The Marsh Madness

I LEFT KEV reeling from my threats of dire consequences if the still wasn’t gone within an hour. It’s not easy to scold an older relative, but there was no choice. And I wasn’t exaggerating. If the police found this mess, someone would be arrested for running an illegal still, and I hoped it wouldn’t be me or Vera or the signora.

As I clomped back to the house, I could hear Kev bellowing into his cell phone to his friend, Cherie. That was good. Cherie could make things happen. For all I knew, this wouldn’t be the first still she’d relocated. Not much would surprise me about her. She was a whiz with wiring, technology and computers, but she wasn’t a lawyer. I hurried back to do two key things: Make sure Uncle Kev had legal counsel ready to roll and find out if Chadwick had really been Chadwick.

Uncle Mick returned my call as soon as I left the message. We’d recently agreed on the code phrase “Olaf in Dublin.” It meant trouble, as I am sure it had for Dublin way back when.

“I hate to bother you when you’re in Manhattan, Uncle Mick.”

“No problem, we’re in the middle of—”

“Sorry to cut you off, but Kev is in trouble, though it’s mostly not his fault.”

“What do you mean, mostly? Of course it’s his fault.”

“This time it really isn’t, believe it or not. He did pick up a statue and he did get his prints on it, but he didn’t steal the statue, because if he had, it wouldn’t have ended up as a murder weapon. So I guess he’s getting better.”

“Murder weapon? Kev wouldn’t kill anyone . . . on purpose. Sure, he could blow up a house, but he’s never been violent. Kellys are peace-loving people. You have to explain Kev to them.”

Good luck to me explaining Kev to the cops. I said, “It isn’t because the police don’t believe me. They think we conspired to kill—”

“Kill who?”

“Not entirely sure about that, Uncle Mick. His name was supposedly Chadwick Kauffman, the heir to the Kauffman fortune. But at this point, honestly, I have no clue. It’s like an episode of Scooby-Doo. Now I’m wondering who’s real and who’s really dead.”

“You have to talk sense, my girl.”

“I’ll fill you in when I know more, but the reason I called is that Uncle Kev will need a good lawyer. Vera offered to pay. But she doesn’t know any defense lawyers. Yet.”

“I’ll call Sammy.”

“Too late. Sammy’s representing me.”

“But—”

“Someone called him and retained him on my behalf, and he says he can’t represent the two of us. And I don’t think even if I fired him that he could represent Kev after that.”

“Who’s paying him?”

“Oops. I’ve got to go. Can you get on it? I think the police are working on a warrant. They’ll probably be back soon to comb through Vera’s looking for who-knows-what.”

“What’s Kevin said to them?”

You never knew when someone managed to get a wiretap authorized. No way was I messing up on Uncle Kev by saying I knew where he was. It would have brought us a lot of grief.

“They haven’t found him yet. He’s out on errands and we haven’t seen him. He could be anywhere, and he doesn’t know the police want to talk to him.”

He did, of course, but we had to play the game in case the wrong ears were listening.

Mick grunted. “Leave it with me.”


*

WHEN THE GOING gets tough, the tough get going. They also get dressed up, or at least I did. I pulled on my vintage merino wool boatneck sweater in thick cream and black horizontal stripes. It went well with my black cigarette pants and sensible black ballet flats. Kind of Hepburnish. I was good to go. You’d never know I’d been grilled by the police.

I raced to the Saab and drove to the library.

Lance’s eyes widened when he saw me. He came straight around the reference desk, bypassing a line of his posse, each with their question du jour.

You could tell he was rattled. He didn’t bother with “beautiful lady” or any other endearments. “Jordan, about Chadwick Kauffman. Now, they’re saying he was murdered.”

“He was, and the cops think we did it.”

“What?”

I sighed. “All anybody seems to be able to say lately is, ‘What?’”