Polkacide (13 page)

"Aw, Ghost." Pushing away
from the mini-fridge, I walked over to the bed. Leaving him in the
room all night just wasn't an option; as clean, well, and tame as
Ghost seemed, he could still be dangerous. I knew cats sometimes
searched out safe hiding places when they were sick or about to
die.

But what could I do if he wouldn't
leave voluntarily? I sank down on the corner of the bed, deep in
thought, fishing for a plan.

Which was exactly when Ghost
shot out from under the bedspread skirt and ran for the milk in a
blur of white.

As he stopped outside and
dipped his head to lap from the blue bowl, I leaped up from the bed
and charged after him. He was still lapping away when I flung the
door shut behind him.

Slumping back against the
door, I blew out my breath in relief. As tired as I felt at that
point, I was glad the battle of wills was over...also glad it
hadn't ended with Ghost getting hurt.

Though maybe his
feelings
were hurt. He
was scratching the door and mewing on the other side. Was he
protesting his exile or asking for more milk?

"Sorry, Ghost." I pushed away from the
door. "The dairy's closed for the night."

Eventually, he stopped
making noise. By then, I'd gotten undressed and collapsed into
bed.

I was almost sorry he'd gone
quiet. I actually thought about getting up and letting him back in,
even with the risks involved.
Because that snow-white stray cat had taken my mind off my father's
murder. Now that he'd gone, a flood of worries rushed into my mind,
keeping my wheels spinning when what I wanted to do was
sleep.

And I stayed that way late
into the night, brain churning relentlessly, until I finally
managed to let go.

Chapter 20

I woke early the next
morning, just after five. Thought I'd heard the cat scratching and
mewing at the door again...but maybe it was all in a
dream.

Then, I rolled over and fell
asleep for another half-hour. When I got up the next time, I was up
for good, though not really alert. Even coffee from the kitchenette
and a hot shower weren't enough to sweep the cobwebs out of my
head, probably because I'd only slept four and a half hours all
told.

I pulled on bluejeans and a
cream top with three-quarter length sleeves and stylized starbursts
printed on the front and back. Not my first choice for a workday
outfit, but I hadn't brought much with me from L.A. I hadn't
expected to stay in New Krakow for a week, let alone work a new
job.

When it came time to leave,
I cracked the door carefully and looked out. The coast was
clear.

When I opened the door wider
and leaned out further, there was still no sign of Ghost. I was a
little disappointed.

Bending down, I picked up
the blue cereal bowl from the sidewalk and took it to the
kitchenette. A dried white ring in the groove around the inside of
the bottom of the bowl was the only remaining trace of the milk I'd
put out for Ghost.

I filled the bowl with water and left
it in the sink, then scooped up my keys and butterscotch leather
purse from the desk.

As I stepped outside and
shut the door, I wondered if I would see Ghost again that night.
Now that I'd fed him, he probably wouldn't be able to resist
dropping by...though he'd seemed to take a shine to me long before
that.

He'd been a nuisance, but I
hoped he'd pay me a visit. He was a mystery--the kind that didn't
involve a murdered father. If I could just get a look at the silver
I.D. tags on his collar...

*****

By the time I rolled up in
front of Polka Central, it was almost six-thirty. I was a half-hour
late, according to Peg's schedule...but oh well. Let her read me
the riot act if she wanted to; technically, she wasn't the boss of
me.

Anyway, Eddie Jr. and Glynne
weren't there yet, either. As I parked the red Hyundai along the
curb, I saw no sign of Eddie's silver pickup. Whatever Glynne
drove, it wasn't there, either; the only car parked at Polka
Central was Peg's battered white Oldsmobile.

When I got out of my
rent-a-car, I noticed right away that Polka Central was much
quieter than the day before. It was a Monday morning, so there was
no radio broadcast in progress. The doors were closed, and no polka
music pumped out into the neighborhood.

When I opened the front door, I saw
the place was deserted. The crowd of three-stepping dancers was
gone; the hall was silent and still...and decrepit.

Without distractions, I got
a better sense of just how dilapidated Polka Central was. It was
hard to find a place on the walls or ceiling where the paint hadn't
peeled off, leaving ragged patches of exposed drywall. Sections of
the scuffed old gymnasium floor were warped and discolored. The
stained glass windows in the front and side walls had been broken
in places, messily patched with cardboard and duct tape. Half the
bulbs in the caged light fixtures suspended overhead were dark.
There were scaffolding panels and frames stacked against one wall,
but it didn't seem to me like they'd been moved in a long
time.

As I looked around, I
doubted Dad had put any money into the place since he'd bought it.
I wondered how much longer it would be until it collapsed on a full
house of Sunday morning polka dancers.

It was too bad, because I did think it
was an interesting space. I have an eye for possibilities, and
Polka Central definitely had them.

It could make a heck of a
small music venue. Without the polkas, of course.

Taking in the details, I
crossed the big room and walked up onto the stage. "Peg?" There was
no sound from backstage. Frowning, I strolled to the mid-point of
the gray stage curtains and pushed them apart.

When I stepped through, a
wave of panic shot through me. I'd expected to see Peg hard at work
in the office area, shuffling papers and typing on the new
laptop.

Instead, she was sprawled in
a desk chair, head lolling over the backrest, arms hanging over the
sides. The chair was tilted back, her legs propped amid piles of
paperwork on the desk in front of her, the toes of her sneakers
splayed sideways.

She looked lifeless. Had the
killer snuffed
her
out as well as Dad? Had she been getting too close to the
truth? If so, where did that leave
me
? Would I be the next
victim
?

