Greased Wheels: A Kyle Shannon Mystery

"Written with a clear first-person voice, Linda Mickey's Greased Wheels . . . spins into a fascinating story of corporate greed in the midst of small-town mentality. Kyle Shannon makes an effective, albeit reluctant sleuth, torn between her desire to maintain distance (hence the temp work) and to help a loved local icon keep his livelihood."

- Kathryn Lively, allaboutmurder.com

Greased Wheels

A Kyle Shannon Mystery

Linda Mickey

Published by Finish Off Press Ltd. at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 Linda Mickey

Discover other titles by Linda Mickey at Smashwords.com

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/20731

This book is also available in print.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwods.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. While the names of some towns and businesses are real, the characters or actions that appear within them are imaginary and products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, entities, or events is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For Tess

Editor, teacher, and friend

David Lasker, Chicagoland Video

For your comprehensive explanation of the science of fire fighting and the loan of video tape archives that let me see fire with new understanding

Definitions:

(The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Third Edition copyright © 1992 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Electronic version licensed from INSO Corporation. All rights reserved.)

Grease: Something, such as money or influence, that facilitates the attainment of an object or a desire

Wheel: A person with a great deal of power or influence

CHAPTER 1

I don’t mind a little excitement in my life but I want it on my terms and under my control. Generally, I prefer to lead an ordered existence where schedules are known but can be adjusted with little stress. My house is not spotlessly clean but it gets a good once-over every weekend. I open the mail as soon as I get home because, although I have never, ever given my name to Publishers Clearing House, a miracle could occur and I might receive a check for one million dollars.

Lately I’d been on the receiving end of a deluge of solicitations from various charities inviting me to attend this function or that benefit. Some kind of sixth sense told me that if I actually went to one of these parties, it would be a life-altering experience.

So it was with some trepidation that I opened the envelope, ran my finger across the dull red lining and pulled out an engraved, leaf-shaped invitation. I was cordially invited to attend yet another fundraiser, this time benefiting the Lake County Chapter of The Sierra Club. Tiffany, I’m going to kill you, I thought, as I grabbed the telephone.

Dialing a number that had grown too familiar during the last few months, I waited for an answer at the other end of the line. When it came, I didn’t bother with a greeting.

Tiffany, leave me alone. I do not want, nor do I need, a social life.

Nonsense. You’re moldering away and I intend to see to it that you get out of your blue funk. You’ve become a recluse since you quit your job at Carter and Associates.

My moldering is my business.

I couldn’t blame the social queen of Chicago for trying to get me to attend one of her parties. Tiffany hated to see anyone stay home for any reason, particularly when there was a charity to support and money to be donated. To make matters worse, my happiness had become some kind of mission for her and I received an invite at least once a week.

I’ll just send you a check.

You’ve done that the last three times I’ve sent an invitation. If you do it this time, I won’t cash it. I have a special reason for this particular solicitation. It’s out near that town you liked so much in Lake County.

She was referring to Long Grove, a charming village of boutiques and cafés specifically designed to pull money from women’s purses. Tiffany had had great success there one fall afternoon when we’d spent the day together. She’d been shopping for trinkets for whatever benefit she’d been organizing at the time. I tagged along and fell in love with the feeling of openness generated by the occasional strip of undeveloped dirt. Unfortunately, I’d commented to Tiffany at the time that I wouldn’t mind moving to Lake County some day. Her steel-trap mind had filed that bit away and now it was a bribe.

How can you remember that? I asked.

That’s why I’m so good; I keep track of the details.

Tiffany, I am not in the mood to go to a party.

You need a change of scenery. Lake County is a great place. Many of my good friends live there. Any one of them could give you a job. And let’s face it, not only do you not have a love life right now, you have no job. Your funds must be getting low.

I’m working on that. I’m registered with a temp agency.

You can do better than that. With your background, you should be an executive and I can arrange that for you.

I went with the service because I don’t know yet what I want to do or where I want to do it. It’s a way to clear my head, find a new direction.

I pushed at my bangs and sighed. Tiffany had a point. I had been putting things off. Maybe this was some kind of omen. I gave in.

I guess you’re right.

