Hunting Sweetie Rose : A Mystery (9781429950879) Read Online Free Page B

managed, but it was tentative.
    Leo’s lips widened into a sly smile. “Brilliant, huh? Low-impact workouts, easily done, standing up.”
    â€œNot pipes.” I pointed to the hardware on the floor. “Poles.”
    His smile broadened until his head was half teeth. “Ma’s lady friend Mrs. Roshiska has a nephew, Bernard. He’s an accountant. He told me it’s all the rage. Excellent exercise, particularly for older ladies.”
    â€œSeptuagenarians?” I started laughing. No, not laughing; shrieking. The picture forming in my head, of Ma Brumsky and her lady friends, struggling to work poles like the torsos who pranced in the joints along Thompson Avenue, was going to blind me.
    â€œJust muscle toning, you letch,” Leo sputtered, trying not to lose control himself. “Bernard—”
    â€œI know.” My eyes had filled with tears. “Bernard, the nephew accountant, says it’s all the rage.”
    With great will, I calmed myself, and we went to work. Periodically, though, I had to pause, to wipe my eyes, and to convulse.
    It took less than an hour to mount the eight pipes to the floor and ceiling. When we were done, I stood back to study the loose maze we’d created. Almost all of the poles were within five feet of each other.
    â€œThey’re too close together,” I said.
    â€œThey can’t really kick high.”
    I chewed my lower lip. “What about that one?” I asked, when my breathing had steadied. One of the poles was set farther apart from the others.
    â€œMrs. Roshiska’s. She needs a walker.”
    That did it. I howled all the way up the stairs, across the yard, and into the truck. I was still laughing when he threw me out in front of the turret.
    *   *   *
    A Lieutenant Jawarski called at six fifteen that evening.
    â€œI was told you had questions regarding the death of James Stitts.” His words were clipped, impatient. The Bohemian’s clout must have come down hot from someone important.
    â€œJames Stitts was the clown?”
    â€œYou don’t even know his name?”
    â€œActually, I have very few questions.”
    â€œInsurance questions?”
    â€œAny doubt as to cause of death?” I asked, sidestepping.
    Jaworski took a minute, evaluating my obvious evasion.
    â€œLousy Boy Scouting,” he said, finally. He must have decided I wasn’t worth more anger.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œMr. Stitts never learned his knots. He tied his safety rope around the door on the roof. The knot came loose, the rope came away, down he went. Simple carelessness. Death by poor knotting.”
    â€œYou checked the rope?”
    â€œBrand-new, no frays. He tied a lousy knot, was all.”
    â€œAnd you checked the door?”
    â€œSolid enough to hold a rope. Nothing gave way.”
    â€œWhat was he doing up there?” I asked.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, Elstrom.”
    â€œAn advertising stunt?”
    â€œMust have been. Stitts did birthday parties, car dealerships, store openings. Lots of balloons. His wife said he got two or three gigs a month.”
    â€œWhat was he trying to advertise, up on that roof?”
    â€œHow the hell would I know that?”
    â€œBy what he left behind.”
    â€œHe left nothing behind.”
    Not even a mark of a rope pulling off a door, but that observation I owed to Timothy Duggan, not to a cop.
    â€œSo you don’t know who hired him?” I asked instead.
    Jawarski paused. “What does that have to do with insurance?”
    â€œRoutine, for the file.”
    â€œI told you, I don’t know what he was pushing,” Jaworski said.
    â€œYou asked his wife?”
    â€œSure,” he said, after enough hesitation to mean he hadn’t.
    â€œNow you’re at a dead end?”
    â€œNot a dead end, damn it. The man’s rope came loose, and he fell.” He took a breath. “Now, if that’s