Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) (21 page)

“Yikes!” I flipped the tools in the air and spun around, my heart in my stomach. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Thought you might be going out for a drink and I was starting to sober up and I really wasn’t ready for that yet, so I thought I’d follow along. What’s this all about?”

Subtracting ten years from my life and giving me a heart attack? “Would you believe I forgot my key to my boyfriend’s place?”

“Worst liar ever.” Mother snatched the lock pick and wrench thing off the stoop, and I waited for all hell to break loose. “Well?” she asked.

“Well what?”

“Well, move aside so we can get in, unless you like standing out here in the rain where people can see us.” Mother fiddled with the lock.

“You . . . You know how to do this?”

“Had a client accused of industrial espionage a few years ago and we had time to kill while waiting for the jury to come back.”

“How’d it go?”

“He got off, and you should see me with a deadbolt.”

T
he lock sprang open. “Piece of cake.” She looked me in the eyes. “You want to tell me why we’re doing this?”

“The guy who owns Rudy’s Rides is accused of murder and he didn’t do it and this guy might have.”

“Got it.” She turned the doorknob and I put my hand over hers.

“Wait a minute. Just like that you believe me? We could go to jail, you know.”

“Evie, we are not going to jail. I’m an attorney; a good one. Of course I believe you, you’re my daughter, and like I just said, you’re the worst liar ever. So what are we looking for?” Mother asked as we went inside, my flashlight aimed at the floor and showing the way.

“He owns the cycle shop below and he wants to take over Rudy’s place ’cause it’s a better location and to cut out the competition. He and the person murdered were once friends, then enemies. Knocking her off and framing Rudy takes care of both problems. Plus, he’s a dick.”

The flashlight picked out a bedroom in the back, a kitchen to the side, a leather couch, two matching chairs, a flat-screen TV and a closed laptop on a desk. Mother parked herself at the desk. “A friend who becomes an enemy is all about betrayal. She’s the one dead, so either she did something to him or she
could
do something to him. Since you don’t know what it is, that means we’re looking for a secret, and if you think he’s the killer, it’s a big secret. Intelligent people don’t kill unless they have to.”

“That’s brilliant.”

Mother fluffed her hair. “They don’t pay me the big bucks for nothing, chickie.” She gave a lopsided grin. “Did I really call you chickie? Must have been the Carmen in me sneaking out.” Mother opened the laptop.

“Probably password-protected,” I offered.

“Busy people don’t shut down their computers when they’re working; takes too much time to fire them back up. And unless you’re the CIA or that Bieber kid, no one really cares what you’re doing.” She hit the space bar to bring the computer to life, and a calendar of events popped up.

“Your guy’s a hard worker; lots of speaking engagements, appearances, and luncheons from one end of Michigan to the other. I’d hire him.” She clicked on a folder marked
finances
.

“I know some of these people. They’re investing in the Speed Challenge?”

“It’s all about cycle racing in Michigan. Speed intends to make the headquarters on the island. I think that’s because there’s a lot of money here and Speed spent summers here.”

“Okay, so this woman knew him when he was young, they were friendly and maybe shared confidences.” Mother tapped her finger against her lips. “My best guess is she had him by the shorthairs for some youthful indiscretion and was probably blackmailing him. If this secret got out, it would ruin his fund-raising.” Mother clicked back to the calendar, then closed the computer. “No wonder she’s dead.”

“He stole some photos of them together, and a news article too. They might be here, but I don’t know if it means anything.”

“If they’ve gone missing, it’s important. Thing’s don’t just disappear unless they’ve got a reason to.” Mother headed for the bedroom. “I’ll take the dresser; you take the closet.”

“He’s got more shoes than you do,” I offered, stepping over three shoe trees.

“If you come across red satin ones, we’ve got our secret. He has some really expensive briefs here. Nice tushy?”

“Women drool.”

“Good to know.”

There was a lot more Carmen in Mother than I had ever imagined. “Look at this,” I said, dragging the framed
Sports Illustrated
picture from the back of Speed’s closet. “Speed got this thing as an award just the other night, and here it is buried in the back of his closet.”

Mother parked her hands on hips and stared at the picture. “It’s the Tour of Texas, and he won. I’m guessing it’s a big deal since it’s in
SI
.”

