Read Geared for the Grave (A Cycle Path Mystery) for Free Online Page A

bust, just like every other batch I make, so I’m giving up, burning the place to the ground and collecting the insurance.”
    Okay, Irma didn’t look crazy. No twitches, no evil glint in the eyes, no dagger strapped to her hip or snake tattooed on her forehead. She looked like someone who should have
Grandma
in front of her name. “All that over bad fudge?”
    “Because I’m having a dreadful time making good fudge—any kind of good fudge.” Irma sat, shoulders sagging. “Dutchy swiped my husband’s fudge recipes and is now cohabiting with that two-bit Delong tramp on the next block, do you believe that? They opened Rita’s Fudge Shoppe and are getting rich off of what’s mine. I suppose they had this planned all along. My dear departed husband made the best fudge on the island. Then Dutchy made goo-goo eyes at me, the lonely widow, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.”
    “What about dropping your prices, running an ad and giving Rita and Dutchy some competition.”
    “My dear husband did all the cooking, and so did Dutchy. Heaving those pots and flipping fudge takes lots of muscle. I took care of the customers and the books and now there isn’t any of either one.”
    Irma waved her hand over the store, then pulled a box of matches from her apron. “So how much more paper do you think I need to get a nice hefty blaze going in here? And don’t worry about being a witness or tattling on me. You’re a fudgie, so no one will pay any attention.”
    “But you can just sell the place.”
    “There will be more gossip and I’ll feel stupid because I can’t get it right.” She nodded to a five-foot loaf of something chocolate on one of the marble tables. “Looks real good, doesn’t it? Tastes like roadkill with nuts. Takes years to perfect a big-batch recipe.”
    Irma nibbled her bottom lip, glasses sliding down her nose. I knew this feeling of being double-crossed by a piece-of-dung guy and having your job in the toilet. My pocket buzzed and I yanked out Sheldon to find a text from Abigail. Call me!
What was I going to say?
Hey, boss, your dad’s accused of murder and his shop could be a pile of cinders by noon thanks to the crazy lady next door starting a fire?
    “Let’s go see this Dwight guy,” I blurted. I needed answers to the Bunny Festival and had to start somewhere, and a change of scenery might help Irma stay off the island’s most-wanted list.
    “I wasn’t kidding about the pompoms.”
    “I’m Evie Bloomfield from Chicago. I can handle anything Dwight the Third has to offer, and fresh air will make you feel better.”
    “So will a match.”
    Ten minutes later, Irma and I climbed the same steps I had come down the night before. In the light of day I could read the sign:
Crow’s Nest Trail
. The steps zigzagged up the hillside, leading from downtown up to Huron Street, and by the time we got to the top my lungs were on fire, and Irma not breaking a sweat. We could have taken Huron all the way around to Truscott Street, like Irish Donna and I did last night in the buggy, but it added twenty minutes to the commute. There were two directions on the island, up and down, and one was a heck of a lot easier than the other.
    “These houses have some view,” I wheezed, staring out at Mackinac Bridge, boats bobbing at their moorings and rooster-plumes of spray behind the ferries whizzing fudgies to the mainland under a bright blue sky.
    “And they sure pay dearly for it, I can tell you that.” We continued on up the road, one massive cottage bigger and grander than the next, with wide verandas, curved porches and flowers galore. We passed a cluster of concrete planters, purple and white petunias spilling over the top like a waterfall. We stopped in front of SeeFar, Fiona and her horse cart pulling up right beside us.
    Fiona was a skinny Tina Fey, minus makeup. She leaned down from her perch, the sunlight bouncing off the purple sequins, a healthy blush to her cheeks—an obvious perk of