Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder (8 page)

I knew it was going to sound ridiculous, but it had to be done. “Are you Dimples Bordeaux?”

“What’s it to ya?” he growled.

The tone of his voice startled Dawg, who squeaked and pressed himself hard against my leg. He was still skittish in certain situations. I put a calming hand on his head.

Eddy said, “We want to ask you some questions about your grand-
daughter.”

“What’s that? Speak up, for Chrissake.”

Bogey crept closer to Dimples, who now floated parallel to the cement side of the pool. Blue veins showed through the thin skin on the back of the hand that gripped the edge of the pool. Eddy held Bogey back and planted her feet wide in order to maintain control.

I yelled, “JT. We want to talk to you about JT.”

At the sound of his granddaughter’s name, the man broke into a wide smile. It was then I realized exactly why people called him Dimples. He had more divots in his cheeks than a golf course for beginners. JT’s chin was an exact replica of his—square and well-defined with an adorable dent in the center.

“Where’s that JT? She here?” He peered around.

“No, she’s not,” Eddy said loudly and took a step toward Dimples. That was all it took to get Bogey in sniffing range of the pool’s edge. He pulled Eddy another step forward, stretched his neck out over the floatie, and tried to plant his schnoz in the middle of Mr. Bordeaux’s swim trunks.

“BOGEY!” Eddy yelled as she tried to hold him back.

The application of a large dog nose to the groin startled Dimples, and he shoved away from the pool edge with a howl.

Bogey did his best to stay with his quarry. He leaped into the air like an obese gazelle, leash stretching taut as he reached its limit. He hit the water with a resounding splat, barely missing landing square atop Dimples. His weight pulled Eddy off balance, literally dragging her to the pool’s edge. I dropped Dawg’s leash and made a frantic grab for Eddy, missing her by a fraction of an inch. She toppled, slow motion, arms windmilling, into the pool.

Something in me snapped. The giggles started even before Eddy’d spluttered back to the surface.

Bogey paddled desperately around trying to get a fix on his target.

Dawg quivered, just waiting for me to give him the high sign that he could join the rest of his pack in the water. What an irresistible game it must have looked to him.

My giggle grew into a howl of hysterical laughter.

Eddy shot me a dirty look as she splashed around searching for Bogey’s leash. “Shay! Don’t just stand there,” she spluttered. “Do something!”

She finally got a grip on the leash and gained a foothold. She grumbled under her breath and struggled toward the cement steps at the end of the pool. Bogey paddled along behind her.

By now the aerobics class had ground to a halt, and all of the colorful swim caps were pointed in our direction. Eight pairs of rheumy eyes stared at us with intense interest, plus those of the two gentlemen on the blue floaties.

Dimples’s own eyes were wide as silver dollars, and a look of am-
used delight was firmly planted on his face. He said, “Damn, that was worth a nudge in the nuts.”

With effort, I finally got a tentative hold on myself and hustled over to give Eddy a hand from the water. I grabbed Bogey’s leash as Eddy sloshed up the stairs like a diminutive sea monster rising from the ocean depths. The hem and sleeves of her sweater were stretched far below where they belonged. She looked like a little kid trying on her dad’s clothes! That thought sent me into another paroxysm of hilarity as Dawg and I stepped aside to let Eddy and Bogey onto the deck.

Bogey scrambled from the water and decided it was time to excise the pool from his body. He shook and sprayed everything within a fifteen-foot radius, including me.

Streaming rivulets of water spread in a growing puddle at Eddy’s feet. “Well,” she said, trying to look as dignified as she could under the circumstances, “we better do what we came here to do.”

Dimples skirted Eddy and wrestled his floatie to the deck.

“You need some goddamn towels,” he told Eddy.

Eddy grumbled something under her breath.

I said, “Oh, Eddy, I’m so—” I lost it again as hysterical giggles bubbled up from my core like lava.

Dimples returned with an armful of blindingly white towels and held two out to Eddy and one to me. “Here ya go, little ladies.” Then he turned on me and said, “She gonna kill you for laughing?”

I swallowed another guffaw that threatened to burst forth. “She just might.”

He said, “Well, come on then. Let’s get things figured out while you’re still breathing and you tell me why my JT isn’t here.”

Ten minutes later, we were seated in wobbly plastic chairs at one of the round tables next to the pool, the umbrella doing its job to protect us from those harsh, dangerous rays from above.

