Authors: Nancy Martin
“Of course not. She’s perfect. The most perfect example of her kind I ever found. I want to know she’s safe, that’s all.” The professor knocked his fist on the windowsill for emphasis. “I want to be sure she’s in good hands.”
“Was Clarice taking care of her?”
He swung on me, and his face darkened. “Clarice was supposed to be looking after Rhonda. But for years she hasn’t let me see her. Not even a visit! But I—I—”
He lost his train of thought.
“You wanted Clarice to keep Rhonda safe. But you were worried, weren’t you?”
The professor gave me a steady examination, as if trying to figure out if I was someone to be trusted. “I thought she was safe. Should I be worried now? What has Clarice done to her?”
“What do you think Clarice might have done?”
“That’s the whole point!” He stalked across the floor and flapped his arms peevishly. “How am I supposed to know about Rhonda when I’m locked up here all the time?”
“Did you go looking for her a couple of nights back? The night you went to your house? You were looking for Rhonda there?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You left this place and went to see Clarice.”
“Clarice,” he announced suddenly, “can’t be trusted.”
“Why not?”
“She’s sneaky. Always looking for money. Always more money! She has expenses, she says. Who could have that many expenses?”
A woman trying to finance two families could have a lot of expenses, I thought. Especially if one family included a skater who trained extensively and traveled all over the country. And who knew how much it cost to finance a budding fashion designer?
But I asked, “She tries to get money from you to pay her expenses?”
“I don’t have any money!” The professor leaned so close that I could smell the harsh hospital soap on him. His attention wavered, and he lost the thread of conversation. “What’s in the box?”
“Checkers. Want to play?”
“Now?” I had startled him. “Here? With you?”
“Why not?”
I opened the box and unfolded the board on the low table in front of the sofa. He grabbed the package of game pieces and organized them on the red and black squares. Watching him, I wondered how his brain worked these days. He obviously knew how to play the game, and he was eager to start. But more recent events confounded him.
We played a game, and he cleaned my clock.
In five minutes, he’d taken all my pieces and jumped the last one in the center of the board.
“Damn,” I said. “You’re good.”
“You let me win. It’s very insulting to be patronized.”
“I did not let you win!”
“No? Let’s play again.”
This time, he whipped my ass in under three minutes.
“You’re not even trying,” he complained. “Where’s your strategy?”
“Strategy? In checkers?”
“Young lady, you’re a sad excuse for an intellect. Set up the board again. There now, see? You’re going straight up the middle again. That’s just asking to be decimated. Take the side route instead, where your piece is protected. Get it? Then move this piece, so. Your goal is to get as many pieces crowned as possible, so sacrifice this one—yes—to escape and there—! Well done. The escape tactic is a good one. It requires planning, sacrifice, a diversion, and voilà! Now, let’s try a basic pursuit, and I’ll show you how to trigger a trap.”
The game absorbed me, and it wasn’t until he’d guided me through a slightly less humiliating defeat that I realized how the game invigorated Crabtree. He seemed sharp and engaged. His eyes gleamed, and when he instructed me, his face took on more animation than before.
“I get it,” I said. “There’s skill involved.”
“Not just skill, but planning and strategy. And a predatory attitude. My grandson, for example, is especially gifted at the game. He should be playing chess by now, but he likes the swiftness of checkers.”
“Richie,” I said. “I met him.”
Professor Crabtree smiled. “He’s a sharp one, isn’t he?”
“What about Sugar? Sherelle?”
The old man’s confidence wavered. “Who?”
“The ice-skater.”
He bent his head over the board and began to gather up the pieces. “I don’t know any ice-skaters. Richie had a skateboard for a while. I wish he was more interested in science.”
I was sorry to see Professor Crabtree’s confidence fade again. But it gave me an opening. I leaned forward. “What happened to your wife, Professor?”
His face froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay. I’m not trying to trick you. I’m just wondering about your wife’s murder.”
“I don’t like to be tricked.”
“Me neither. I hate it, in fact.” I smiled at him and decided I couldn’t ask if he’d had any part in her death. “Okay, here’s an easy one for you. How did you get past all the locked doors and the staff, Professor?”
He slanted a grin up at me, his wits returned. “I pulled the fire alarm. It’s still the surest way to get out of a building.”
