Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder (9 page)

“You better be sharing,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The grin that’d been playing at the corners of my mouth blossomed into a full-fledged smile. “Sure. Open wide, little boy.”

He complied and I delivered. His eye drifted shut again as he chewed slowly. Once he swallowed, he said, “I’m on the case of Krasski’s friends and enemies. Just taking a fiver.”

I nudged his calf with my tennis shoe. “I need you to do something else first.”

“What?”

“Come with me to visit the hippie queen of Minneapolis.”

This time both eyes popped open and he blinked, his eyelids not quite in sync with each other. “Come again?”

“We’re going to visit a friend of JT’s. Her name is Taffy Abernathy.”

“Give me another bite. And you’re a liar.”

I handed him the rest of the crumbly mess. “Nope. She and JT are pals from way back.”

Coop shoved the rest of the bread in his maw and chewed. He managed to say around the food, “Never heard of her.”

“Me either. But she knows a crap load about Krasski. Maybe why JT’s been so …” I trailed off with a grimace. “Why she never told me, never told any of us, about Krasski or the restraining order. Wait till you hear about Dimples.”

Coop swallowed and licked his lips. “Who the hell is Dimples?”

“JT’s grandfather.”

“Really.” He looked skeptically at me as he shut down the computer and slid it in his backpack. “Dimples? Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s not his real name, but it’s what he goes by. When he smiles, you can see the name is perfect. He’s looney as a drunken pigeon. Come on,” I said and proceeded to fill Coop in on Eddy and Bogey’s deep-sea dive and the rambling dirt we’d mined from Dimples. Once we were buckled in the truck and headed toward Taffy’s, I finished the story.

Coop took a sip from his now lukewarm caffeine-infused beverage. He said, “If she’s a hippie, maybe she has a little wacky tobaccy.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I told Eddy the same thing.”

One of the many things I loved about Coop was that he could make me laugh no matter what.

I pulled to the curb in front of a cream-colored bungalow that sat on a corner lot in Minneapolis’s St. Anthony neighborhood. A cedar plank fence enclosed the backyard. Reddish-colored ivy covered a good portion of the fence. The yard was full of orange and brown leaves, and it could use at least one more good raking before the snow flew.

We mounted a set of on-the-brink-of-crumbling cement stairs and I rung the doorbell. After a few seconds, Taffy swung the door opened. Now that I could see her from head to toe, she was even tinier than I thought. The peasant shirt hung loosely around her hips. Faded jeans and Birkenstocks completed the ensemble.

“Come on in,” Taffy said with a welcoming smile. “My husband took the kids out for ice cream so we could have a little peace and quiet.” She turned her attention to Coop. “And this is?”

“Nick Cooper,” I said. “A good friend of mine.” I added as an afterthought, “Of JT’s too. Eddy had things to take care of, so I hauled him along for the ride.”

“Well, come on in, then. Nice to make your acquaintance, Nick.”

They shook hands. “It’s just Coop,” he told her. Eddy and Coop’s on-again off-again girlfriend, Luz, were the only two people who dared call Coop by his given name.

“Coop it is then.” Taffy backed up to allow us entrance.

That’s when I noticed a puffy, snow-white something on the floor near her feet. It scrabbled backward as we stepped inside, nails making a scraping sound on the hard surface.

I did a double take. The thing had bright white feathers and a little red doodad on the top of its head. “Is that a …”

Taffy followed my gaze. “A chicken? Yup. We raise a lot of our own food. It’s Shay, right?”

I nodded, my eyes glued to the chicken.

She said, “Shay and Coop, meet Chelsea ‘I Really Am a Big Scare-
dy-Chicken’ Chicken.”

Chelsea had moved away from us and stood on two thin legs in the hall, bobbing her bright-red combed head and keeping a beady eye on Coop and me.

I wondered when Taffy said they raised a lot of their own stuff if she meant they snacked on Chelsea Chicken’s drumsticks when the time came or if they simply ate eggs she might produce. I hoped it was the latter.

Coop read my mind. With a look of fear, he asked, “Do you, um, you know, fry her up?”

