Mr. Softee Read online

  I conjured up a brief image of twitching Bernie Sneen.

  “I would expect he has to be fairly careful during the hiring process. Background checks, credit checks, that sort of thing,” Connie continued.

  Another image of Bernie popped into my mind.

  “Okay, but Connie, to your knowledge no one offers a competitive threat to him.”

  “A competitive threat to Mister Softee, for ice cream? No, I can’t imagine anyone providing much of a threat, it would be so expensive just to get started, let alone the overhead required with today’s fuel prices. I mean he loses six months a year just with bad weather. I just can’t see it. In fact, it’s nothing short of amazing that he’s done as well as he has. You know who you should talk to is the Scoop people.”

  “Scoop people?”

  “Over on the West Side, Double or Giant Scoop, something like that. I think they have a couple of trucks. They might be able to answer some of your questions. But now that I think about it, Mister Softee has a fleet, and the only competitor I can think of in town has two trucks. Anyway, give them a call, Staschio Lydell or Lydella, something like that. Hey look, Dev, I’ve gotta run. Great chatting, give me a call if I can be of any more help.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call Sandy.”

  “Well, that might not be the best idea, but then again you can’t really blame her.”

  “Thanks, Connie.”

  Chapter Five

  The Giant Scoop ice-cream company was located halfway down the Ohio Street hill, just across the High Bridge on the West side of St. Paul. The corporate head quarters, such as they were, were located in what looked to have been a neighborhood filling station sometime in the past. It must have been a distant past, the building was built in the late 1920s.

  It was brick, painted white with faded blue trim. The roof was covered with red glazed tiles. There were two large overhead doors on the right side, one of which stood open. You could almost see a gas-station attendant waiting to fill your car, wash the windows, and check your air pressure.

  Two yellow ice-cream trucks emblazoned with giant ice-cream cones on three sides and a triple-scoop-cone hood ornament were parked out front. Two dark-haired young women, in cutoffs and T-shirts, were loading the trucks with boxes of ice-cream treats.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Staschio,” I said, following up with my charming smile.

  “He’s not here,” one of the girls said. Neither one stopped stacking the cardboard boxes into the rear of the trucks, they must have missed my smile.

  They looked alike, and I guessed they might be sisters.

  “Do you expect him anytime soon?”

  “Not really,” the one closest to me said.

  She stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on the dark green apron around her waist, then stuck out her hand to shake.

  “Sorry, I’m Jill, that’s my sister, Annie.” She nodded at the girl still loading boxes into the back of the other truck.

  “Dev Haskell,” I said shaking her hand. She had a firm grip, dark brown eyes, a bright smile.

  “Hey,” Annie said, nodding in my direction, but not stopping her work.

  “Our grandfather isn’t here, and we’re kinda busy getting ready for the day. What’s this about?”

  I took out a couple of my business cards, handed them to Jill.

  “Haskell Investigations, Devlin Haskell, private investigator,” she read, then looked up at me.

  Annie stopped loading ice cream and took one of the cards from Jill.

  “Is there some kind of trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to learn more about the business and thought your grandfather might be able to help.”

  “Learn more about the ice-cream-truck business? Why?” Annie asked.

  “Yeah, what on earth for, thinking of making a career change or something?” Jill laughed.

  “No, just curious about what you do.”

  “Look we sell twelve different ice-cream treats, usually to kids,” Jill said pointing at a menu painted on the back of the truck.

  “We pay too much for product, pay too much for gas and taxes. Get raped by the city for a license. And by the time we repair whatever the latest breakdown will be on these trucks we have just about enough left over to pay ourselves almost a dollar an hour.”

  I looked from Jill to Annie.

  “That’s about right,” Annie said, “except I think you’re a little high on the hourly wage part.”

  “Tell you what, you got the time you can ride along with me today. That’ll answer just about any questions you might have,” Jill said.

  “Ride along with you? You mean in the truck?” I asked.

  “No, on top of it. Yes in the truck. You up for it?”

  “Well, I don’t know I got a couple of other appointments that…”

  Jill glanced over at the Lincoln Town Car I’d parked on the street, dark green, except for the light blue door on the passenger side. Then there was the slightly buckled hood where a brick wall had jumped in front of me one night.

