Free Throw in the Trowel by Kate Collins

ginormous Central Park. Our park had a band shell and performing stage, a water fountain for kids to play in, benches on the green space ringing the park, and lots of newly planted trees. Seedy was fearful of all the people at first, but once she started sniffing trees, she forgot her fear and began to roll around on the cool grass, having a great time. I saw a few people casting skeptical glances her way, as though they couldn’t believe a pitiful sight like her could exist, but others wanted to know all about her. I didn’t mind answering because it gave me the opportunity to talk about the plight of rescued animals that needed homes.
    As soon as I got back to Bloomers, I took a photo of the leather key chain, uploaded it onto my computer, and enlarged it. Then, while I ate my turkey sandwich, I sketched out what the design on the front looked like—a short pipe sticking out of a circle at a ninety degree angle. There seemed to be a rim around the inside of the circle. Was the circle a wheel?
    â€œWhatcha looking at?” Lottie asked, peering over my shoulder at the image on the monitor.
    I held up the key chain. “I’m trying to figure out what this image is. What does it look like to you? I tried to draw it out.”
    â€œLooks like a gun,” she said, squinting at it.
    â€œIt’s a cannon,” Grace said. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t heard her come in. “An old-fashioned military cannon. Cannon Construction has used that logo for decades. If you look closely, you’ll see the letter C on the inside of the wheel.”
    Once she pointed it out, I could see the letter on the monitor’s image. It was not as evident on the key chain itself, which had been worn nearly smooth.
    â€œSeedy dug it out of the dirt near the body,” I told the women.
    â€œAha,” Grace said. “Your first clue.”
    â€œOr not,” Lottie said. “It could have been dropped there during the building’s construction.”
    â€œThe building is over ninety years old, Lottie dear,” Grace said. “Cannon Construction Company didn’t exist back then. As I recall, Kermit started his business in the late sixties. His son runs it now.”
    â€œHis name was Kermit?” I asked. “Like the frog?”
    â€œIt was an old Irish name long before it was given to a frog,” Grace said.
    â€œSo,” I said, studying the leather strap, “how did a key chain from the late nineteen sixties end up buried beneath the floor of a ninety-year-old building?”
    â€œI’ll bet Kermit dropped it there while he was doing some work for Rusty Miller,” Lottie said.
    â€œIt couldn’t have been for Rusty Miller,” I said. “According to the interview Rusty gave Connor MacKay that was in today’s paper, the floor was intact for the entire thirty years that he owned it. So it would have to have been for the previous owner.”
    Grace tapped her chin. “I believe Mr. MacKay got that wrong, love—either that or Rusty has a faulty memory. Do ask Gert. She’ll know when Rusty took over the place.”
    â€œHey, Gracie,” Lottie said, “remember what a big scandal it was when Kermit left his wife and kids to run off with Parthenia Pappas?”
    â€œThat’s the story I was trying to remember yesterday,” Grace said. “Kermit and Parthenia. Midseventies, if I remember correctly.”
    â€œParthenia Pappas?” I asked. “The Duchess?”
    â€œThe very same,” Grace said.
    Parthenia Pappas, who billed herself as the Duchess of Tenth Street, partly due to her regal bearing and Greco-Egyptian descent and partly due to her studio on Tenth Street, was a local celebrity. She worked in multiple art media but had become well-known nationally for her sculpture. My mother was a huge fan and had recently begun taking sculpting lessons from her. I wondered if Mom knew about the Duchess’s infamous