At that, Taffy looked horrified. “Oh no. The kids would never go for that. Chelsea and a few other chickens that we keep out back live pretty happy lives here. If they stop laying eggs or don’t take to the city, we bring them to my sister’s farm in Wisconsin. There they can live in peace and quiet until they go to the big poultry coop in the sky.” Taffy laughed. “As long as I don’t wear Chelsea on my head when we cross into Wisconsin, we’re good. That’s a crazy, little-known Minnesota law that’s still on the books.”

Coop sighed. “That’s the kind of life I want, minus the poultry coop in the sky.”

We followed Taffy into the living room. While it was evident that kids lived here by the scattering of toys across the floor, the place was actually pretty neat. It didn’t smell like a chicken coop, either. The room held a bright blue couch, two contrasting yellow recliners, a coffee table made out of weathered wood, and a large hutch displaying family pictures filled the room. The walls were covered with framed—and what looked to be original—movie posters of the four Herbie the Love Bug films.

Coop and I settled on the couch. Taffy sat across from us on the edge of one of the recliners.

Chelsea bobbed over and, with a couple of soft clucks, perched smack-dab on top of Taffy’s right shoe. Taffy looked at the blob on her foot with affection. “She likes my feet for some reason. Even takes a ride around once in awhile.”

I glanced past the arm of the couch. Lying in a polished log-frame pet hammock was the strangest-looking dog I’d ever laid eyes on.

Taffy said, “That’s Hemingway. He’s our pet pygmy goat. We make our own goat cheese, yogurt, butter, that kind of thing. Even lotion. We do things a little differently in this house. We try to turn established rituals upside down. Take married names, for one.”

“Ah,” I said, “I was right. Abernathy is your maiden name, but your kid answered the phone Abernathy residence. Did your husband …”

Taffy grinned. “He took my name instead of me taking his. We thought it would be a good lesson for the kids that nothing has to be set in stone.”

Coop said, “That’s actually a good idea. I’m all for shaking up the establishment.”

At that moment, Hemingway swung his head toward Taffy and gave a little bleat. I figured this was going to be a doozy of a story, regardless what we found out about JT and Krasski. That thought brought me back to the reality of why we were there. A fist of distress gave my heart a fast squeeze as I wondered what JT was going through right now. Scared and lonely, for sure. Those emotions mirrored themselves inside me. I hoped to hell they were keeping her safe in the clink.

“So,” Taffy’s voice brought me back, “You wanted to see my Krasski souvenir book.” Her tone took on a sarcastic edge. She hefted a dog-eared, wire-bound notebook that had newspaper clippings hanging out from three sides off the coffee table and plopped it on her lap. “What exactly are you looking for?”

How much to tell her? She’d been through quite a bit with JT. I decided to let it fly. “JT’s in jail, Taffy.”

“In jail? As in, inside a jail cell in jail?” Any vestiges of humor melted off her now-pale face.

I nodded. “We were at the Renaissance Festival yesterday, and, well, one thing led to another. I kind of stumbled on a dead body in one of the privies. Then they arrested JT.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Taffy said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks. “A dead body in one of the Porta Potties?”

I nodded.

She asked, “What did they arrest her for?”

I closed my eyes. “The murder of Russell Krasski.”

The next few moments were filled with dead silence. Not even Hemingway or Chelsea made a peep. The ticking of a clock on top of the hutch sounded unnaturally loud.

Finally Taffy cleared her throat and said hoarsely, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and relief, “The bastard’s dead.” After a few seconds, she refocused on me with narrowed eyes. “What exactly happened?”

I explained, ending with the chat that Eddy and I had with Dimples that led us to her.

“Wow. What a mess.” Taffy cupped a hand over her mouth and stared off in the distance.

Coop said, “Yeah, it’s a cluster. But,” he patted my leg, “don’t you worry. We’ll spring JT.” I wasn’t sure if he was comforting Taffy or me.

I said, “What we’d like to do is take a look in your scrapbook and see if we can figure out who else would’ve liked to see Krasski hung out to dry.”

Taffy patted the book and choked on a derisive laugh. “There’s plenty of suspects in here, I’m sure. But before you start your hunt, I have a question.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Did JT ever mention communion wine to you?” Taffy peered first at Coop and then at me.

Communion wine? I shot Coop a puzzled glance. What could that have to do with what was going on?

“No, she didn’t,” I said. To my knowledge, JT wasn’t the least bit religious. Other than comparing notes on our feelings regarding organized religion when we first hooked up, and learning that we both loved the Christmas season anyway, church and all that went with it wasn’t part of our lives.

