, a lift home instead would be wonderful,' Christy said. 'My Kia is in the shop, so I asked Art Jenada if he could drop me off here. Catching a ride with you would save him the trip back.'

  'No problem.' I waved her around to my passenger side.

  We pulled out of the lot behind Kevin and, also like Kevin, turned right toward the depot.

  'I wish I'd have known who he was when I saw him inside,' Christy said. 'I need to return something. Not that I have it with me, of course.'

  'Return something?' The traffic light turned yellow and I stopped short to the displeasure – conveyed by squealing brakes and blaring horns – of the car tailgating me.

  Christy nodded. 'Thursday morning when it looked like rain, I took in the balloon clusters and a microphone that somebody had left on the stage.'

  She looked sideways at me. 'People are so careless.'

  Meaning her current chauffeur?

  If so, Christy was pretty much right. The light changed and the horn from the car behind me sounded again. I inched out as slowly as I could and the guy zoomed around me through the intersection.

  'That's illegal,' Christy said.

  'What is?' Now I was both careless and a scofflaw?

  'What that guy just did. You shouldn't pass in an intersection.'

  'Never a cop around when you need one,' I said. 'And speaking of our criminal justice system, how was your visit with Ronny?'

  'All right.'

  Turning left, I tried to gauge her via a single glance. 'Just "all right"?'

  Christy shrugged. 'I got there a little late. Not that I'm blaming Art. Bless him for taking me in the first place. But by the time I'm across from Ronny, his room-mate is in the next chair. Ronny doesn't like Shef very much.'

  I thought the correct label was 'cell-mate'. 'So your conversation was a little stilted?'

  'A lot stilted. And that Kevin guy is pretty big, so he was crowding me the whole time. Meanwhile, Shef was giving Ronny dirty looks. I could tell my Ronny was scared.'

  'Shef being Ronny's . . . wait a minute. Did you say Kevin was this Shef's visitor? The Kevin you just—'

  'That's why I asked you. And if he's a friend of yours, you should tell him to be more considerate during visits. Happily, it won't be a problem for me very much longer.'

  'Why?' My mind was spinning and Christy's hopscotching from subject to subject wasn't helping any.

  'Ronny told me Shef is going to Chicago to face some charges.'

  'What kind of charges?' Maybe Kevin knew the guy from the Windy City. Both Kevin and JoLynne had lived in Chicago and, if I remembered right, met in rehab there.

  'I don't know, but Ronny said it had something to do with chicken.' Christy craned her neck. 'You can let me off here, if you don't mind.'

  I pulled the car to the curb in front of her home/piano studio. 'Chicken? You told me Ronny's cell-mate's name. Is that Shef with an "s" or "c"?'

  '"C" – C-h-e-f. I told Ronny he should suggest pork chops to Chef.' Christy got out of my Escape and leaned down to talk through the open window. 'Ronny said he didn't think that was a good idea.'

  Something told me Ronny was right. Wouldn't catch me talking pork in that place.

  'I don't know whyever not, though,' Christy was saying. 'Chef might have appreciated the tip and been nicer. Everybody likes a nice breaded pork cutlet or chicken breast.'

  I was lost. Maggy Thorsen, as Alice in Christyland.

  'Pork? Chicken? Whatever are you talking about?' I asked as she went to bump the car door closed with her hip.

  For the first time, Christy Wrigley seemed impatient with me. 'Why, Shake 'n Bake, of course.'

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shake 'n Bake?

  I could see Hamburger Helper qualifying as a criminal offense, but why arrest someone for dusting innocent chicken or pork?

  Christy was obviously, and understandably, enchanted with the seasoned breadcrumb product. Shake 'n Bake kept her hands clean. She just poured the mix into a plastic bag, added meat, shook, dumped it in a pan and popped the pan into the oven.

  Like I said, Christy I understood. But Ronny's cell-mate Chef?

  The piano teacher had entered her house before I could catch her to ask. She'd probably already quick-stripped and stepped into the shower. And God knows how long she'd be in there. I hoped she didn't have a knife and a toothbrush with her.

  I looked around for Kevin's truck, but there was no sign of it. In fact, there was no sign of Ragnar, the other guys or even the gallows. Life had returned to normal. Just the railroad tracks and depot.

  Depot. Uncommon Grounds. I should check in with Sarah, see if business had picked up.

  Even as I had the thought, the front door of UG opened and Jerome emerged. I waved and he crossed the street to my Escape.

  'Wow,' I said, 'you're looking very handsome.'

  'Thank you.' The videographer was wearing a charcoal gray jacket over a blue shirt. His longish blonde hair was artfully wind blown. 'I stopped in to see Amy. I hope that's OK.'

  'Of course. If things are as quiet as they were earlier, I'm sure she was happy to have your company.'

  'I hope so.' Jerome colored up. 'I sure was happy to have hers.'

  I practically broke into a chorus of 'Young love, first love'. Guess I still did believe in the possibility of romance.

  At least for other people.

  'What about you, Maggy? Having a good day off?'

  'Yes, thanks.' In truth, someone his age might well envy me a trip to the jail – as only a visitor, of course – and the county executive's McMansion.