Then it’s settled. I’ll see you there. Don’t you dare disappoint me.

Two weeks later, I stared at the clothes in my closet, brooding about what to wear. Hanging in front of me were two blazers, one beige and one yellow. One outfit was cream of wheat, the other a bowl of fruit. Kind of like my life, I thought. I told myself the cream of wheat was the real me. It would be more suitable for schmoozing with muckity-mucks. Trouble was, thanks to Tiffany, I was in a fruit salad state of mind. I took out the yellow blazer.

The driveway leading to the home of Dr. and Mrs. Gordon Lodge showed up on the left side of a tree-lined country lane that I found after a forty-minute drive north on the expressway. As I put on my turn signal, a young man jumped up from a wobbly lawn chair and waved me in, signaling me to halt. He put out his hand expectantly so I produced my invitation.

Following the blacktop, I guided my sedan slowly past mature oak trees until the woods gave way to a meadow of wild flowers, then enough lawn for a badminton or croquet court. A picket fence was visible toward the rear of the house but I couldn’t tell if the idea was to keep kids and pets in or wild animals out. The house itself was a modified Queen Anne, its wrap-around porch inviting guests up for a long sit in some cool shade. Snapdragons and lupine lined the white lattice at the bottom of the porch with the vibrant yellow and pink of early summer. Arbor vitae stood like soldiers along the south side of the yard suggesting the presence of a formal garden.

Guests’ cars were parked in neat rows along the side of the house on an open expanse of lawn. As I scanned for a space, a valet rushed up to open the car door. I handed him the ignition key and watched as he maneuvered my little gray Altima to a spot beside a beast of a black Cadillac.

I didn’t have to ring the bell. The door was yanked open as I went up the wooden steps and there stood Tiffany Williams herself.

You were a blond the last time I saw you, I said as I gave her the obligatory air kiss. I love the new you.

I meant it. Her ponytail now matched her brown eyebrows and her skin tone. Tiffany had been born a brunette and she hadn’t been quite as striking as a blond. That didn’t matter. On her worst days, Tiffany was sophisticated and classic. She wore timeless styles in traditional colors. She always looked great and it drove me crazy. Someday I would catch her with wind-blown hair and a run in her stockings.

Thank you, Tiffany said, visibly pleased that I had noticed the color change. She pointed to her chest. And do you like the threads? One hundred percent natural cotton. Isn’t this great? It changes color each time it’s washed. I’m doing my ‘green’ thing tonight.

Her ‘green thing’ was a mid-calf length dress in pale sage. I’d seen the material before; in fact I owned a sweater made from it.

Isn’t there a particular species of cotton plant that has this property? I asked, more to be conversational than because I was seeking an answer.

Yes, but I don’t recall the name. This came from the tiny woman with rosy dots on high cheekbones and coal black, straight bobbed hair who stood next to Tiffany. Almond eyes set off a small, chiseled nose and great smile filled with white teeth and plenty of warmth.

She said, I’m Irene Lodge and we’re glad to have you here.

And she’s glad to be here, said Tiffany, pulling me into the foyer. Go mingle now. We’ll feed you soon.

Yes, please feel free to wander into any room. Irene Lodge’s voice was light and inviting. Our home is yours for the evening and I so appreciate your support. Thank you for coming.

The hostesses stepped back allowing me to pass between them so they could greet a new arrival. That left me free to look around and get my bearings. The dining room was directly ahead of me, but I was drawn to laughter bursting into the hallway from a room on my right. Entering what appeared to be a den or study, I found a group of people gathered around a built-in mahogany display case that dwarfed the people standing in front of it. A tall, fiftyish looking man was holding court.

He had deep brown eyes crowned with thick, bushy eyebrows and brown hair that showed silver tendencies at the temples. With the exception of the barest hint of a belly pushing at his polo shirt, he looked good. Quite handsome, in fact. But it was his obvious love of the subject that held the crowd. This man was accustomed to lecturing and his references to items in the case indicated that he was my host, Dr. Gordon Lodge. Had he been running for office, he would have had my vote. I edged in closer.

