Just when I was wondering how I was going to get out of that mess, I heard, "Ach. There's a good schnitzel."
Great. Just great.
BeBe lunged for Brickhouse.
"Timber!" she yelled, cackling.
As I fell, I suddenly remembered why I didn't like that woman.
She laughed and laughed. "I wish I had a camera. What a great Christmas picture this would be for my cards this year."
Ugh. I didn't want to think Mrs. Krauss and I were alike at all, but there were times . . .
I shoved those thoughts into the Never Be Thought About Again, Ever corner.
BeBe easily pulled me across the snow, as though I was some bound-up Christmas tree she was delivering.
I looked up at Brickhouse. "You're not going to leave me like this, are you?"
She clucked. "Depends."
"On?"
"Are you sneaking off?"
"Ha. Ha. Who says I snuck off?"
She held up her hand. One chubby finger shot into the air. "The detectives." Another finger. "Your mother." Another finger. "Tam."
Tam! She'd ratted me out?
Another finger. "Kevin."
"All right! All right. I snuck off." My backside was starting to freeze.
She planted meaty hands on her hips. "I want to go with you today."
I wiggled, trying to free myself. It wasn't pretty. "I don't think so."
"Suit yourself, Nina Ceceri."
She turned and started walking away. BeBe followed, dragging me along.
I caved. "All right! You can come."
She clucked happily as she unleashed BeBe and unwound me. "Where are we going?"
I explained about Kent Ingless.
"How are we going to lose the fuzz?" She motioned to the curb. Lewy and Joe sat in a dark Taurus.
Wonderful.
"Fuzz?" I asked. "Really?"
"Are you one to question my word choices?"
She had a point. I followed her to Mr. Cabrera's house, and true to my word, I checked on Gregory Peck. He seemed to be doing well, having taken over the garage for his roost.
"Where's Mr. Cabrera?"
"Ach. Walked himself to the hardware store. He's intent on catching those turkeys."
I smiled. When Mr. Cabrera had his mind set on something, he usually went at it gung ho.
Brickhouse pulled on a rainbow-colored knit cap. "What's our plan of escape?"
It was scary how much enjoyment she was getting out of this. I swore I caught her humming the theme song to Mission Impossible while filling a bowl of water for BeBe.
"Leave BeBe here, mosey over to Miss Maisie's to make sure she's okay after the rooster debacle yesterday, then sneak out her back door to meet up with Perry." I checked my watch. "We have ten minutes."
My phone chirped. Bobby.
"Were you and BeBe playing Iditarod?" he asked.
I looked out Mr. Cabrera's front window and could see Bobby standing in his window, phone in one hand, coffee cup in the other. "Very funny. Where's your shirt?"
"Just got out of the shower."
My mouth went dry.
Softly, he said, "I left the lights on for you last night."
Damn those boundaries. "Will they be on again tonight?"
"Probably."
I was glad to hear it. I saw him take a sip of coffee, wince. "You should really blow on that first. Dinner tonight?" I asked.
He laughed. "Sure, I should be home by then. I'm headed down to Mac's place—promised I'd watch the Bengals game with him."
"Okay."
"Dare I ask what you're doing today? I assume it will have something to do with outwitting the two detectives in front of your house."
"Something like that."
"The less I know, the better?"
I smiled. "Definitely."
I hung up, and Brickhouse and I headed toward Miss Maisie's.
She seemed surprised to see us, and even more surprised when we said hello, asked how she was, and wondered aloud if we could leave through her back door.
She showed us out, but not before checking to see if there were any stray fowl running around outside.
We picked our way through the deep snow, cutting through Mrs. Greeble's backyard.
As we neared the back of the house, something caught my eye. I crept up to the window and looked in.
"Nina!" Brickhouse whispered loudly. "What are you doing? Time is of the essence, child."
I stood there, unable to believe what I was seeing.
"What has you so captivated?" She came up behind me. "Ah." She clucked. "Oh."
I couldn't have said it better.
Right there in Mrs. Greeble's back room was a large poker table.
Now I knew why Riley had been spending so much time with her.
Nine
As Brickhouse and I trudged through the snow, all I could think about was Riley. How he'd fooled me once again. And my first evil thought was like father, like son, but as soon as I thought it, I was ashamed. It wasn't fair to lump Kevin's sins on Riley.
I stomped along, feeling petulant. I had believed I'd come a long way in parenting a teen. I'd picked up tricks to spot lies, tips to weasel information.
I'd been blindsided by this, thinking, believing, that Riley was helping Mrs. Greeble. That he was earning his money. Not winning it.
And don't get me started on Mrs. Greeble. She'd seemed so nice, yet if she was running a poker game out of her house, she had to have a dark side.