“Why hide it in the closet?”

“Why indeed. We should get out of here.”

“The local police might get cranky?”

“If this Speed guy is the killer, two more bodies won’t make a hill of beans worth of difference.” Mother watched as I slid the picture back in the closet. “So what’s with you and this cop?” she asked as I made sure Speed’s shoes were neat and tidy like I found them. “I get the feeling he’s a little more hard-boiled than your average island officer.”

“He’s from Detroit, and we drive each other nuts.”

Mother laughed as we headed out. “In more ways than one, from what I see.”

“Mother, he’s old.”

“What, forty-something, I’m guessing? One foot in the grave to be sure.”

I locked the door and we crept down the steps, the rain falling harder, streetlights and shop lights reflecting off the wet pavement and sidewalks, fog rolling in off the lake. Mother zipped her black fleece and I realized it was just like the one I had on except hers was newer and accented with a terrific pink scarf she’d probably picked up on the Champs-Élysées. She’d cut her hair and lightened it, and with us being nearly the same size, looking at Mother was looking at myself twenty-five years from now. Lucky me.

“What’s this?” Mother asked, taking down a note tacked to the front door of Rudy’s. “
Arnold’s dock. 9. Donna
,” she read aloud. “Don’t you text around here?”

“Cell phone service is tricky, and with the rain, it’s worse. Donna is Irish Donna, and she probably needs help . . . loading bags of flour. She owns the Blarney Scone up on Market Street, the pastries are terrific, we’ll go there for breakfast tomorrow, you’ll love it.”

I was babbling, but I sure wasn’t about to tell Mother we had a local hit man and that he was also a murder suspect and could very well be making a run for it. Donna knew him better than anyone else. As a distraction from my latest attempt at lying that probably sucked, I pulled out the gold shamrock hanging around my neck. “Donna lent me this to ward off a black cloud that she says is causing all my problems.”

“She sounds like a good friend, and I guess the cloud is one explanation why Timmy-boy ran off with my World Series tickets. It’s almost nine, dear; we should go.”

Mother started off, and I blocked her path. “
Your
World Series
tickets?”

“
The
tickets, just
the
tickets. It’s late, I’m tired, slip of the tongue, and—”

“What did you do, Mother?”

She let out a deep breath and gave me the
guilty as charged
shoulder roll, just like the time I’d caught her red-handed hiding a package of Oreos behind the ficus plant when I was ten. I had the feeling this was a little more serious.

“All right, all right,” she said. “You’ll find out sooner or later anyway. I made it look like Tim won those tickets.”

“You set him up?”

“And he took the bait. End of story. We’re running short on time, dear, and shut your mouth before something flies in and makes a home.”

“You sabotaged my wedding?”

“Altered it a little.” Mother took the scarf from her jacket and wrapped it around my neck. She kissed me on the forehead. “Tim Whitlock is a jerk—always was, always will be—and not near good enough for you, though you certainly weren’t hearing any of it six months ago. Now let’s help your friend, though I’m sure it has nothing to do with picking up flour. We need to get a move on now.”

“You sabotaged my wedding?”

“One day you’ll thank me.” She grabbed my hand. “It’s almost nine.”

“But I loved my wedding dress. It had a train. I lost ten pounds to get into that thing.”

“It was all lovely, dear, except for the groom, and once we knew he wasn’t showing up, we did enjoy ourselves ever so much more. The band was amazing.”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

“Two shots of Jack Daniel’s and a half bottle of champagne will do that to a body, but we have pictures, the raspberry swirl cheesecake was divine, now let’s step on it, there’s a killer out there.”

“Why do you care so much about this killer?”

“Because you care, and finding the bad guy beats sitting home alone licking my wounds from Peter Bloomfield kicking me to the curb for a two-bit French floozy with no shirt, big boobs and feathers stuck in her hair and pasted to her firm little bottom.”

By the time we got to the docks, I was still upset about the wedding, but now mostly because I felt bad that Mother’d had to rescue me and that I couldn’t remember the cheesecake. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, a golden halo of water droplets surrounding the dock lights. A foghorn moaned out in the harbor.

