Hunting Sweetie Rose : A Mystery (9781429950879) (36 page)

He came by in fifteen minutes, but he was in his Porsche. “This way, you'll only have to drive home,” he said, “and if you're willing, I can show you the basement and the television.”

“Your basement? Does this have something to do with what you and Amanda were laughing about this morning, about you no longer going near television?”

“Amanda was laughing. Not me.”

He wouldn't say anything more. Ten minutes later, when I'd gotten down his basement stairs, I understood.

Ma Brumsky's playroom had undergone more transformation. Plush dark red drapes covered the walls, and black tiles had been installed on the ceiling. Combined with the gold-flecked red floor I'd seen the last time, the basement had been turned into an adolescent boy's idea of a strip club.

“Exactly what goes on down here, Leo?”

“My, whatever do you mean?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“The curtains, for starters.” I walked over to touch one of the red drapes. It was made of thick velvet. “These go a long way to tart up the place.”

“Ma's tastes keep evolving.”

He picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The television and DVD player at the far end of the room came to life, and a significantly implanted blond woman, wearing either a black vinyl dress or black paint, appeared on the screen.

“… drive your man crazy.” The blonde winked one heavily lashed eye. “Now, your first move.”

She moved to a silver pole and gently began to sway against it. Soft music grew louder as she began to twirl, ever so slowly.

Leo moved to the wall and reached behind the curtain. Off went the bright yellow ceiling lights, on came a soft red glow that brought out the textures in the folds of the bloodred velvet curtains.

“Yes,” the implanted woman on the video moaned. She reached behind her to undo a clasp. Definitely, it was a dress, and not paint.

“No,” I said, my mind on fire with the image of Ma Brumsky and her friends, clinging to their poles, and heaving in sync with the blonde on TV.

Leo froze the image on the screen before the dress fell away.

I hugged my arms across my chest, palms at my sides. My stitches could not afford a convulsion. “Leo, they're in their late seventies…”

“Some are in their early eighties,” he corrected.

I sidled up to hold on to a pole, for support. “They're widows.”

“Not Mrs. Roshiska. Her husband is still breathing. With a tank, granted, but he's still breathing.” He switched off the trick red lights, brought back the basic yellows.

Order was restored, at least until I noticed something half hidden under the base of the television.

“What's that?” I asked, of the spangled thing that peeked out.

He saw it, moved his foot quickly to push it all the way out of sight.

“They've got outfits, Leo?” My side was starting to pulse, as deep as Ma's exercise music.

“They quit quilting at the church. Now they make outfits.”

“These outfits? Is that what you were hearing hitting your door the night I called to ask you to find a town with a statue of an Indian chief? I thought you were going nuts, but you were hearing outfits, being cast off?”

“No. I was giving in to my fears. They were merely throwing towels. They sweat. Still, to be sure, I called Bernard—”

“Ma's friend's nephew, Bernard, the accountant? The genius that put you onto the idea of pole dancing?” I hugged my side. The stitches had been through enough.

“Bernard told me not to worry. Nothing's coming off.”

“Because they can't work the clasps?”

“They use Velcro—” He stopped when he saw my face. It must have been crinkling with the pain.

“Ma says putting on beads is good,” he hurried on. “Close sewing does wonders for finger dexterity, with the arthritis.”

I had to look away, anywhere but at Leo or the torso frozen on the television screen. And was saved by the sight of my watch. It was almost six o'clock.

“Turn the television to Channel 8,” I said, trying not to shout with relief.

He thumbed the remote, replacing the blonde with Channel 8's logo.

Jennifer Gale led the broadcast. “Vlodek Elstrom, onetime retainer of the missing Sweetie Fairbairn, was savagely beaten in Fairbairn's penthouse late yesterday. Sources say Elstrom was combing through Ms. Fairbairn's records in another attempt to determine what happened to the missing philanthropist when he was attacked. Officially, the police have offered no comment on the assault, but sources familiar with the investigation have revealed the possibility that Elstrom's attacker was caught on a video surveillance tape, and that an arrest may be forthcoming.”