Now I felt the obligation to figure out how dark.
Just one more thing for me to worry about.
"You look like your head is about to pop off. It's not attractive, Nina Ceceri." Brickhouse glanced back at me as she held a branch so it wouldn't thwap me in the face. "Perhaps all is not what it seems."
I arched an eyebrow, my BS meter working on overdrive.
"On occasion," she clucked, "I am wrong. It's rare, occurring about as often as a harvest moon, but it does happen. This may well be one of those times."
"You think?"
"No need for snippiness." Releasing the branch, she forged ahead.
Snow seeped down into my galoshes, absorbed into my jeans. Ask me last week, and I'd have said there was little worse than wet jeans. This week I held a whole new perspective on life's pitfalls.
Though the jeans still ranked up there.
"Sorry," I grumbled. "I just don't know what's worse. That he's been gambling for money or that I keep being duped by him."
Her laughter carried back to me. "Teenagers are created to dupe parents."
"Did Claudia ever dupe you?" I asked, referring to her grown daughter.
"Ach. No. I'm too smart to fall for such things."
I tried to step in the prints Brickhouse made. "Gee, thanks."
"I'm sure it's not what we think. Talk to him before you accuse him of anything."
As we emerged from our journey through the Mill's backyards, I decided not to think about it for a while. I'd deal with Riley later.
A small Saturn, circa 1992, sat at the curb, idling. Thick, crispy street salt adhered to the car like dried out barnacles. Chunks of dirty snow clung to the car's wheel wells, and two inches of thick snow covered the hood, roof, and trunk like a wintry blanket.
The passenger window rolled slowly down. Inside, I saw Perry leaning across the front seat, cranking the lever.
Brickhouse and I gaped.
"Where's the Range Rover?" I asked.
"Get in, get in," he ordered. "I've been sitting here for ten minutes and the car won't heat unless it's moving. I've lost feeling in the tip of my nose! Hurry, hurry! I like this nose. I paid a lot of money for this nose."
"Shotgun!" Brickhouse called, yanking open the front door.
I rolled my eyes and pulled open the back door. The handle, also caked in salt, felt starchy and stiff under my fingers. I rubbed my hands down my pants and made a face at my damp, clingy jeans.
I was seriously missing summer
time.
Perry air-kissed Brickhouse's cheeks but didn't ask why she was there. He shifted, the gears grinding. Tires spun as he stepped on the gas. The car spurted forward, then stopped, stalled.
"The Range Rover?" I winced as the gears ground.
"You wouldn't believe it," he said. The rosy color of his cheeks stood out against the black hat he wore. It had a large rounded crown and drooping ear flaps, and looked like he'd stolen it from the Red Baron's closet.
The car lurched and I flew forward, almost ending up in the front seat. And I nearly got whiplash when the car died again, sending me backward.
I fastened my seat belt, tightening it around my waist.
Perry cursed a blue streak, banging the steering wheel. He ended his diatribe with a vicious jerk of the gear shift and the threat of, "Don't make me get out and kick your rotten, stinkin', rusty chassis," before Brickhouse reached over and turned off the ignition.
"Get out," she ordered Perry as she opened her door.
I watched in amazement as he obeyed. I'd never even heard him raise his voice before. He slowly walked around the front of the car as Brickhouse crossed behind. He wore a thick cable-knit Irish wool sweater, jeans, and a wool coat that hit him mid-thigh.
Brickhouse sat in the driver's seat while Perry took a minute to stomp the extra snow off his Doc Martens before getting back into the car.
"Seat belts," Brickhouse intoned, using a voice I hadn't heard since tenth grade English.
Perry buckled in a hurry.
"Where to?" she asked, sending a stream of wiper fluid onto the windshield to clear away the film of dried salt.
I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd never use salt again.
I gave her the directions I'd memorized. It had taken Tam no time at all to track down Kent's address.
Brickhouse started the car, revved the engine, and slowly pulled into the street, where previous brave drivers had left gullies to guide us through the snow.
Perry looked back at me and smiled as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. "As I was saying, you wouldn't believe it."
He was probably right. I kind of didn't believe my life lately.
"There I was getting ready to pick you up, but first I had to shovel the driveway. Straight downhill, you know, and if the snow isn't removed immediately, it will ice, and then I'd never be able to get the Range Rover back into the carport."
"The horror," Brickhouse deadpanned.
Perry cupped his mouth. "Is she cranky today?"
I didn't bother to lower my voice. "She's cranky every day."
Brickhouse clucked.
"Go on," I said to Perry.
"There I was shoveling away when I saw it."
"It?" I asked.
Perry fiddled with the heat. "Them, really. Footprints. Can you believe it?"