  Jerome's face changed instantly, like he'd just remembered he should be sad for me. 'I'm sorry about Sheriff Pavlik. Any news?'

  I waved off his concerns, feeling badly that I'd been responsible for this emergence from the young man's love stupor. 'Not to worry. Things will turn out fine. I did want to ask you one thing, though.'

  'Anything.'

  'When you were shooting tape of Kevin Williams inflating the cup, where were you?'

  'On the boarding platform.'

  'So you were shooting up?'

  Jerome nodded.

  'And therefore you wouldn't have been able to see whether or not JoLynne's body was in the cup.'

  Jerome thought about it. 'No, I guess not.'

  'But c
ertainly Kevin could have.'

  'Uh-unh.' Now Jerome shook his head. 'They were on the same level I was, adjusting their compressor.'

  Of course. 'So who was up on the gallows with the cup as it filled with air?'

  'Nobody I could see.' Jerome stepped closer to the Escape to avoid getting nailed by a Brookhills Barbie driving her Lincoln Navigator. The four-wheel-drive land yacht barely fit in a traffic lane.

  'County Exec Hampton said the saucer was inflated before the cup itself.'

  The camera operator tilted his head. 'You know, he's right. The saucer seemed to be a separate piece. Which makes sense, I guess.'

  'Why?'

  'Because they'd want the base filled and stable. You know, like the foundation for a house? Only the cup had a variable airflow, so it could billow and wiggle. Sweet effect, by the way.'

  Not so sweet for JoLynne, but I thanked Jerome for his compliment anyway and wished him a good weekend.

  As I swung away from the curb, I began mentally revising my timeline. If nobody was on the cup's elevated gallows when the thing was inflating, there was no way of knowing whether the cup was empty – especially since the saucer was already inflated and would have blocked sight lines from even farther back.

  Revise my timeline? I'd have to scrap the whole damn thing and start all over again.

  By the time I pulled the Escape into my driveway, I'd formulated a plan. First, resolving to learn (for a change) from my earlier mistake, I'd telephone somebody, to make sure that Pavlik was actually in the Milwaukee County Jail. Then, assuming the answer came back 'yes', a trip down there.

  Before I left, though, I'd take a page out of Christy's book, and Google 'Shake 'n Bake' for anything beyond seasoned breadcrumbs in a plastic bag. That way, I could talk to Pavlik about it.

  Finally, I'd get hold of Kevin Williams to find out who was the last person to see the inside of the still-deflated cup. And when.

  I was a little surprised I hadn't heard from Pavlik, though that proverbial 'one phone call' should have been to a lawyer. And presumably, he'd know a bunch of criminal defense attorneys. I figured it was like divorce lawyers. Second time around, hire the attorney who took you to the cleaners the first time. In Pavlik's case, that meant retaining one who had helped even clearly guilty bad guys walk. Not that Pavlik was guilty, of course.

  If he didn't have a lawyer yet, I'd try Caron's husband, Bernie. Granted, he was a trademark attorney, but he might have a recommendation.

  As I unlocked my front door and turned the knob, I heard the rolling, oncoming thunder of Frank's paws pounding our living room's hardwood floor. His unique method of greeting was to chop-block my knees with his shoulders, toppling me on to my rump as he rushed to water a tree.

  I opened the door a crack, and Frank's black nose appeared.

  'If you step back, I'll let you all the way out.' Mommy having leapt safely aside.

  The nose didn't obey.

  'Frank . . .' I drew out the syllable, using the 'Mom' warning tone.

  A sniffle.

  'I'm serious. Step back or I just close the door and leave.'

  Obviously, an empty threat. I had better things to do than cool my heels outside, only to eventually mop up after Frank piddled inside. And besides, I was getting hungry.

  Happily, my sheepdog didn't know a bluff when he heard one. His nose retreated. I stepped to the side of the door by the big front window. I could barely see Frank's stub of a tail, wagging like a furry metronome on speed.

  'Farther,' I instructed.

  When his hips came into sight, I leaned over and gave the door a shove. Frank finished the job with his forehead and darted out into our yard.

  'I haven't been gone that long,' I called after him.

  Frank ignored me and continued on his rounds: shrub to sniff, lift leg, pee; tree to sniff, lift leg, pee; tire to sniff—

  'Away from my car, hairball!'

  He stopped with his leg nearly halfway up. Frank glanced back at me, weighing his options. Then, decision made, he let fly.

  I surrendered and stepped into the house. Passing through my blue-stucco walled living room, I booted up the computer on its small desktop and dropped my purse on the kitchen table. My refrigerator provided the makings of a lettuce, light mayonnaise, low-fat peanut butter and thinly sliced raw onion sandwich. To be toasted.

  Don't knock something you've never tried.

  After cutting my sandwich in symmetrically diagonal quarters, I carried it and a Diet Coke to the table.

  Sitting down, I took a first bite. Nirvana. Finding my cellphone in my purse, I scrolled through the address book to Pavlik's office number. Then I pushed 'SEND'.

  'County Sheriff's Office,' a familiar voice answered.

