I chomp off another bite of bagel and eyeball the couple that just stormed in. Studying people is a habit I've picked up working with Ceepak. He's always sizing folks up, trying to decipher their real story, the one they're trying to hide.
The fiftysomething guy is wearing what I call preppy nautical: untucked polo shirt, khaki slacks, Docksiders without socks.
His slightly younger wife has on a wide-brimmed straw hat anchored with a scarf strapped tight under her chin. Her coffee can-size sunglasses make her look like she has gigantic ant eyes. I figure she's trying to hide from the world. She also seems to be having trouble with the menu. Keeps staring up at the chalkboard, where things aren't all that complicated. The Bagel Lagoon? Basically, it's about bagels.
“Honey?” The husband is hoping to nudge his wife toward a decision.
“Do you have toast?” she asks.
“No,” says Jim. “Bagels.”
“Eggs?”
“She'll have a raisin bagel,” says the husband.
“I don't like raisins.”
“Fine. Make it a plain.”
“I don't like plain, either.”
“Well what do you like?”
Obviously, these folks came down the shore to put a little sizzle back in their marriage. I'm glad things are working out so well for them.
“If you paid more attention, you'd know what I like!” The wife steps closer to the counter, farther away from her husband.
“I'll have a poppy,” she finally says.
“Anything on it?” asks Jim.
Her eyes go back to the menu board. There are six different kinds of cream cheese and four kinds of butter, if you include peanut. This could go on for hours.
I turn and stare out the window.
Well, well, well.
Here comes Rita. Down the side-of-the-building staircase from Ceepak's apartment.
Over the past year, my partner has struck up a romance with a lovely local lady named Rita Lapczynski. She's a single mom, about thirty-five, who has this huge swoop of blonde hair, which, if my detective's instincts do not deceive me, currently features a pillow dent on the left.
Interesting.
Rita comes into the bagelry.
“Morning, Jim.”
“Rita! How you doin’?”
“Yo, Rita!” Joe in the back gives her a big wave of the wooden paddle.
“The usual?” asks Jim.
“Yes, thank you.”
“One Salty with a schmear. Coffee light.”
“Excuse me. My wife was next,” says the preppy husband.
“I'm sorry,” says Rita.
“Honey?” says the husband. His voice sounds patient. His eyes, however, are in a hurry. “We are on a schedule … .”
“Do not rush me, Theodore!”
Jim goes ahead and fixes Rita her bagel.
Rita is humming to herself. A little smile crosses her face. I guess she spent the night upstairs because her son T. J. is on vacation—up in New York City, staying with an aunt who lives out in Queens. In fact, I know Ceepak paid for the bus tickets. My partner's running a reverse version of The Fresh Air Fund—sending a shore kid up to the polluted city.
Jim takes Rita's cash, keys the register, and hands her back her change, which she drops into the tip cup. Rita waitresses over at Morgan's Surf and Turf. Those who live by tips are always the best tippers.
Finally, she sees me.
“Hey, Danny.”
“Hey, Rita. How's it goin’?”
“Fantastic. Looking forward to hearing about your adventures up in Edison.”
“Okay.”
“Take care now. Have a great day!”
“Sure.”
I watch her head toward her car. Then I count to five.
Right on cue, Ceepak comes through the door. So that's how it works: she slips out first, he sneaks down a minute later. Clever.
Now an important thing to know about John Ceepak is that he lives by this very strict, very rigid moral code. It's easier to explain than to follow. Ceepak will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do. It's a holdover from his fourteen years in the Army. The West Point Honor Code. This morning, I plan to use it against him. Big time.
The wife in the insectoid sunglasses decides she doesn't really want anything for breakfast—except maybe a new husband—and hurries out the door fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. Hubby follows.
“Good morning, Danny,” Ceepak now greets me. He's as bright and chipper as usual. The dimples in his cheeks seem a little more animated this morning, but his hair reveals no pillow wrinkles. Then again, his buzz cut is way too short to dent.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asks.
I smirk. “Long enough.”
“You had breakfast?”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome.”
Here comes the fun part. “So—did Rita spend the night?”
“Yes.”
I act amazed.
“Really?”
“Yes. Ready to roll?” Ceepak's still smiling. No guilt. No shame. No bullshit or cover-up. Just the simple, unvarnished truth.
Apparently, it really does set one free.
Two hours later we're at the food court of the Menlo Park Mall outside Edison, New Jersey. We're sitting in plastic chairs at a table near the Cinnabon counter. The scent of warm dough and cinnamon swirls through the air like invisible frosting—it smells even better than sticking your face inside a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. Trust me. I know. I've done this.
Ceepak puts a little clear plastic bag on the table. The ring.
“I can't believe you found it!” says Brian Kladko.
It's your standard high-school ring. Big cut stone in the middle of a gold band. The school's coat of arms inscribed on one side, Latin words nobody still alive can translate on the other.
“Where'd you guys say you were from?”
“Sea Haven,” says Ceepak.
Kladko doesn't pick up the ring. He drums the cellophane window on his big Cinnabon box. Take-out breakfast for his family.
“Where exactly is that?” he asks. “Sea Haven?”
“Down the shore,” I say.
He nods. Smiles. Fidgets with the box flaps. “Okay. Sure. Near Asbury Park, right?”
“Further south.”
“Okay.”
He looks at his watch. The ring with its big red rock is still sitting there, all alone in its tiny plastic pouch, stranded like the pimply girl nobody wants to dance with at the prom.
“Well, thanks for driving all the way up here and all.”
He stands.
“Sir?” says Ceepak, pointing to the table. “Your ring?”
“Oh. Right. Duh.”
“We hope you'll come visit us in Sea Haven again,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. Why not? Be nice to see it.”
“You've never been?”
“No. Don't think so.” His voice sounds a little shaky.
“Interesting,” says Ceepak. “Then I wonder how your ring wound up buried on our beach?”
“Guess you'd have to ask Lisa.”
“Lisa?”
“My old girlfriend. I gave the ring to her. A long, long time ago.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Grabenstein is an award-winning, New York Times best-selling author of mysteries, thrillers, and chillers. His first Ceepak mystery, TILT A WHIRL, won the Anthony Award for Best First Mystery. The sixth book in the series, ROLLING THUNDER, is a finalist for The Watson Award, given to the series with the best sidekick.
His ghost stories for younger readers have won both the Anthony and Agatha awards.
Chris Grabenstein, Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)
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