17
From Dutch, Sister Bob learned the name of his road-ragey son. Tony Campisano. “He’s been on a cruise since Sunday.”
“A cruise? Isn’t he on probation?”
“I don’t know. Dutch didn’t mention that. He lost his train of thought. We had a cigarette after that,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t remember his own name, let alone any information that you might want.”
“Wait a second. Nuns smoke?”
“Why not?”
“Do you know how much cigarette smoke I blew out of bathroom windows so the nuns wouldn’t catch me?”
“And aren’t you smarter for having figured out how to do that? We improved your education, Roxana.”
“It’s a damn sneaky way to educate,” I grumbled.
After dropping off Sister Bob at Loretta’s house and declining her invitation to come inside to watch
General Hospital
, I sat in the truck for a few minutes and thought about what to do next.
I figured Clarice had been making extra cash by selling off bits and pieces of Rhonda. And now that Clarice was dead, it looked as if Husband Numero Uno, Eckelstine, was doing the same thing. I was willing to bet he’d had a bone in his backpack early this morning.
I checked my cell phone and found Stony’s number.
He picked up after three rings, sounding sleepy. The boss of Rusted Roses rarely got out of bed before midafternoon.
“Hey, Roxy,” he said on a yawn. “Did you listen to the tapes I sent you? Know the harmonies yet?”
“Yeah, I’m almost finished,” I said. “Stony, is this for real? I mean, are we really gonna work with Dooce?”
I heard the snap of a lighter, and Stony drew a long breath. Probably his first weed of the day. Impatiently, I waited while he held the smoke in his lungs.
Finally, he said, “Yeah, babe, it’s a sure thing. He’s an old buddy of mine. You in?”
Stony had always claimed to be pals with Dooce, but none of us ever believed him. “Sure. We going to get a chance to rehearse with him before the concert?”
Stony let out his smoke on a long, lingering sigh. “I doubt it. That’s just not cool, you know? We might meet him at the sound check, but that’s it. I don’t have to worry about you asking him for autographs and pictures, do I?”
“Don’t worry about me. Listen, Stony, do you know what kind of stuff Dooce might collect?”
“Huh?”
“Does he collect anything?”
“Like beer bottles or something? Hell, I don’t know. He’s an old friend, but c’mon, we’re not, like, dating, you know?”
“Do you know his assistant? Jeremy? Could you ask him?”
“Jeremy’s a surly SOB. He’s Dooce’s knee-breaker. Stay away from him, Roxy. He does anything Dooce tell him to do, and more. But he’s not exactly housebroken, if you know what I mean.”
“He hurts people?”
“If he thinks it’s in Dooce’s best interest, yeah.”
“Okay, never mind. Where do I show up?”
“Come to Entrance B. I’ll have a stage pass waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Stony.”
“Peace out, babe.”
I hung up. I had wanted to know if the collecting Flynn had mentioned Dooce did might include woolly mammoth bones. Stony was no help. I’d have to wait until I met Dooce myself. That is, if I didn’t get into trouble with the Jeremy dude. He sounded like a jerk to avoid.
I checked my watch. I could have called Bug to apologize for standing him up at lunch, I supposed, but he might have a few uncomfortable questions for me to answer.
Instead, I decided to drive out to the skating rink to talk to Flynn’s friend, the figure skater.
Because of traffic, it took almost forty minutes to reach the Harmar Rink. I spent the drive singing harmony to Dooce’s greatest hits. When I got to the parking lot, I found myself swept along on a tide of little hockey players—mostly preadolescent boys carrying big sticks over their shoulders and jabbering with excitement. Their mothers lugged heavy bags of gear through the double doors of the cavernous rink.
I found Jenny Osterman in the locker room, and she agreed to talk to me over a drink at the bar next door. We walked across the parking lot together. If all the hockey moms carried bags for their sons and shouted encouragement from the bleachers, it looked as if a fair number of the hockey dads came to the bar to watch sports on the big-screen televisions.
“I’ve had a long day,” Jenny said when we’d ordered a draft apiece. She nibbled from the bowl of the pretzel mix the bartender put in front of us. “I start teaching lessons at five in the morning. Kids come in at crazy hours—before school, after school. By the end of the day when the hockey leagues start, I’m dizzy from spinning.”