Jenny then dropped the bomb. “In a related development, this station has learned that the woman known as Sweetie Fairbairn was never married to Silas Fairbairn, the well-known industrialist long thought to be her husband. This may be a huge setback for the many recipients of Ms. Fairbairn's philanthropy, because she might never have had the authority to disburse Mr. Fairbairn's millions. We'll have more on this developing story in the days to come.”

Boom. She signed off.

“Holy smokes,” Leo said.

“Jenny told me about it this morning.”

“Sweetie Fairbairn sure wasn't what she appeared to be.”

“Which leads me to an inspiration I've had.” Before I could continue, the front door slammed upstairs, and the sound of heavy footfalls, accompanied by one small set of squeaking walker wheels, began crossing the floor above our heads.

Leo's eyes went wide. “They keep coming earlier, for the vodka, then for the sewing. Let me buy you dinner, Dek. Steaks, seafood, anything.”

“Don't you want to hang around and learn to dance?”

“Hurry,” he said, “before they start the long trek, coming down here.” He moved ahead of me, to the stairs.

“I might want you to drive me back up to Hadlow,” I said, not moving.

He turned to look at me, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Now? We could leave now?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I've got to attend something in the morning.”

“Tomorrow afternoon is real good,” he said, going up the stairs, two at a time.

CHAPTER 66.

Plinnit called at two the next day. By then, we'd already crossed into Wisconsin. Leo always went fast, no matter what he was driving.

“I didn't figure you'd call, Lieutenant,” I said, loud enough to be heard above the clattering.

It was a lie. I most certainly was expecting his call.

“You on the road?” he asked.

“They're a mess.” He didn't have to know which road I was on.

“I'm at your, ah … residence.”

He must have gotten big news, if he wanted to jam it down my throat in person.

“I'm out, catching up on things,” I said.

He paused, waiting for me to say where I was. When I didn't, he said, “I should wait for you?”

“I'll be home late.”

“Say again? I can't hear, for the noise at your end.”

“I said I'll be home late.”

“If we're not in jail,” Leo mouthed, next to me.

“I'd hoped we could talk in person.” His disappointment sounded genuine.

“You stopped by with DNA results?”

“Only a partial profile, I'm afraid. Your hands were cleaned, of course, and there were nylon fibers under your nails as well, indicating you'd scratched at the carpet, removing more evidence.” His voice brightened. “Still, there was enough to analyze.”

He paused, savoring his moment. The pressure on him to find Sweetie Fairbairn must have increased tenfold since the news got out that her donating spree had been illegal. The recovery of millions of unlawfully disbursed dollars was at stake now, and Plinnit was destined to spend the rest of his career, and the years beyond, testifying in one claim trial after another.

Naturally enough, he'd want to share his pain. When the DNA results came back, he must have fairly flown out to the turret.

Except I had deprived him of satisfaction, once again. I wasn't at home.

“Who was the attacker, Lieutenant?”

“You already know.”

“Let me guess: You compared what you got from my hands with the samples from Sweetie Fairbairn's toothbrush or hairbrush?”

“Sweetie Fairbairn was the one who attacked you, and you damned well know it.”

Very carefully, I said nothing.

“She's playing a sick little game,” Plinnit continued. “She cut my officer and attacked you. My only question is why you won't say that.”

“You saw the hotel lobby video. The person who used the elevator key to the penthouse was not Sweetie Fairbairn.”

“That can-collecting runt must have let her in through the emergency door. My gut tells me you're in this somehow, Elstrom. I'll be in touch,” he said, hanging up.

“Plinnit's not satisfied,” I said to Leo.

“The DNA was as you expected: Sweetie Fairbairn was the one who attacked you?”

“The profile was incomplete, but that's where it points.”

“You might be right about this trip after all,” he said, “but I was wrong about taking this truck on the highway. I'm going deaf.”

