Immy didn’t need even a sweater tonight. Every day seemed warmer than the last lately. Soon enough, summer’s sweltering heat would be here, but tonight, Saltlickians were out in droves, enjoying the warm evening as she strolled past on the way to Clem’s. The diner had closed an hour ago, so he should be home by now.
She needed to find out why his truck was at the diner when Baxter was there, the day Hugh died, after the murder. She was hoping he would say he’d returned from buying groceries and had been in the food storage room or the locker, and that’s why Baxter saw his truck out back.
The other reason she wanted to visit Clem was because he had never adequately heeded the warnings about Frankie’s Uncle Guido. Any day now he might be a mob target. She thought maybe she should first stake out his house to make sure no hit men were lingering about. A quick perusal of her Compleat Guidebook made it clear she should provision herself adequately for a stakeout.
She was in luck as she approached the house with its cheerful, lit windows shining into his front yard. She spied an excellent place to carry out her surveillance, a clump of sage under his kitchen window. She had come prepared to watch all night, if need be. Her backpack held three peanut butter sandwiches and a package of animal crackers from Drew’s lunch stash. She had also packed a thermos of iced tea but wouldn’t drink that unless she was parched so she wouldn’t have to pee. She couldn’t figure out how people on stakeouts did that. At least, there was no mention in the Guidebook about how females did it. There was a section that could only pertain to men. It said to use the empty drink container. How could a woman do that?
In utter silence she crept to the window, parted the bush to squeeze into the middle of it, and poked her head over the sill, inch by excruciating inch. She first had to make sure Guido hadn’t already offed Clem or wasn’t holding him hostage.
Clem sat at his kitchen table, his broad back to her. The huge cat lay in front of him, getting stroked, its eyes narrowed in pleasure. Three boxes of sugar substitute packets sat on the floor next to them.
He was stealing from the restaurant! He had to be, otherwise why did he have so much sugar and sugar substitute at his house?
Fuming at his treachery made her hungry. She started to unwrap one of her sandwiches, slowly, so it wouldn’t make any plastic crinkling noises from the wrapper. She needed to do more observation. Moving her head to the edge of the window, she could see his kitchen counter where a half-head of cabbage sat next to a cutting board. That man sure did like cole slaw. Cole slaw. Cabbage.
It was at that point that Immy put it all together. Clem hadn’t gone out for cabbage. There had been cabbage on the counter in the kitchen when Immy peeked in the day Hugh was killed. He might have been in the storage room, but he wasn’t. He had stolen those sugar packets, not for profit or to use, but to make the murder look like a robbery. He had been there in the diner, had heard Hugh tell Hortense he was selling Huey’s Hash. He may even have been upstairs. Immy envisioned Clem’s overburdened, probably enlarged heart breaking at that. Clem had devoted his life to the restaurant, had never worked anywhere else for twenty years. His passion for Hortense would have extended, did extend, to Hortense’s daughter and grand-daughter, and now they would live in poverty.
Immy froze, going back over all the odd happenings. Had Clem planted Huey’s ID on Xenia while she was unconscious in the hospital? Had he planted the money and checks on Baxter, knowing he would pick up a bag of abandoned money?
Had he killed Hugh?
The murder must have been his attempt to protect Hortense’s family, an attempt gone horribly wrong.
Immy turned to leave, wanting to think this over at home. She was stopped by a very large man with a very large knife.
“So, do you have it all figured out now?”
“What? What, Clem? What would I have figured out?” Was her voice shaking? Probably. The rest of her body was.
“What exactly are you doing here?” He kept his voice low. No neighbors would be overhearing them. Before she could say she was trying to save his life, he rambled on. “You saw the box, didn’t you? I hid them when you were here before. You figured out I took the merchandise to throw off the investigation. You know I only killed him to protect Hortense.”
“Well, yes, Clem. I totally do not blame you for that.”
She needed to figure out how to call 9-1-1 with the phone in her pocket. There was no way she could get out of this bush and around this huge man without getting sliced.
“But you know.”
“Clem, I’ll never tell anyone.” Until after I’m out of here. She jammed the peanut butter sandwich she still held into her left front jeans pocket and fingered her cell phone in the other one. She had to flip it open to use it. Probably couldn’t do that with it in her pocket. “I only came here tonight to make sure Frankie’s Uncle Guido didn’t bump you off.”
“Why would he do that? Guido Giovanni?”
“Yes. I hear there’s a contract out on you.”
Clem’s jovial smile creased his face for an instant with his belly laugh. “Guido? We’re old friends, go way back. We went to high school together in El Paso.”
The smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He waved the knife at her. “Come inside. Someone might see us out here.”
The cat pussyfooted up to him and rubbed against his pant leg. “Good girl, Sheba,” he said. “She saw you in the window. That’s how I knew you were here.” His voice sounded so conversational, like he was telling her he’d decided to add fried chicken to the menu.
He reached down to pet the cat, keeping the knife pointed at Immy. The blade caught the light from the window. It looked extremely long and extremely sharp.
Immy was pretty sure she shouldn’t go inside his house, but how could she avoid it? He grabbed her arm, keeping the knife-holding hand out of her reach.
“Ow!”
Could she trip him? The man was solid as a brick wall, a slightly flabby but very solid brick wall. He yanked her and shoved her in the back door, into the kitchen.
“Know what?” said Immy, clutching at something to divert him. “I’m the owner of the restaurant now.”
“Are you sure? Hortense doesn’t own it?”
“No, no, the lawyer, Braden, he says I own it. It’s in Huey’s will.”
“Huey.” Clem spat into his kitchen sink. “He was going to sell the Double D.”
Immy looked around the kitchen, hoping to see another knife somewhere, maybe a bigger one. She touched her cell again.
“I need to think about this,” Clem said.
That was good. Thinking and not stabbing was good.
“Why is your hand in your pocket? You have a cell phone in there?” He snatched her hand out of the pocket and threw her cell phone across the room. The cover came off, and the battery went flying.
“Get in the pantry.” He threw her in, and she sprawled on the floor as the door slammed shut.
He stomped away, and Immy got up from where she had fallen. It was a surprisingly big pantry with room for at least four normal people to stand. Maybe one and a half Clems would fit inside. It was dark, but her eyes adjusted after a few moments, and the light seeping under the door showed her shelves full of cans and jars and boxes on the three walls. Surely she would be able to bop him over the head with one of the giant tomato cans when he came in. OK, now, how to get him to come in?
“Clem,” she called. “I have to go potty.”
She heard his ponderous footsteps across the floor. He opened the door a crack.
Clem gave a little choke. “Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Yes, yes. Everyone knows.”
He stepped inside the room, closed the door, and switched the overhead light on.
“I’ll bet no one does. You’re playing detective again, and your mother doesn’t like that. She’s told me so. I don’t think you told her you were coming here to spy on me.” He coughed again, kind of a strangling choke.
“I did, I did tell her.” Immy bobbed her head up and down. She took her sandwich out of her pocket, thinking there was something she should be remembering about Clem.
“See?” She thrust her sandwich toward him. “She made me these sandwiches.”
Not true, but she could have.
Clem’s throat gave a curious gurgle. “What…is…that?”
“A peanut butter sandwich.”
Clem dropped the knife and turned, trying to get away from her. He grasped for the door knob and missed, slumped to the floor. “Allergic…peanuts…” He thudded to the ground, clutching his throat.
Oh, yeah. Clem was allergic to peanuts.
Immy kissed the sandwich and threw it down beside his massive, writhing body. She burst out of the pantry, picked up her cell phone and put it together. Called 9-1-1. And ran like hell.