“Do you see Donna?” Mother asked me, the big white ferryboat gliding toward us out of a thick bank of clouds, engines doing the slow reverse growl to bring it to a stop. All hands stood alert on deck to toss lines, lower the gangplank and usher fudgies on and off so nobody fell in the drink. The procession of weary tourists shuffled down the wharf, floating in and out of the misty swirls. A group of laughing partiers ran full-tilt to make the last ferry of the night.

“I don’t see her anywhere,” I said to Mother, stepping out of line to get a better look at the crowd, a dockworker giving me the evil eye to get back where I belonged. “She has red hair and is probably wearing her long green coat tonight. I’ll take the front; you check the back.” I stood on my tiptoes and leaned to the side to get a glimpse of either Donna or Bourne at the front of the line. Something was up, I could feel it and—
“Yikes!”

I was airborne over the water, arms flailing, feet searching for the dock, and the ferry . . . the really big ferry . . . coming right at me. “Help!”

The cold closed over me, the weight of my clothes pushing me down, down, down into the blackness, some part of my brain screaming,
Swim, Evie, swim.
Then I went up, up, up—and up never felt so good. In a split second I was on the surface, choking and spluttering and gasping for air. A beefy guy with lights blinking on his orange life vest bobbed beside me and slid an orange ring buoy under my arms.

“Don’t move,” he ordered as walls of white gracefully slid over us, closing out the dock lights. Holy Saint Patrick, it was the boat passing over us, then it stopped.

“Hold on to me and the ring,” Beefy said, and he didn’t have to ask twice. In a few strokes we were in front of the ferry, a ladder was lowered over the edge of the dock and Beefy was pushing on my butt as hands reached out to haul me up over the edge.

I sprawled facedown on the dock and kissed it. Last time I kissed something around here it was the ground when I got off the horse. In my other life back in Chicago I mostly kissed chocolate cupcakes and occasionally other people.

“Dear God, Evie. Are you okay?” Mother panted, kneeling beside me, her face white against the darkness. She swiped my hair from my cheek. “Say something.”

“Crap.”

Mother laughed, but it sounded part sob. “You screamed and you were gone and this gentleman went in the water after you. What happened?”

“Pushed.”

“That’s what everyone says,” the wet, beefy guy grumped, towering over me and dripping. He draped a blanket across me, then jabbed his finger at the yellow line on the dock. “You crossed it; I remember your pink scarf. You’re not the first drunk fudgie to take a late-night swan dive. Lucky for you we’re running the cat tonight and it just slid right over the top.”

“Cat?” Mother asked, helping me to sit.

“Catamaran. Two-side hulls. A regular boat would have just run right over you. Go home, get dry, stay the heck off our docks and don’t get drunk.”

“Not drunk. Pushed.” And this was the second time since I’d gotten to this place. At least I now knew who pushed me the first time and why.

I wobbled to my feet with Mother’s help and I hugged Beefy, wet clothes and all. “Thank you for saving my ass.”

He gave me a sly grin. “Nice ass to save—but don’t do it again. You were lucky this time.”

Mother gave Beefy another hug, in case he didn’t get how appreciative we were. She put her arm around me, and we squished our way up the dock.

“I really was pushed,” I said to Mother.

“I know you were, dear. Your friend Donna was not on that dock tonight, meaning someone had plans for us, and not nice ones.”

Us?
I looked at the dripping pink scarf around my neck and thought of what the dockworker said about remembering me and remembering the scarf. The thing is, this wasn’t my scarf, it was Mother’s scarf; her obviously expensive lovely pink silk scarf that anyone would notice. A shiver snaked up my spine, going clear through to my bones, but I wasn’t cold now—I was gut-crampingly, heart-poundingly furious.

“You know how to get back to Rudy’s shop on your own, right? It’s just a block away.”

Eyes huge, Mother stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “What do you mean
on my own
; you can’t go someplace right now? You have to go home and get a hot shower and . . . and be safe. You’re soaking wet, you need to change, you’re freezing and you’re shaking. I’m shaking.”

“I need to talk to someone.”

“Evie.”

I kissed Mother on the cheek. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Ten, tops. Rudy keeps decent bourbon in the kitchen cabinet. Drink it.”