Eddy was bundled up in a fluffy white robe while her clothes tumbled in a huge dryer just off the pool deck.

Dimples had pulled on a robe of his own, and black horn-rimmed glasses now perched on his nose, making his cloudy eyes appear larger than they were.

Dawg sat by my leg, still not sure he liked what was going on. Bogey stretched out on his side, exhausted from his escapade.

Dimples leaned forward and propped his elbows on his bony knees. “So whaddya want?”

Eddy said, “Mr. Bordeaux, can I call you Dimples?”

“Sure you can. Everyone else does,” Dimples said as he continued to stare at me. Then he snapped his fingers. “Why, that’s it! You’re Taffy, aren’t you?”

I frowned. “No sir, I’m not Taffy. My name is Shay—”

“Ah yes, Taffy Abernathy. I remember now.”

Just let it go and cut to the chase, Shay
. I said, “I’m hoping you can tell us a little about JT.”

“Taffy, you went to school with JT. Got homesick at bible camp with her. Spent all your damn time together. What’s wrong with your memory?” He did the squinty thing again. “Oh no, you aren’t going senile already, are you?”

Who the hell was Taffy? I exchanged a confused look with Eddy.

“No, sir, I met JT a year or two—”

“You damn kids,” Dimples said, “You forget everything.”

“Sir,” I said, “I’m not Taffy. My name is Shay O’Han—”

He waved me off. “Pshaw, don’t you go trying to fool an old geezer. The kids used to tease you,” his voice pitched up into singsong range. “Taffy, Taffy, Abernathy. Taffy, Taffy, Abernathy.”

Oh dear God, that poor girl. “No, I didn’t know JT—”

Dimples continued right on. “You two used to get in some mighty hot water. I remember the time JT got a hold of my hundred-proof hooch and shared it with you.” He hee-hawed. “That was bad news. So, Taffy, what are you up to these days, hey?” He reached out and thwacked my leg. “You got any little Tootsie Rolls underfoot?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Eddy came to my rescue. “You wouldn’t know where Taffy lives, do you?”

Dimples shot Eddy a cantankerous look. “Ask her yourself. She’s sitting right here.” He stabbed a crooked finger at me.

Eddy said, “Dimples, we’re needing to find out what happened between JT and one of the criminals she’s had troubles with.”

I said, “Do you remember the Krasski incident, Mr. Bordeaux?”

A definitive flash of recognition lit up his face. “Krasski? What’s that a-hole done to my JT now?”

Before either Eddy or I could say anything else, he said, “Taffy, you’re the one who showed me that album you put together about Krasski. Why are you asking me about it? And it was all over the news. I suppose you kids don’t watch the news anymore. Do you even know how to read?”

I stiffened. Taffy had an album on Krasski? Why? And how on earth could I have missed the papers and apparently the television blaring JT’s fall from grace? I knew I tended to ignore current events, but this was a little beyond that.

Eddy’s eyes met mine, and she widened them at me. Taffy was going to get a visit, very soon. And I was going to start keeping tabs on the evening news.

“So tell me, Taffy, do you still keep track of everything like you used to? You were the class historian, if I remember rightly. Waste of time in my opinion.”

“About Krasski,” I said, hoping to right this perilously tipping Q&A, “did JT—”

“
JT did nothing wrong.” He stuck a finger in a nostril, wiggled it around, pulled it out and flicked something off his fingertip. Luckily not in my direction. I tried to keep my face from scrunching up in horror, and I saw that Eddy’s expression mirrored my own. This interview needed to end soon.

Before I could think of something to say that didn’t include boogers, Dimples said, “So Peaches, did you find a cop job yet?”

I blinked and had to process for a second before I realized he was now on an entirely different track. “My name isn’t Peaches, either, Mr. Bordeaux.”

“Oh. That’s right, you’re Taffy. The old memory banks are sometimes a little slow.” He thunked his forehead with a knuckle.

“No, I’m—never mind. Who’s Peaches?” What was with these edible names?

“Peaches Reker. JT went to the academy with you, er, her. Thick as thieves, they were.” Dimples scanned the area. “Where is that girl, my JT?”

Holy cow, the memory banks weren’t
slow
, they’d completely shut down. I said gently, “She’s not here.”

“Well then, I guess it’s just you and me, and,” he glanced at Eddy, “that cute little thing over there. She’s looking a little soggy.” He gave Eddy an exaggerated wink. “You know, for years we had Crown Vic squad cars. Then the a-holes downtown got Chevys. Crappiest cars ever. We want the Crown Vics back.”