…the Chongchon River. Yes, that one battle can be named as the start of the Cold War. The Chinese overran the UN forces. Disastrous. At any rate, that uniform was worn by a soldier who fought in that battle.

You expect us to believe all that? A rotund man with hanging jowls and three chins threw out the challenge. His eyes were lost under sagging, puffy eyelids surrounded by drooping, dark circles. If he had been born a dog, he’d be a St. Bernard. How do you know?

I know, Lodge said, because I have a complete service record on each piece in my collection. I don’t own anything that doesn’t have a history in that conflict.

What about the guns? Another man in the group had posed the question. His bald head was encircled by thick brown hair and he reminded me of the television portrayal of Cadfael, the monk - compact in stature with a kindly face - but this man’s hair was cropped close to the head.

Same for the guns, Ellison. Lodge reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the cabinet door. He removed one of the guns and handed it to the man. I’ve written two magazine articles about this particular piece. It belonged to a lieutenant in the third division in the Wonsan area. That man stayed in the military after the war so he kept his side arm. He was later sent to Nam as a captain. He was there during the advisory phase, saw action at Tet, and then came home.

You’re an expert on the forgotten war?

Yes, I am and for purely selfish reasons. Few experts on war have bothered with Korea. Our three-year skirmish there holds little interest for those studying the glamour conflicts like the Civil War or World War II so I became a big fish in a little pond. I was particularly intrigued by the politics of the situation.

The man Dr. Lodge had called Ellison examined the hand gun closely through a pair of reading glasses pulled down from the top of his head. I don’t know much about hand guns yet. I just bought one.

This statement was greeted by stares from several of the men standing nearby.

For protection, you understand, Ellison said. Crystal beads of stress popped out on his forehead. I’ve started taking shooting lessons.

Ellison quickly handed the gun back and watched as his host placed it next to its small placard. So what was I holding?

Lodge turned to answer. An M1908. It’s a fine weapon but under-powered, even by the standards of its day. What made it so popular was that it is easily concealed under clothing, whether uniform or civilian.

That’s enough lecturing, professor, said Irene Lodge, moving to her husband’s side and gently taking his arm. If I permit it, you’ll spend the entire evening in here showing off. Come along. I know our guests are hungry.

Lodge patted her hand and allowed himself to be led away. Come on, everyone. There’s some great food waiting for us.

I waited as others filed out ahead of me. As I turned toward the dining room, I noticed that two of the men stayed behind, pointing at the display case. One of them said, I used to shoot black-powder pistols in my college days. Even considered joining a re-enactment group but my studies kept me too busy. I was pretty good there for awhile.

Target shooting for me. Why own a gun if you don’t do anything with it? I can still hit what I aim at, most of the time.

Both laughed at the joke. The one who had just spoken was a dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed moustache. He clapped the other man on the back before they eased past me. I followed them into the dining room.

Although the room was big enough to seat my entire family plus the Brady Bunch, it couldn’t hold all the guests at one time. I lingered in a corner, watching as people got in line around a table that would seat eight comfortably, exclaimed over the food, filled their plates, and then moved off to find somewhere to eat it.

The room was brightly lit by a three-tiered, crystal chandelier. Four brass sconces, perched on opposing walls, provided additional lighting. Tall, narrow windows overlooked a sunroom and a patio. From where I stood, I saw the evening sun making a last-ditch effort for life behind purply clouds.

When the lines petered out a little, I toured the offerings of the buffet meal, peeping over people’s shoulders to get a look. It was picnic fare - grilled chicken and ribs, corn-on-the-cob, coleslaw - and there was plenty of it. Baskets of steaming corn muffins and sourdough bread had just come out of the kitchen. If I filled a plate, I would probably overeat and, as if on cue, a man in a white chef’s hat appeared pushing a cart. He began to replenish the table, his stainless steel trays filled to overflowing. I bypassed the buffet, still crowded with diners, to scan the sunroom.

Avoiding the sizeable group that was assembled there, I went through a pair of French doors to the patio outside. Bug-repellent torches blazed in strategic spots around the lawn and New Age music rose from speakers hidden discreetly in the bushes. Scattered across the lawn stood brightly colored carts dispensing cotton candy, popcorn, and ice cream treats. White dots of popcorn lay scattered near a tree and the paper cones used for spun sugar littered the ground near a waste container. The evidence suggested that the cart attendants had been busy earlier.