I ran to her through the
obstacle course of junk, boxes, and newspapers on the
floor.

"Oh, God." For a moment, I
was afraid to touch her. I stepped back, then forward, then back
again, kneading my hands.

Then, with a single sound,
the tension broke. All it took was one loud snore from Peg, and I
knew she was still alive.

She looked ridiculous with
her mouth hanging open and her curly clown afro flopped back, but
she was
alive
.
And
I
was
relieved.

It took a long moment for my
heart rate and breathing to get back to normal. Then, I stepped
forward, put one hand behind Peg's chair to brace her, and brushed
her upper arm with the other. "Time to wake up, Peg."

She twitched and mumbled
something in her sleep. I gave her arm a squeeze and spoke louder.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath,
her eyes shot open. She made a garbled sound in her throat and
thrashed in her chair, nearly toppling backward. Good thing I was
bracing her at the time.

"Easy does it." I gave her
shoulder a firm squeeze. "It's just me. Lottie."

Peg gaped at me with a
glazed expression. Then, she shook her head hard, and comprehension
seemed to dawn. "Lottie? Where's Lou?"

In that moment, my heart
truly went out to her. I felt genuine sympathy for that woman whom
I'd hated so much for so long.

"He's not here right now,
Peg." Why not give her another minute before the facts of Lou's
death returned to her? "How about if I get you some
coffee?"

Peg dragged her legs off the
desk, pulling stacks of paperwork down with them. Her sneakers hit
the floorboards heavily. "Okay, Lottie. Coffee sounds
good."

Chapter 21

"Remind me not to fall
asleep in my desk chair again." Peg grimaced as she stood up and
rubbed her neck. "My chiropractor is getting a call from me today
for
sure."

The coffee maker was
bubbling away on one of the desks. I sat in the chair in front of
it and watched the glass pot fill. The trickle of black liquid
became a steady drip, and the drip gave way to one last
drop.

Lifting the pot by its black plastic
handle, I filled two chipped cups with steaming coffee. Both white
cups were stained brown inside and emblazoned with the Polish Fly
logo of a housefly playing a pierogi-shaped accordion.

"Cream and sugar?" Even as I
asked, I saw that neither was in plain sight.

Peg shook her head slowly,
looking miserable. "If you want sugar, I think there're some
packets in the drawer. I doubt there's creamer, though."

I liked a little of both,
but I could get by without them. "Caffeine is served." I handed her
a cup and reached for my own. "So what's with the
all-nighter?"

She wrapped both hands around the cup
and lifted it to her lips. "I hate going home alone to that empty
house." Closing her eyes, she took a long drink. "Plus, I was
looking for clues."

I had a sip of my own
coffee, which tasted terrible--strong and bitter enough to peel
paint. I found myself wishing for some cream to cut it, after all.
"What kind of clues?"

Peg staggered over to the
desk where she'd slept and pointed an elbow at the stacks of papers
and folders piled haphazardly on it.
"Any
kind." She reached down and
flipped through the corner of the top inch of one of the stacks.
"Accounts payable, accounts receivable, tax returns, insurance
policies." She flipped through the top of another pile. "Radio show
manifests, band schedules, fan mail, hate mail, you name
it."

I took another tiny sip.
Still awful. "Find anything?"

She shook her head, then winced. "Just
the world's biggest crick in my neck." Bowing her head, she slowly
turned it from side to side. I heard it crack all the way across
the office space.

Sniffing at my coffee, I
scowled and put it down on the desk. "I talked to my sisters last
night. Bonnie said Dad was installing a spigot for her a few days
before he died."

Peg nodded. "I remember him
mentioning that."

"Bonnie said he kept checking his
watch. He said he had to meet somebody, but he didn't say who it
was. Then he left without finishing the job."

"That isn't like him." Peg
frowned. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing she can remember."
I pushed the awful cup of coffee away from me. "But Charlie said
she saw Dad arguing with Eddie Kubiak, Sr. outside the Polish
Falcons a week before he died."

Peg stopped cracking her
neck. "What were they arguing about?"

"Something to do with strikes." I
shrugged. "Charlie didn't hear much of what they said."

"Strikes as in bowling?"

"Who knows?" I opened the middle desk
drawer, looking for packets of sugar or creamer...finding nothing
but a tray full of pencils, paper clips, and loose
change.

Peg drank more coffee and
drifted toward me. She was getting steadier on her feet by the
minute. "Charlie didn't hear anything else?"

I shook my head. "Nada."

"Those two were
always
fighting about
something." Peg let out a weary sigh. "Eddie never forgave him for
leaving
his
band
and hitting it big with his own."

I thought about it for a
moment. Was it possible? "You don't think Eddie Sr..."

"Hated him enough to kill
him?" Peg waved her arm through the air. "Anything's possible,
right? He wasn't exactly
crying
at Lou's funeral, was he?"

I frowned. "But I thought they had a
truce."

Peg put her cup down on the
desk. "They tolerated each other. They
had
to. Lou
ran
Polkapourri." She reached for the
coffee pot and poured herself a refill. "But there was a lot of
water under the bridge between them."

I was having trouble
picturing Eddie Jr.'s dad killing
my
Dad...but
somebody
had done it. More than
likely, in a town as small as New Krakow, it was somebody I
knew.

"Speaking of Polkapourri,
we've got work to do." Peg sat on the corner of the desk and drank
the rest of her cup of coffee in one gulp. "We're in
crunch time
mode from
here on out."