"Well, maybe?" I said, not sure what he was getting at.
"Leading up to my carport and away again."
"Oh?" Brickhouse said, keeping her hands at ten and two.
"I followed them." Perry cranked up the heater. "I mean, nobody had any business near my car. I mean, hello? Private property."
I smiled. I couldn't help it. "And?"
"They led to the front of my car, which I thought was a bit odd, no?"
"Very odd," I encouraged.
I thought I saw Brickhouse smile, but couldn't be sure. Could have been indigestion. One never knew with her.
Perry went on. "I looked around, but didn't see anything unusual. The car was still locked, everything looked well and good, but I couldn't figure it out. Why walk up to my car and walk away again?"
Beats me.
"So I took a closer look," Perry said, his eyes wide.
I realized he was enjoying telling this story, feeding us bits at a time, leading up to . . . who knew?
"I went over it with a fine-tooth comb, top to horribly dirty bottom. My car needs a wash desperately. Is there anything more disgusting than a salt-encrusted vehicle? Is there?" The flaps on his hat bounced as he looked between the two of us.
"Your story-telling skills," Brickhouse proclaimed, tugging off her hat. Tufts of white hair stuck out in all directions. "Get on with it."
To her, he said, "You're lucky I love you, Ursula."
She clucked. "I was thinking the same thing, Perry."
I bit back a grin as he cupped his mouth again and whis pered to me, "Cranky," while gesturing to Brickhouse with his thumb.
I nodded.
Thankfully, he continued. "While examining the undercarriage of the Rover and bemoaning the fact that my car, my baby, needed a bath, something caught my eye." He paused for dramatic effect. "It was . . . a GPS unit."
I let that sink in.
"What's a GPS?" Brickhouse asked.
"I'll tell you what it is," Perry said excitedly. "It's a tracking device. Someone wanted to follow me. Or more appropriately," he held my gaze, "you. Someone who knew we were together yesterday, perchance?"
"The good detectives? You think?"
"Who else?" Brickhouse asked. "You never were the brightest bulb."
"Hey now," I said. "You are cranky."
"I told you so." Perry preened.
He settled back into his seat as I tried not to think who else would want to track me. I felt fairly safe being followed by the police. If the person who'd killed Daisy was on my trail, however, well that'd be enough to send me hitchhiking to Denver to hide out with Ana.
I took a second to ponder all the things I was trying not to think about. The list was adding up. Which was fine with me—as long as I didn't think about it.
"Being the noble man I am," Perry said, "I set aside my own needs for the sake of our investigation and borrowed Mario's car!"
"This is Mario's?" I asked, taking in the cracked seats, the old radio.
Perry sighed. "He has an attachment to it. I tried long ago to get him to trade it in, to no avail. But I make him park it on the street."
"Ach, yes. Very noble of you," Brickhouse murmured.
Kent Ingless lived a few miles from Heavenly Hope. With the roads a mess, it took nearly an hour to get there from my house, usually a fifteen minute drive.
A long recently plowed driveway wound up to the house, a gorgeous log Gambrel. Twin dormer windows peeked out from the second floor, and a bay window on the first floor had its drapes pulled. However, smoke came from the stack-stone chimney, and the walkway was freshly shoveled. "Looks like he's home."
Brickhouse parked. "Do we have a plan?"
Perry looked at me.
"Well, ah, no," I said. "We're just going to play it by ear."
Brickhouse's blue eyes chilled. I hated when they did that. "What makes you think he will let us in?"
Perry rummaged in the trunk. "Well, listen to Miss Optimism."
The icy blue stare turned on him. "We're perfect strangers. Why would he have any reason to speak with us?"
I hated when she made sense.
Producing a tray with a flourish, Perry said, "Because I've got cannoli. Who can turn down cannoli?"
Not me. My mouth watered.
Brickhouse clucked. "I like you, Perry. You come prepared. Unlike other people I know." She glanced my way.
"You could have stayed home," I tossed over my shoulder as I marched up the walkway, my wet jeans chafing my thighs.
I knocked loudly on a wooden door inset with beautiful stained glass. Through it I saw a figure moving closer.
The door inched open.
I wasn't sure what I had been expecting a boyfriend of Daisy's to look like. Okay, I pictured someone like Kit. Big and bulky. Or maybe even the hippie type. Long hair, Birkenstocks, free-thinking mentality . . .
The man who stood in the doorway wore crisp Ralph Lauren pressed pants, a cashmere sweater, and a look that said, "Go away." He appeared to be of Mediterranean descent, with short silver gray hair, an olive skin tone, and dark eyes. He wasn't short, wasn't tall, wasn't fat, wasn't thin. Average, all around.
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