I'd been particular about what we needed. It couldn't be checked for mileage or traced, by receipt, back to either of us. That ruled out a rental. It couldn't be recognizable as belonging to either of us. That ruled out his Porsche and my Jeep. Finally, it had to haul a couple of long-handled things, which didn't rule out anything, but when I finished explaining all this to Leo, he nodded, smiled, and got the same truck from the self-storage facility we'd used to get poles for Ma and her sister strippers. With its rust, gray primer, and faded blue paint, the loaner truck was remarkably unremarkable. It was perfect.

Except it was noisy. Its panels rattled; its transmission whined. The shovel and pick I'd thrown in the back only made the din worse.

“You sure we couldn't have flown, at least partway?” Leo asked. Again.

“What's the rush? We don't want to get there before dark.”

“We could have passed the time at a Burger King.”

“No plane tickets, no credit card charges, no surveillance videos, no records of any kind. If I'm wrong about what we'll find, we could be committing a serious crime.”

“Are you wrong?”

“No chance. Plinnit's partial DNA results just said I'm right.”

That point silenced him, and he let me sleep while he drove another hundred miles. I was still exhausted. I'd been up most of the night, imagining the impossible, at least until it became so glaringly obvious.

“We just passed a sign for a cheese house,” he said, when I woke up. “Next exit. Authentic Wisconsin cheddar. They might even put it on a hamburger.”

“No sit-down restaurants, no lingering anywhere. Have a Ho Ho.”

“We're low on gas, and I've hated Ho Hos my whole life.”

“Then get something when we gas up—but remember: Use cash only, and keep your hat low.”

“I should have brought my plastic glasses, the ones with the rubber nose.”

“Just remember your hat.”

“I suppose this all means there's no chance for the Would You? No fried jalapeño cheddar broccoli florets?”

“Are you nuts? That's the last place we can be spotted.”

“Second to last,” he corrected, referring to our ultimate destination.

“We'll be back in Rivertown by morning, and can eat like kings.”

He cleared his throat. “Unless we're in jail.”

“There's that,” I agreed. “You're sure Endora will send a text when she's verified the delivery?”

He checked his phone. “Nothing yet.”

He headed off the interstate, grunting as he bypassed the cheese house, and pulled into a busy-looking gas station. I slid down low on the seat as he stopped at the pump farthest from the door. He put on his glaucoma sunglasses, tied the chin strap on his straw hat, and got out. After filling the tank, he slouched in to pay for the gas. He was inside a long time.

When at last he came out, he was carrying a paper bag.

“What's in the bag?” I asked, when he got behind the wheel. It smelled wonderfully of things fried.

“I kept my hat low, like I had a scalp disease,” he said.

He started the truck and drove us back onto the interstate.

“What did you bring me to eat?” I asked, sitting up now that we were safely away.

He'd set the bag on the floor where I couldn't reach it.

“Three hamburgers for me. They look good.”

“How many for me?”

“I got you something even more special.” He set the bag on the seat between him and the video camera, reached in, and came out clutching a package of Ho Hos.

Then he laughed and laughed.

CHAPTER 67.

“I don't like hunting around in such darkness.” Leo crept the truck along the deserted two-lane road. There was nothing on either side except trees.

“It's not completely dark,” I said. “We have the chief.”

Winnemac's cement head, lit bright, hovered above the tree line like a bodiless apparition in a horror movie. He was at least two miles away, and his unblinking concrete eyes were aimed at the river, but I felt he was watching us, angry at what we were about to do.

“Endora texted, saying it's been delivered?” It was the fourth time I'd asked. I didn't like skulking along the dark, deserted road, either.

“One hundred and fifty dollars' worth of floral wreath,” he said.

“For sure, it's going to be the biggest one there. Not to mention the only one with a big blue and orange bow.” Chicago Bears colors, an additional stroke of my genius, had been on my mind since the fireworks at Sweetie's penthouse. “We'll find it in a heartbeat.”

“People don't set out such wreaths in the heat of July,” he groused, but that was from envy of my superb idea.