I peered at Dimples in confusion. Eddy had that pinched, semi-constipated look on her face that usually meant she was dealing with a nut job. Or a stubborn dog.

One more time. I would try one more time. “Mr. Bordeaux, can we talk about JT?”

“Sure. Where is she? Can you make that good pineapple upside-
down cake now?”

Oh boy. This little heart-to-heart was over.

Eddy realized we were done too. She stood. “Thank you for all your help, Dimples. I’ll just go gather my clothes.” She traipsed off to the laundry room, leaving me alone with daft, delirious Dimples.

I smiled at him. “Thanks for talking with us, Mr. Bordeaux.”

“Hell, Taffy, this was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Did I tell ya about what those damn pencil pushers downtown did? Bastards got rid of our Crown Victoria squad cars …”

eight

We regrouped at the
truck. Eddy’s clothes were mostly dry, but her sweater had shrunk so much the sleeves now ended well above her wrists. If she had a belly button piercing, it would’ve been exposed.

For the dogs, I poured water in two ingenious collapsible bowls I’d found at Petco. They happily lapped the liquid up and then scrambled to the truck. Eddy bundled Bogey into the extended back of the cab behind her seat and climbed in. I tucked the bowls away and dispatched Dawg to his spot behind me.

“Well,” Eddy said, “That was enlightening.” She sat with her legs out, wiggling bare toes as she held her soggy red Converse high-tops to the vents in a futile effort to help them dry.

“No shit. I’m going to call you Splash from now on.”

“Watch your mouth, child,” Eddy grumbled, then she threw a still damp sock at me.

“You have to admit that was classic. I so wish I could’ve gotten it on camera. Or video. That would’ve been even better.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Rub it in. This old lady could have died, and you’d have just laughed your fool butt off.” Eddy’s voice sounded stern, but I could see by the way the corners of her mouth curled up that she found the entire incident amusing as well.

“So,” I said. “What do you think about Taffy Abernathy?”

“I think we should give her a nice little Sunday afternoon visit. Don’t you?”

“Yeah. But we need to find out where she lives first.” I pulled out my phone and wagged it at her. “Don’t you just wish you had a smartphone, Eddy?”

“I’ll take the dumb one that’s hooked into my telephone line back home, thank you very much.”

Smartphones and dumb phones were a running joke between us. Eddy hated cell phones and refused to own one. Sometimes that made life more than a little complicated.

I hit Rocky’s favorite site to search for Taffy Abernathy, since that was surely a nickname. Curiously, two Taffy Abernathy’s appeared in my search. One was in Alabama, and the other had a Minneapolis network listed, as well as a phone number. I keyed in the numbers and waited for the connection to do its thing.

Three rings later, a high-pitched voice answered. “Abernathy residence.”

I wasn’t sure if I had a squeaky adult or a young kid on the other end. “Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Taffy Abernathy.” I wondered if she hadn’t married since she was still using her original last name.

“She’s not here right now.”

From the inflection, I figured I was talking to a kid. “Do you know when she’ll be home?”

There was a long pause, and I could hear Dawg’s soft snuffing behind me. “Are you there?” I asked.

“She’s at the suppository.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it for just a second. Did I have a mini Dimples on the line? “She’s where?”

“DADDY!” the voice shrieked in my ear. I jerked the phone away from my head again.

Bogey woofed at the vocal echo that banged through the cab. The kid had a set of lungs on him. Or her. I cautiously put the phone back to my ear. Through the ringing in my head I heard scraping sounds followed by a sharp thud. Then a man’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Hi,” I said and shifted in my seat. I needed to regain my brain, fast. “I’m organizing the class reunion from—” Where the hell did JT go to school? St. Joseph Academy! “From St. Joseph’s, and I’m trying to get a hold of Taffy.”

“She’s working now, but she’ll be home later.” The man sounded distracted. I could hear the TV in the background and the sharp blast of a whistle. Football, probably. Then at almost the same time, something came across the line that sounded like a goat bleating. The kid was probably doing his kid thing and making irritating noises. Another reason not to have any.

I said, “I keep losing track of Taffy. Where is she working these days?”

“She’s at the Central Minnesota Cryogenic Depository.”

“Cryogenics? Is that a—”

“Yup. Sperm bank.”

Oh my. “They’re open on a Sunday?”

The man laughed. It was a big, booming, friendly sound. “Oh yeah. Donation and ovulation don’t stop for the weekend.”