I steeled myself for more new revelations in the continued shakeup of my world.

Before Taffy had a chance to launch into it, Hemingway the Pygmy goat chose that particular moment to rouse himself. He let out a cross between a
bleat
and a
baa
, somehow bounced out of the hammock, and landed on his cloven hooves with a thud. He rocketed himself straight up in the air and then launched his stumpy body toward Taffy. Chelsea Chicken let out a startled squawk and tumbled off Taffy’s foot. She righted herself, and the chase was on. Chelsea charged out of the room, wings flapping, with Hemingway on her three-toed heels, white feathers swirling in their wake.

In a matter of seconds, they came roaring back, this time with Hemingway in the lead bleating bloody murder. Chelsea
bawk, bawk, bawked
sharply, flapping her stumpy wings hard and leaping up and pecking Hemingway’s butt every few steps. They raced through the room and out the opposite door, the racket fading and then disappearing altogether.

“Sorry about that,” Taffy said as she tried to stifle a strained laugh. “That’s their after-wake-up exercise routine. They’re outside now.”

Coop clapped a hand to his chest. “Holy macaroni. How’d they get out?”

“My highly intelligent, yet highly procrastination-prone husband installed a one-way pet gate in the back door. It allows the menagerie to go outside but not come back in unless we’re here to supervise.”

I thought we had it bad with the dogs.

Taffy settled back in the chair. “So where was I?” Then she leaned forward again. “Jeez. I’m a terrible hostess. The story is kind of involved. Can I get either of you something to drink? Or snack on? Iced tea? Water? Trail mix?”

I said, “Water, if you don’t mind.”

Taffy looked expectantly at Coop.

“Iced tea would be great. Thanks, Taffy.”

“Groovy gravy. Should’ve thought to ask sooner.” She stood up and headed out the same doorway that Chelsea and Hemingway had fled through.

After she’d cleared the room, Coop leaned toward me. “What the hell’s up with communion wine?”

“No idea,” I whispered. “How about living with a chicken and a goat in your house? Gives a whole new meaning to fighting like dogs and cats.”

“No shit.”

Taffy returned, cutting off our brief conversation. In one hand she held two sturdy, blue-gray clay mugs by the handles. They looked familiar. In her other hand she had a glass of clear liquid. She handed me the glass, set one of the mugs on an end table by her chair, and gave the other to Coop.

Coop held up the mug and studied it. There was a raised seal on one side, and it looked like it’d been thrown on a potter’s wheel. The vessels were hourglass shaped. He said, “These are great, Taffy. Are they from this year’s Renaissance?”

“We go every year.”

I snapped mental fingers. That’s where I’d seen the mugs. As JT and I threaded our way through what little we managed to see of the Festival before all hell broke loose, I’d seen a number of freestanding carts selling Ren Fest shirts and medieval-looking mugs in various shapes.

Taffy settled back into her chair with a sigh. “Okay. I’m not going to go into too much detail, because half of this is JT’s story to tell. But maybe I can share enough to give you a sense of what drives her where Krasski is concerned.”

I was pretty sure I was in the midst of having an out-of-body experience. The revelations about JT just kept rolling in, whether I wanted them to or not. I didn’t realize I’d begun to bounce my knee more and more frantically until Coop clamped a large hand on my leg to still it.

Taffy said, “As kids, JT and I were close. Best friends, almost blood sisters if you count the bloody scrapes we pressed together. We lived two houses apart and went to the same school and St. Joe’s Catholic church.” The word
church
came out in a semi-snarl. “We were ornery little monsters. Got into plenty of dumb trouble. We pulled pranks, got ourselves into places and situations we shouldn’t have been in. Swiped dime-store stuff from Woolworth’s. That kind of thing.”

Whoa. JT hardly ever talked about her past, and even more rarely about her childhood. The JT I knew was straight-laced. She tried to follow most of the rules most of the time. When she did let go, it was a real leap of faith on her part, and it didn’t happen often. It didn’t mean that JT was cold or distant, but she tended to carefully calculate the things she said and did. Doing something on a whim without a plan was a real challenge. It was hard to imagine my girlfriend being a normal, pain-in-the-ass kid.