Although the men were all in sport coats, there were no ties and the women seemed to be as casually dressed in slacks and blazers. They moved about, staking claims on small tables that had been set up around the yard.

At this point, I considered an escape. The problem with attending one of these things unescorted is that you have no one with whom to kill time, no one to make you feel less unattached. I wasn’t comfortable inserting myself into any of the groups that had formed and I can’t stand being in a public place eating alone. It’s one of my private phobias. So, I decided it was time to leave. What held me was the feast I’d just surveyed in the dining room. I was starving. And, after spotting a quiet area where I could hide and quickly inhale a meal, I overruled my desire to exit and went back to the dining room.

The lines around the table had subsided so I took a plate and joined the queue. Perfect timing. A fresh basket of muffins arrived. There’s something about a warm corn muffin, oozing butter and honey that reminds me of heaven. As I plopped potato salad onto my plate, I suddenly realized I was following St. Bernard man. I prayed that he wouldn’t say anything to me because I knew I would stare at his grotesquely bloated face if I were forced to look at him directly. My prayer was not answered. He set down his plate and turned toward me.

I’m Marvin Alltop, Lake County Board Chairman. His hand was out. Should I know you?

Both my hands were full of plate and utensils so I gave him a half smile instead of a handshake. And, as I knew I would, I gawked. Here was a man who clearly had spent too many years eating rubber chicken Kiev and chocolate mint parfait at fund-raising dinners. It wasn’t just the portly figure that told me his history. It was the spiritless, clammy skin and sagging shoulders. This was a tired man who was at this party because he thought he had to be. There was no ‘want to’ in his manner at all.

Nice party, I said, feeling forced to respond to his introduction.

When you’ve got the money these people have, giving nice parties is easy.

I suppose that’s true. What a jerk, I thought. For all he knows, I’m hosting the next fundraiser.

You live ‘round here?

No, I’m from Chicago.

Oh. Alltop piled another half slab of ribs on his plate and lumbered away.

Guess I’m not worth any effort if I can’t vote for him, I thought.

He plodded toward the sunroom, his body like a ship making headway against a gale. Outside, Tiffany hailed me to join a group seated on folding chairs around a portable fireplace. Burning logs added warmth to the temperature as well as to the mood. Tiffany made the introductions.

Everyone, I’d like you to meet one of my dearest friends in the whole world, Kyle Shannon. Yes, her father wanted a boy. She lives in the city but is contemplating a move out here so you must be extra nice to her. She’d be a great asset to this community. Tiffany pointed to each member of the circle. That’s Matthew Ellison and his adorable wife, Susan. Matthew’s a bigwig at Choice Manufacturing. And this is Frannie Gable. She could be a model and live a life filled with glamour and adventure but instead she’s on the county zoning board. Her deliciously attractive husband is out of town again. Frannie, how do you stand it? And finally, coming up right behind you with another plateful of this fabulous food is our faithful Sheriff Ian Page. Where is your lovely wife, Ian?

Page nodded to me and leaned forward to peck Tiffany on the cheek. Liz isn’t feeling well so she begged off. She sends her love. He turned back to me. I’m a detective with a local police force, not the sheriff of the county. Pleased to meet you.

He remained standing until I took the empty chair between Frannie Gable and Matthew Ellison. Tiffany had been right about Frannie. Her faintly tanned skin showed few wrinkles and she had a figure that indicated dedicated hours on exercise equipment. High cheekbones and big dark eyes highlighted by just a touch of makeup made me wonder about her heritage. Whatever her gene pool, she was the kind of looker that even made women take notice.

Page was also an eye-catcher. He was taller than me by maybe three or four inches. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his jacket. His brown hair was cut close and he had no facial hair. But this was all surface stuff. My attention was drawn to his self-assured manner and his quiet command of the group. I watched the movement of his jacket trying to decide if there was a holster under his armpit.