“No, I don’t suppose. Thanks for the info. I’ll catch her later.”

We disconnected.

“Well,” Eddy said. “Where is she? Let’s go.”

“She’s at the suppository.”

Eddy did a double take. “What?”

I chortled. “The suppository.”

“What are you talkin’ ’bout, child?”

Keeping a straight face was a losing battle. I choked out, “She works at,” I struggled for control, “the sperm depository.”

“Oh, really.” After a couple of beats she said, “Well, what are we waiting for? It’s off to the suppository.”

I fell apart again.

The Central Minnesota Cryogenic Depository was located in Friendly Fridley, just south of Interstate 694 in a 1970s-era three-story office building that had seen better days. I pulled into the parking lot, which was in dire need of a coat of tar.

The air temp was cool enough to comfortably leave the dogs in the car, so we bid them adieu and strolled inside. A directory listed the cryogenics office on the third floor.

We rode the elevator up and entered a cozy, whimsically decorated waiting room. Giraffes, lions, and gazelles chased each other over a savannah painted on the walls. Brown carpet covered the floor, muffling the footsteps of the clientele. Chairs ringed the room. Two women appeared to be reading magazines. I wondered if the chicks were there for implantation or whatever it was that happened when one patronized a place like this.

The receptionist looked up when we’d opened the door. A curious, bemused smile played on her lips as she took in Eddy’s shrunken sweater and generally damp appearance. The woman screamed hippie. Long, straight blond hair parted down the middle was braided on either side of her head. A leather cord was tied headband-style around her forehead, keeping wisps of loose hair out of her eyes. Her face was heart-shaped, and she had pouty lips. She wore a kelly green, poofy-sleeved peasant shirt with multicolored flowers embroidered on the chest.

I sniffed the air, half expecting to smell incense and pot.

She asked, “What can I do for you?”

Eddy said, “We’re looking for Taffy Abernathy.”

The woman’s forehead crinkled. “I’m Kathy Abernathy. Still known to friends and family as Taffy.”

Bingo! I barely restrained myself from breaking into a jig.

I said, “Kathy—or Taffy?”

She laughed pleasantly. “Oh, if you know me already as Taffy, just call me that.”

I smiled. “Well, Taffy, do you know JT Bordeaux?”

She laced her fingers together, rested them on the desk, and leaned forward. “I do.” Then a look of alarm hit her, and her eyes got big. “Nothing’s hap—”

“She’s okay,” I hastened to assure her. “Well, not exactly okay, but …” I trailed off. “Anyway, do you remember JT being involved with Russell Krasski?”

Taffy stared at us for a good three breaths. Then she said in a far more businesslike tone of voice, “Why are you asking?”

Eddy said, “JT’s in a bit of hot water, and we’re”—Eddy scrunched her face as she searched for the right descriptor—“trying to pluck her out of it.”

Taffy frowned. “Are you cops?”

“No,” I said. “Nope, we definitely are not the police.”

She had to know JT was gay. Didn’t she? Well, she was going to now if she didn’t already. A quick breath in and I said, “I’m JT’s partner, the name’s Shay O’Hanlon.” I jabbed a thumb at Eddy. “This is a close friend of ours, Eddy Quartermaine.”

Taffy’s eyes widened and she brightened. “Oh. Hey. I wondered if JT settled down. I haven’t heard from her in, oh—maybe a year or more.” She stood and looked me up and down. That’s when I realized Taffy was not only fine-boned, but she was short. Like, shorter-than-Eddy short.

With a gleam in her eye, she said, “You devil, you. You finally took the good detective off the market.”

“She sure did,” Eddy said and poked me in the shoulder. “Now they’re like two little old ladies, spending their evenings in, no more bar-hopping and carousing.”

Like I was ever a carouser. Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly true. JT’s arrival in my life had brought about a number of positive changes that I hadn’t anticipated, and quiet evenings in were one of them. I said, “Can we get back to Krasski?”

“Sure.” Taffy stared expectantly at us.

Might as well ask flat out. “Did you put together some kind of album about what happened between Krasski and JT?”

Now her brow wrinkled again, the crease between her nose deepening. “I did, but how in the world do you know about that?”

“Dimples,” Eddy said.

“Ah.” Taffy nodded once. “JT’s grandpa.”

Someone in the depths of the office yelled, “Kathy, we need you for a minute.”