  'Cheryl,' I said to Pavlik's office manager. 'I'm so glad you're there. This is Maggy.'

  A hesitation. 'Hello, Maggy.'

  'Don't worry,' I was quick to assure her, 'I know the sheriff has been arrested.'

  'Go on.'

  Very flat tone. Apparently Pavlik's staff had been ordered to keep their collective mouths shut about the incident.

  'You don't need to say anything but yes or no. I understand he's being held at the Milwaukee County Jail. Is that correct?'

  'One moment, please.'

  Click.

  I took another bite of my sandwich and waited, figuring Cheryl was merely moving to somewhere she'd have sufficient privacy to talk to me.

  Slightly louder click. 'Public Information, McDonald speaking.'

  Though Cheryl probably had a written directive in front of her requiring that she transfer any call like mine, I still didn't like it. I'd been in public relations and knew all about runarounds. As with most things in life, it is far better to give than to receive.

  'Mr McDonald, my name is Maggy Thorsen and I'm a personal friend of Sheriff Pavlik's. Cheryl, his office manager, just transferred me to you for information on how I can get in touch with him.' There. How much more succinct, reasonable and benign could I be?

  'Sorry, but I'm not in possession of that information.'

  'Fine,' I said through clenched teeth. 'Can you tell me who is? "In possession of" such, I mean?'

  'Only the person currently in charge of the department, ma'am.'

  I decided to brain the next person who called me 'ma'am'. 'In that case, would you connect me with his or her office?'

  'I could, ma'am, but it wouldn't do any good. The interim sheriff is unavailable.'

  I shoved my plate away. It's not often that my appetite for a peanut butter and onion sandwich can be ruined, but this exchange was leaving me teetering on the edge.

  'Well then, if neither Sheriff Pavlik nor his temporary replacement –' using an edge in my voice to chisel the 'temporary' into my approach and McDonald's attitude – 'then who is the next in command?'

  'Sorry, but I'm not in possession—'

  Snap.

  The sound of both my patience and my flip-phone. Hanging up a wireless connection is infinitely less satisfying than slamming down a phone receiver. Maybe somewhere there was a menu of appropriate, downloadable sounds (shrill whistle, primal scream, shotgun blast) to recapture the essence of good old-fashioned hang-ups.

  It was even less satisfying and more galling to know that the aforementioned McDonald had maneuvered me into doing exactly what he wanted me to do all along. Go away.

  'I feel like I'm trapped in a Kafka novel,' I said out loud. Then I looked around. No Frank. Small loss, though, as I was pretty sure my sheepdog had never read any Kafka.

  I picked up the remains of lunch and went to my door. The big goof was waiting on the porch. 'PB & O, Frank?'

  His back end started to dance a jig his front end couldn't keep up with. I tossed him the sandwich.

  Leaving the door open so the dog could return at his leisure, I went back into my kitchen and picked up the phone again. Bernie the Attorney was my last resort.

  Caron's voice answered. 'Egan residence.'

  '
Caron, this is Maggy. I really need to—'

  '. . . We're not home right now, but if you leave your name and number at the beep . . .'

  Fighting the urge to throw my cellular across the room, I waited for the outgoing message to end. 'Caron, this is Maggy. I need to get hold of Bernie right away and I don't know his cellphone number. Can you have him call me? It's really important.'

  I closed my phone, wondering what I should do next. I could go to the Milwaukee County Jail, but even if Pavlik was there, I didn't know which cell block or section he might be in and when visiting would be allowed. A big city slammer seemed likely to be stricter than our suburban Brookhills one, meaning a lot of time invested with perhaps no results.

  I looked around in frustration. My eye was caught by a boxed message on my computer screen. In large white-on-black letters, it asked if I wanted to install an update 'NOW'.

  Seeing no 'NOT NOW, NOT EVER' option for this chance of a lifetime, I just tapped 'LATER' and sat down.

  Opening Google, I typed in 'Shake 'n Bake' and came up with 1,370,000 references to the seasoned coating mix. Chicken recipes, pork recipes, chicken and pork recipes, even something called 'Armadillo eggs'. Perhaps not as delectable as my late, lamented peanut butter and onion sandwich, but nothing seemed an extraditable offense that could move Chef from suburban Wisconsin to urban Illinois.

  Maybe I shouldn't use the brand name spelling. I tried typing just 'shake and bake' instead.

  Two seconds later, there it was, between a misspelled chicken recipe and a scientific procedure:

  Shake-and-bake: slang term for a short cut method of making methamphetamine . . .

  Meth? One of the subjects of Pavlik's DEA conference in Chicago.

  I followed the link to a news article:

  A scourge that is spreading across the Midwest. This amounts to a short cut around typically more elaborate meth production. Shake-and-bake (also called the 'one-pot' method) requires only small amounts of ingredients that are 'shaken' in a plastic, two-liter soda bottle. Like the dangers inherent in traditional meth labs, the process can be highly volatile. However, should there be an explosion, the shake-and-baker cannot dive for cover, much less run away. He's left, figuratively, holding the bomb, since, literally, both his hands have been blown off at the wrists.