Sweet barbecue sauce ran down my chin and dripped into the coleslaw. These are fabulous, I said, hunting for my napkin.

They ought to be. They’re from Herman’s, the best rib joint in Lake County, said Ellison. Even those of us who never eat ribs love Herman’s ribs.

To the food and our hosts. Both very impressive. Page held up a plastic cup in a casual toast to the Lodges.

That’s not all that’s impressive, I said. Dr. Lodge is amazing. I can’t get over the knowledge he demonstrated about the pieces in his Korean War collection.

That’s for sure, agreed Susan Ellison. And I hear you were playing with guns? She directed this to her husband.

He handed one to me. I had to take it or be impolite.

I can’t remember seeing a private collection of anything that has been researched so thoroughly, I said, swiping my chin again and looking at Tiffany. I know plenty of people who collect things, but this is real history. It hardly compares to the figurines in my curio case.

A collection can tell you a lot about a person, said Alltop, approaching the group. Based on what I saw, I’d say Gordon Lodge admires MacArthur. I intend to be like that great general. I’ll never die. After I’ve got my due, I’ll just fade quietly away.

I sensed Ellison stiffen. He said, You’ve been in office so long, Marvin, that when you pass on, your fellow politicos on the county board will just prop you up and it will be business as usual.

You’ll see, Matthew. I’ll be lounging at my pool long after you’re six feet under. With that, Alltop trudged back to the house.

Goodness, who is that man? My skin had prickles. He seems so…oily.

That’s Marvin Alltop, said Page. President of the county board and has been since this county had more horses than people. I gather that he was a really big wheel in his heyday but his time in power is finally ending, we hope.

He’s in bed with the developers, said Susan Ellison.

Marvin is a political beast from the old school, said Page, licking sauce off his thumb. He latched onto the power brokers back when development was in its infancy. He became a friend to the farmer because he defended their right to sell to whomever they pleased. And he was a friend to the developer because he defended their rights to build whatever they wanted on the land they bought from the farmers. Everyone loved Marvin Alltop. He was everyone’s best friend.

I hate to ask but why is he at a Sierra Club fundraiser if he’s anti-environment? I said.

He’s at every fundraiser, said Page. It’s the free food.

I looked into the dining room and there was Alltop, filling another plate.

After everyone stopped laughing, Page continued. He’s very careful to be seen where he thinks it’s important to be seen. When some reporter brings up environmental issues, now he can honestly say that he attended a Sierra Club fundraiser.

Wow, that’s cagey, I said. The truth without a speck of truth in it.

Now that’s the truth, said Tiffany. She turned to Page. Ian, he looks like a big wheel that’s getting rusty. He should find a new line of work. I’ve been to funerals where the corpses looked better.

I hear he has heart trouble now. He’s trying to keep his power base, but the last election showed his grip is weakening. Page put down his plate. There are still many in the county who won’t go against him, no matter what the issue, but we managed to get Irene elected. He’s never fully recovered from our victory.

That man has made my husband’s life miserable, said Susan, passing Ellison a moist towelette as she wiped barbecue sauce from her own hands. Matt’s company is trying to build a new headquarters building and the county board acts as if it’s their project, not his.

Ellison smiled gently. Alltop is not the entire board. Remember our hostess is also a member.

Speaking of Choice, said Tiffany. When is your little secretary due?

Not for awhile yet, but she seems to be having a difficult time. I won’t be surprised if she has to take early leave.

I worked up to the day before.

You’re an earth mother, Susan. Tiffany turned to me. She has four children. Can you imagine?

I looked at Susan Ellison in surprise. She didn’t look old enough to have two, let alone four. Her eyes were too violet for the color to be provided by nature and the contacts added an enigmatic feature to her face. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would create such an obviously false appearance but I put her purple eyes in the same category as a tattoo. Some people’s artistic canvas is their body. I wondered if Susan had different colored contacts to match each of her outfits. She wore her brunette hair loosely coiled and tacked to the back of her head with a large clip that matched her lavender dress.

Earth mother? I asked. You make your own bread, grow organic vegetables? That kind of earth mother?

Susan Ellison laughed. I do all that and teach besides.

More kids, said Tiffany. "I