“Be right there,” she called back, and then faced us again. “How about you meet me at my house in”—she glanced at her watch, which was secured to her wrist with a two-inch-wide purple leather band—“an hour? I’m off about one, and that’ll give me time to get home and sort things out.”

She wrote her address on the back of one of the cryogenic doc’s business cards and handed it to me. I reached for it, but she yanked it from my grasp just as my fingers closed around it. “By the way, how did you find me here?”

I grinned. “I talked to someone at your house who told me you worked at a suppository. Then your hubby filled in the rest.”

Taffy rolled her eyes and handed the card over.

“Shay,” Eddy said after we once again settled ourselves in the truck. “I suppose I should get back and check on the old ladies. Drop me at home before you catch up with Taffy, will you?”

“No problem.” I shifted into Reverse and glanced at the two pooches as I backed out of the parking spot. Dawg was sprawled across the narrow bench seat and Bogey had somehow wedged himself on the floor between the front and back seats. “Maybe Coop’s done, and he can come. Especially if Ms. Taffy is a true-to-life hippie and is growing some Maui Wowie in her house.”

Eddy cut me a look. “Maui Wowie?”

“Pot, Eddy. Marijuana.”

Eddy raised her lip in distaste and refocused her eyes on the windshield. “You kids.”

It was an uneventful twenty-minute ride home. I pulled up to the curb half a block from the Hole, and we scrambled from the cramped confines of the pickup.

Dawg and Bogey did their business, and then we descended on the Hole. I headed for the counter, which was surprisingly quiet for the number of customers seated in the café. Eddy scooted off to check on her Mahjongg-playing flock.

Kate had a rag wrapped around the milk steamer and was working off the residue. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said.

“Where’s Anna?”

“This is the first breather we’ve had all morning. I sent her in back with some lunch.”

I cocked a brow. “This is the third Sunday it’s been this way. You think we need more help?”

Kate lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s busy because it’s cooling off and people want to cozy up or what.” Her eyes scanned the place. “Feels good, though, even if it’s temporary. Here.” She handed me a plate with a crumbled slice of chocolate chip banana bread that had been sitting on the back counter. I accepted it with glee.

It sure did feel good that the economy was at least moving in the right direction. The last couple of years were rough on everyone, particularly on small businesses. If we hadn’t had Eddy’s support and willingness to forgo our monthly rent once in awhile, we would have been in real trouble. It felt damn good to be in a financial upswing, no matter how tentative it may be.

“Shay O’Hanlon!” Rocky zoomed through the doorway leading to the back room. “Did you know Anna is going to make virtual reality worlds for burn victims to escape to when they are being treated for their injuries? They have to go through terrible treatments. Daily wound cleaning to remove dead tissue. Do you know how bad that hurts, Shay O’Hanlon?”

Before I had a chance to answer with a resounding no, Rocky foraged full steam ahead. “I do not know either. But it has to be very, very bad. More than four hundred fifty thousand people are burned every year, usually at home.” His eyes got real big. “Almost four thousand of those people die. Die dead, Shay O’Hanlon. Deceased. Expired. Croaked.”

Ouch.

Before Rocky had a chance to wind himself into a burn facts statistical frenzy, I asked, “Where’s Coop, Rocky?”

He pointed over to one of the groupings of easy chairs. Now that I looked closer, I caught sight of the top of Coop’s head peeking over the back of a chair that faced away from the counter. After exchanging a few more morbid comments with Kate and Rocky, I headed toward Coop.

The four chairs that circled a large, low coffee table were all occupied. I gingerly set my items on the round tabletop and studied my best friend. He was out like a light. The Duluth gig, playing phone book delivery boy, and helping me sneak into the cop shop must’ve really done a number on him. One hand rested on the edge of an open notebook computer that was balanced precariously on his lap. His other arm hung over the side of the chair, fingertips dangling a breath away from a to-go cup of coffee that rested on the floor.

I stepped over his sizable feet and perched on the table’s edge.

He didn’t stir.

I picked up my bread and took a couple bites. The blissful burst made my taste buds do backflips. I chomped happily and considered my snoozing pal. Coop would never win awards for fashion sense. He wore a holey, button-down sweater over a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt. Blue jeans with fraying cuffs covered the top of well-worn, brown work boots.

I crumbled off another piece of bread and leaned forward, holding it under Coop’s nose. His nostrils twitched. Then he inhaled deeply. I waved the chunk a little. This time he cracked an eye and peered blearily at me.