We were almost out of Gus’s office when I had a thought. “Paoze, go back to the store and wait for me, okay? Gus, do you have another minute? And do you mind if I shut the door?”
When we were seated again, I pushed at my cuticles. “The sheriff’s department is investigating Agnes’s murder.”
“That’s right.” His voice was neutral. “They have the equipment, experience, and manpower.”
“But they don’t know Rynwood like you do.” I’d have to tell Lois I’d used her line. She’d be so proud.
“It’s out of my hands.”
“How about the break-in at the school?” I asked. “Is it true the only room broken into was the principal’s office?”
He looked at me curiously. “Where did you hear that?”
“Around.” I wasn’t about to tell him I’d heard it from Marcia who’d heard it from Cindy who’d probably overheard it by listening at open windows. “Were any of the classrooms disturbed?”
“Not a one. And if you’re worrying about the safety of your children, quit. There’s an officer at the school the whole school day, and he’ll stay that way until things calm down.”
“Thanks, Gus.” I’d tried not to worry and hadn’t been doing a very good job. Knowing there was an officer on duty would ease my sleep—only a little, but even a smidgen would be nice. “So you’re not investigating the murder at all?”
“Nope.”
“But if you get information, you tell the sheriff, right?” I persisted. “Or that Deputy Wheeler?”
Gus put his elbows on the desk. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, Beth? If I think it’s important, I’ll pass it up the line.”
I blew out a breath. That was the answer I wanted. I didn’t have to talk to Sharon Wheeler again; I could chat amicably with my friend Gus. So I told him about the call to Gloria, my subsequent task of refrigerator cleaning, Agnes’s hockey fandom, and her connection with the Republican Party.
Gus sat back in his chair. “You think some Democratic Chicago Blackhawks fan killed Agnes?” A smile came and went.
“I knew you’d laugh at me. But we thought someone should know.”
He leaned back a little farther and put his hands behind his head. “Did you read that blog this morning?”
“WisconSINs? No.”
“It spent a lot of time raising questions about the whereabouts of a certain white-haired and overweight gentleman the night Agnes was killed.”
I thought a moment. “Randy Jarvis?”
“Don’t know who else it could be. Tell you what. I’ll call the sheriff and tell him about Randy and slide in a mention of Agnes’s right-wing persuasion. What’s important isn’t the fact itself, but that she kept it a secret.”
“Thanks, Gus.”
I was opening the door when he said, “Are you going to the memorial service?”
“The what?”
“Didn’t you know? There’s a memorial service for Agnes tomorrow afternoon. I thought it was the PTA’s deal.”
“No.” I opened the door roughly. But I could guess whose idea it was.
I took care of the worst of Paoze’s clothing issues with safety pins and whip stitches. Once again, the Mom Sewing Kit saved the day. He was set to walk the five miles to Madison when I stopped him. “If you work until the end of the day, I’ll drive you home.”
“Mrs. Kennedy, you do not need to do this.”
“If you hadn’t been working here, your bike wouldn’t have been stolen. That makes it my responsibility.” He looked dubious, so I started making things up. “And I have to go to Madison tonight. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.” A little more arm-twisting, and I had him convinced. Come closing time, we companionably tallied the day’s receipts and locked the doors.
“But this is not the way to Madison.” Paoze frowned as I turned left instead of right.
“There’s a stop I need to make.”
A few minutes later, I pulled into the driveway and pushed the button to open the garage door.
“This is your house?” Paoze asked.
“For now.” As long as Richard kept up with the hefty child-support payments, the kids and I could stay. If, for whatever reason, the payments stopped coming, the house would be up for sale faster than water froze in January.
We walked into the garage, Paoze trailing behind. “Could you help me get this down?” I indicated the mountain bike on the wall, looming above a trio of bikes standing on the garage floor. Together, we wrestled it off the yellow hooks and bounced it onto the concrete.
I left Paoze holding the bike upright while I rummaged through a plastic bin of sports equipment. Down at the bottom, beneath the soccer balls and jump ropes and baseball gloves, I found a keyed bicycle lock with a key still in the slot. “Ha!” I pulled it out and handed it to Paoze. “That should do you.”
He held the lock with his arm straight out. “Mrs. Kennedy, I do not understand.”
“For you.” I waved at the lock and the bike. They were Richard’s castoffs. He’d bought new equipment last summer.
“I cannot take this.”
Paoze tried to hand me the lock, but I put my hands behind my back. “Your bike was stolen from my store, and it’s up to me to replace it.”
“That is not right.” Paoze put the lock back into the bin. “I cannot take this gift.”
“You can’t walk back and forth from Madison, and the bus schedule doesn’t fit store hours. If you don’t have a bike, you’ll have to quit, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“Mrs. Kennedy, I cannot.”
Stubborn kid. “Then think of it as a loan. If you get your bike back, you can return this.”
“A loan?” He looked at the bike. It was tricked out with more gears than anyone living five hundred miles from a mountain range needed. It also had a fancy computer that gave mileage, speed, elapsed time, and the time of day in Guam, for all I knew.
I saw him weakening, and I pressed the advantage. “A loan. If you decide you want to buy it, I can deduct something from your paychecks.”
“Deduct.” He stroked the handlebars with his index finger.
“Sure. We can agree on a price and I’ll divide it by, say, twenty-six, and subtract that amount out of every paycheck.” I watched him eye the gears. “But it’s an old bike”—all of four years old—“and it hasn’t been maintained at all the last year, so I can cut you a pretty good deal.”
A bolt of lightning cracked, and we both jumped. Automatically, I counted seconds. At four seconds a crash of thunder came, loud enough to rattle the glass in the garage window. The storm was close.
“Let’s get that bike in the car.” I made a come-along gesture and walked out into a strong wind. “The front wheel is quick release. Let me show you.”
Paoze clutched the handlebars tight. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy, but I can ride now. Thank you for the bicycle. I will—”
“You’ll put that bike in the car right now, is what you’ll do. Look at that sky. I wouldn’t put a dog out on a night like this.” Paoze looked at the dark clouds, masses of fast-moving black and gray. A fat drop of rain splattered on the driveway. “Hurry.” I opened the car door and popped the trunk. “You don’t want your new bike getting wet, do you?”
Rain pelted the windshield as we drove through the streets of Madison. The windshield wipers, even on high speed, weren’t keeping up with Mother Nature. I stayed off the busiest streets and tried to keep away from puddles and overflowing catch basins.
Paoze gave directions, almost shouting in order to be heard over the rain. “Please turn left. My street is there.”
I flipped on the turn signal and started down a street I’d never noticed before. The houses grew smaller and
