Free Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) by Marianne Harden Page A

gang member, was the sole breadwinner in her family, supporting two kids, overbearing parents, and a moocher ex-husband. Sort of like a Latina Britney Spears.
    “I had an accident in FoY’s van,” I said. “It’s totaled.”
    “Not a surprise. You’ve been with us, what, four months? It’s fate.”
    “I’m okay, though. Thanks for asking. The bad news is, Otto Weiner is dead.”
    Long silence.
    “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You not only totaled the van, but you killed Otto?”
    “Yes to the first question and no to the second. Someone suffocated him. They stashed his body in the van,” I said.
    “That’s it then, it’s over.”
    “What’s over?”
    Another pause. “You know? Otto, his bad temper.”
    As soon as she spoke, I knew she was hiding something, but over the phone was not the time to question her. “Hey, listen, Karl Lipschitz is making Solo and me go to the station to give our statements—”
    “I have an idea. How about you never call me again?” she said. “I frown on having guilt by association linked to my name.”
    I groaned. “Ah, come on, I really need you to drive Gilad and Elsa to their Sunday services. No other seniors signed up for rides, so they would be your only two. Pretty please.”
    “ Gracias a Dios ,” she said. “You still gonna make your shift at the marathon? We need every able body we can get to man FoY’s tent. It’s gonna be crazy busy.”
    “Sure thing. We’ll walk over after we’re done at the station. By the way, since you’ll be in the area dropping off Gilad at temple, would you mind swinging by Suicide Trestle and picking up my jacket? I hung it on the rail at the north end. My cell phone is in the pocket.”
    She said a four-letter-word—also known as excrement used to fertilize crops—and agreed to retrieve my things, then hung up.

    Solo and I jumped into the squad car and Zach took off. At the top of the driveway, my across-the-street neighbor was about to drop a letter into my mailbox. When elderly Mrs. Bebitch looked up, she demanded we stop by flailing her garden trowel. Zach pulled up alongside, Solo rolled down the passenger window, and she leaned inside.
    Zach and Solo greeted her. I, on the other hand, tried to be inconspicuous in the backseat. The woman freaked me out. She was never without that stupid trowel, which she wheeled freely at any hapless stupido who dared park on her private lane.
    “So, Rylie,” Mrs. Bebitch said. “The tax assessor wants his money. What is that look for, Zach O’Neil? I don’t check the addressee on envelopes. How could I have known I was opening Rylie’s grandfather’s mail? Oh, that reminds me, I saw your mother last night, Zach. I don’t mind telling you, it was hard to see her looking so miserable after you shot and killed that poor man last winter.”
    Zach grimaced, but she appeared oblivious to it.
    “Well,” she said. “Your shoulder must be better as your mother looks years younger, or maybe it’s having Father O’Brian from St. Patrick’s to cook for when he visits us. I will tell you this. I tasted her beef stew last night, before five o’clock Mass. Bland. Very bland.”
    “Father O’Brian watches his salt. He has high blood pressure,” Zach said.
    “I guess you heard he’s retiring,” she said.
    Zach nodded.
    “What we will do at St. Mary’s without a priest, only heaven knows. There is a serious shortage. Young men these days don’t want to make the sacrifice. Sex, sex, sex, that is all they think about. I ask you, what about my mortal soul?” She glanced at the letter in her hand and thrust it toward me. “Here.”
    “Thanks,” I managed as Solo relayed the letter. I tucked it away unread. It hardly mattered. I knew how much we owed the taxman.
    “Five minutes it took me to walk down here, Rylie Tabitha Keyes. Five minutes of my life, I’ll never get back. All thanks to your grandfather’s negligence. Imagine a man of his age not able to manage his