“I bet. How do you know Sugar Mitchell?”
I’d already asked her about Sugar, but it had been my connection to Flynn that intrigued her.
“You’re Roxy?” She had looked at me with open curiosity when I’d introduced myself back at the rink. “You’re not what I expected, I guess. Patrick has mentioned you once or twice.”
“In flattering terms, I’m sure.”
“Yes, actually. He’s a great guy. How come you’re not together? I mean, with a daughter and so much history, what’s holding you back?”
“Do you know Flynn very well?”
She had smiled. “Not as well as I’d like.”
“He comes with a few problems.”
“Don’t they all,” Jenny had said on a sigh.
In the bar, after a delicate sip of beer, Jenny said, “Sugar Mitchell is a good skater. Maybe she’ll be a great one. But she’s hard to coach.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“I was her instructor when she was a beginner. But I wasn’t advanced enough for her. At least, that’s what her dad told me five years ago. Now Sugar trains with Nadia—a skater from Minnesota who flies here twice a week to coach a select few girls who are on the fast track to the Olympic team.”
“Sugar is Olympic caliber?”
Jenny shrugged and sipped more beer. With her slim, athletic figure and pretty face, she could have been a beauty queen. No pretensions, though. She had the grammar and the manners of someone raised in the suburbs and educated in a nice school with good teachers. I pegged her for a hard worker who was trying to make a living at a sport she probably loved as a teenager. Living the dream. I respected that.
She said, “Sugar has the drive. Whether she has the talent and personality to grow beyond where she is now—that’s the question. If she was more open to coaching, she could really make it. She has a big ego, and that’s important. She needs to be mentally strong as well as physically capable. But—she’s difficult.”
“What do you mean, difficult?”
“Sugar’s ego … well, she can be hard to handle. Which is good and bad. Her parents were very supportive, and that helps.”
“Is it expensive to train as a skater?”
“Depends. You can do it on a shoestring, if you must. My mom volunteered in the snack bar. Dad swept the ice. You can take group lessons, not private sessions, to save money. I couldn’t travel to competitions every weekend. But Sugar? She’s going first-class all the way. And her dad is devoted. He’s here all the time.”
“And Sugar’s mother?”
“Wow, shocking that she was murdered, right? I have to admit, I never saw her here. In all the years I’ve worked at the rink, I never met her. I’m kinda glad, actually. What kind of mother raises a kid who’s so nasty to be around?”
“Sugar is nasty?”
“You won’t repeat this, will you?” Jenny had clearly decided to trust me, because she finally confided, “Sugar’s a bitch on wheels. Rude to everyone. Very demanding. She doesn’t have many friends at the rink. Which isn’t unusual. The girls compete against each other, and it’s hard to learn to be a friend to someone who beats you out for a ribbon. But most girls learn to handle it. Sugar, though? No way.”
I thought about the girl I’d seen at the Crabtree house the morning Eckelstine and Mitchell learned they’d shared a wife. She had seemed sweet to me. I wondered if Jenny had some kind of grudge against the kid.
Jenny said, “I mean, what girl comes to practice the day her mother’s found dead? That’s cold, isn’t it?”
“Maybe she needed to be where she feels happiest. Everybody handles grief differently.”
Jenny looked doubtful. “If something happened to my mom, I’d never get over it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Unless she was a drunk who didn’t pay the electric bill and threw dishes when she got mad.”
Jenny blinked. “Sugar’s mother was that bad?”
“No,” I said hastily. “Not Sugar’s mother.”
“I heard her mom was going to make some changes, though.”
“What kind of changes?”
“Nadia said Sugar was dropping out of private lessons. Apparently, Sugar’s mother objected to the cost of coaching and everything.”
“She was pulling the plug on Sugar’s skating career?”
“That’s what Nadia said. I saw Sugar bawling in the locker room a couple of weeks ago. I tried talking to her, but she had a tantrum, so I walked away. I never got the full story.”
If Clarice wanted to end Sugar’s skating, that suggested a whole new bunch of theories. I wonder if Bug knew about Clarice’s decision to withhold the money. And what Mitch Mitchell might have to say about that.
I realized Jenny was watching my face with curiosity, so I tried to smooth away my frown. “Listen, I really appreciate you talking to me.”