Ginny Aiken - Mistaken for the Mob

“You’re nuts,” Dan told J.Z.

“Why? Because I know she’s pulling a fast one?”

“No. Because, man, you’ve taken a long walk down the diving board and gone off the deep end this time. You’ve let something personal get in the way of your work. Will you just look at her? I doubt she’s ever even killed a fly.”

J.Z. looked at Maryanne Wellborn as she smiled at and hugged other worshippers on her way down the church steps.

“That,” he said to his partner, “is what she wants us to believe. I’ll admit she’s good—very good.”

When J.Z. had first seen the librarian, she’d worn a boring baggy tan skirt and brown-and-white checked shirt. The next time, she’d sported garments in a gloomy shade of gray. Today, for Sunday School and the worship service, she had on a dingy-taupe dress that hung to about an inch above her ankles. A narrow brown belt caught the shapeless thing at her waist.

“Even if you can’t,” he added, “I can see right through her.”

Dan tapped J.Z.’s shoulder with a fist. “Then you must have X-ray vision. I don’t think there’s anything here. I’ve a feeling she’s just what she looks like, a serious librarian with more on her mind than the latest fashions.”

After a pause, Dan went on. “Don’t take it wrong, okay? I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself. I mean, you almost blew it at the library, and then at the mall. All that after you promised you’d be careful.”

J.Z. went to argue, but Dan held up a hand.

“She’s not dumb, you know. You shouldn’t have talked Zelda into letting you take her place. You have to keep a professional distance.”

“You forget I’m the senior agent here.”

“But you’re acting like a rookie with a bone to pick. Unless you want to blow a case we’ve worked for months, you’d better get a hold of yourself.”

“So what do you have to say about the lab findings? Those were her fingerprints on Laundromat’s IV-fluids stand. They match the ones we lifted from her desk.”

Dan shrugged. “She’s in and out of that nursing home with her library cart and to visit her father all the time. Who knows when she might have touched the thing? For an innocent reason, I mean.”

J.Z. snorted. “They have sick people there, Dan. All that equipment is cleaned and disinfected and sanitized—all the time. It’d be pretty hard for fingerprints to survive that kind of scouring.”

“Hey, there’s always a first time for everything.”

So as not to continue the argument, J.Z. ground his teeth. He followed Maryanne’s progress toward her plain little Ford, and took note of how she patted the tight bun at the back of her neck.

He didn’t buy the story she was selling. No woman would choose to hide her hair like that without a reason.

Many years ago, his father had mastered the art of the innocuous appearance. The plain black suits, black ties, white shirts and black shoes he’d worn were the male equivalent of Maryanne’s dowdy wardrobe. Her bun was the perfect counterpart to Obadiah’s unremarkable barbershop cut.

He had to give the devil his, or in this case her, due—Maryanne Wellborn had her cover down pat, just like his father had. But J.Z. wasn’t about to let the illusion of respectability get in the way of his mission. He hadn’t gone over the edge; he just knew the difference between a trick and reality.

Everywhere the librarian went he’d be sure to follow. He would keep the pressure on her until she cracked. Sooner or later, she’d talk. And then he’d bust her, Olive Oyl disguise notwithstanding.

Maryanne ran into her father’s suite, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The Sunday School Council meeting after the service dragged on forever.”

“Gimme a hug,” Stan said. “And in about an hour I’ll be the one griping about endless meetings. The Residents’ Senate has an agenda fatter than the Federal budget for today’s meeting.”

“Oh.” She plopped onto his bed. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll come back later…maybe after dinner.”

Stan caught her fingers. “Don’t you dare leave me to the mercy of that bunch of geezers.”

“Dad! How can you call them something so ugly? Besides, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And that’s why I can call us anything I please. We’re geezers, all right. Just you come and listen to us. I know you’ll agree before the pecking party’s over.”

Since her father rarely asked of anything, Maryanne didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only if you promise I won’t fall asleep during this senate thing.”

Stan winked and pushed the forward button on his wheelchair. “I can promise you fireworks, Cookie. Besides, I still have some of my birthday cake in the fridge. Come back here with me after the shoot-out’s over, and we can make a serious dent in it.”

Maryanne frowned. “How’s your blood sugar?”

“Bah!” Stan waved and rolled ahead. “I’m sick and tired of all that poking and bleeding. Can’t a man have himself a piece of cake without it turning into a big deal?”

“Oh, Daddy.” She hated the part of party pooper. “I wish I could tell you it’s no big deal, but you’re in that wheelchair because of the diabetes. The amputation was no joke, and we have to take care of your heart.”

Irritation flared in Stan Wellborn’s blue eyes, but he stifled it almost as soon as she saw it. “Don’t mind me, Cookie. I just get testy when I can’t have my way. I know the Lord’s blessed me with a bunch more days to hang around this side of life, and I can’t dishonor His gift by misbehaving. But I won’t deny I’d sure like to every once in a while.”

Before she could respond, he opened the apartment door, and waited for her to join him. He locked up, then propelled his wheelchair toward the elevator at the end of the long interior balcony that served as a hall.

They made their way down in silence, consumed by private thoughts. Once the elevator pinged at the mezzanine level, they waited for the doors to open. Maryanne followed her father to the activities hall. His friends greeted her with affection, a fondness she returned. Soon, however, petite Mitzi Steinbrom tottered on her stiletto heels to the podium.

“Yikes!” Maryanne leaned closer to Stan. “Has Mrs. Steinbrom ever fallen from those spikes?”

“Alls I know is that she says they give her a regal bearing. I guess if you translate from Mitzish to English, that means she feels a need to make up for her lack of height.”

Maryanne glanced forward again, but the plucky widow had disappeared. “Where—”

“Watch,” her father answered. “She had maintenance build her a set of steps. Otherwise, we’d never see her over that dumb stand she insists she needs to run these goofy gatherings. She likes to follow Roberts’ Rules, but no one else here’s willing to waste time on those kinds of things.”

Sure enough, the tangerine curls popped up over the lectern and Mrs. Steinbrom tapped the microphone. The woodpecker beat self-destructed into a wicked screech. From the control room at the back of the hall, a man hollered, “Sorry about that.”

Mrs. Steinbrom smiled magnanimously. “We’re used to it, Reggie. We’ll wait until you’ve fixed it.”

“Hey, Mitzi!” A bald gentleman waved a cane from the far right bank of chairs. “We heard Reggie, so it’s fixed. Get on with your dog-and-pony show. I want to catch my before-dinner nap.”

An eleven-type fold appeared between Mitzi’s penciled-in brown brows. She smiled, clearly comfortable with the noblesse oblige she felt the position of chairwoman required.

“Very well, Roger. We’ll bring this meeting to order.”