  “Yeah sure, appointments. You don’t have shit to do, do you?”

  “I might.”

  “Come on, I could use the company.”

  Annie was shaking her head as she wheeled the empty cart back into one of the garage bays. She pushed a button to automatically lower the overhead door and walked back to her truck.

  “I’ll catch you two later,” she said.

  “So?’ Jill asked me.

  “Yeah, I guess, sure, why not?

  Chapter Six

  Jill didn’t have a chime that played some obnoxious child’s song on her truck. Instead there was a bell that rang every thirty seconds. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “This bell-ringing all day would drive me nuts,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the damn bell.

  Jill smiled and shook her head.

  “Believe it or not you get used to it. Tell you the truth, I don’t even hear it anymore. Although, it is nice to get home at the end of the day to peace and quiet with maybe just the clock ticking.”

  She was driving slowly along a residential street. Kids waved, you could see them running into the house theoretically to ask for money. Occasionally moms and kids flagged us down. Sometimes kids on bikes followed us. Despite Jimmy the bartender’s reaction, everyone I watched seemed genuinely glad to see us.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Just across the alley from the shop, it was my folks’ house. We grew up there. You?”

  “St. Paul, close to the Cathedral.”

  Jill nodded, then pulled to the curb as three kids waved currency and jumped up and down excitedly. Over the course of a few hours I handled the sales. Cherry and Root Beer Ice Bergs seemed to be big sellers. But then of course there was the always popular Fudgesicle. Eventually I got around to my client.

  “So how do you guys stack up against Mister Softee?”

  “That prick?”

  “You’re not a fan?”

  “Let’s just say no, and leave it at that.”

  “So he’s the big success everyone is gunning for?” I asked.

  Jill looked over her shoulder at me. I was sitting sideways on a card table chair, leaning against a cooler filled with all the ice cream treats.

  “Not really. I’m sure that jerk doesn’t even know we exist. I mean we’ve been out here for what?” she checked her watch. “Over four and a half hours. You’ve seen the amount of business we’ve done and for a weekday this has been pretty good. I oughta bring you along more often, you’re good luck,” she smiled.

  “Have you ever met the guy?”

  “You mean Mister Softee, himself? No. He and my grandfather started out as partners, about a thousand years ago. Grandpa never talks about it, but he got screwed somehow. We just do our deal over here, in this neighborhood. Mister Softee covers the rest of the world,” she half laughed, then pulled over for a fat kid at the curb.

  At no surpr
ise the kid knew the menu by heart.

  “Give me a banana Ice Burg, a chocolate ice-cream sandwich and a Giant Dilly bar, please.”

  It took me a moment to total things up. The Dilly Bar threw me, it was the first one I’d sold, two twenty-five each. The kid waited, drumming his fat little fingers on the counter impatiently, while I attempted to total things up in my head.

  “That’ll be six dollars and seventy-five cents,” I said cheerily.

  The kid glanced down at the exact change he’d laid on the counter almost five minutes earlier, six dollars and fifty cents. He shot a fake smile in my direction, snatched up the ice-cream treats, and fled the scene.

  “That’s what that kid needs, more ice cream. Want me to go after him?” I asked watching him waddle around the corner of a house.

  “No, he’s a good customer, besides, it was six fifty not six seventy-five,” Jill said as she pulled away from the curb.

  “So, you were telling me your grandfather was in business with Mister Softee.”

  “That’s the story. I guess there was some sort of a falling out. I don’t really know anything about it, we just do our own thing. Is that who you’re working for, Mister Softee?”

  “Me, Mister Softee? What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because it’s about the fourth time you’ve mentioned him. Maybe because I can’t think of who else would be interested in our business and now that you’ve seen it you can report back to your boss that there isn’t that much of it.”

  “He’s not my boss,” I shot back.

  “So you are working for that creep. I should have known. What? I suppose he’s gonna move a couple of trucks into our area, Jesus, you jerk. I’ll take you back. I’m sure you have a report to give him just as soon as possible.” I rocked back against the cooler as she accelerated down the street.

  “Hey, calm down, Jill. No, it’s nothing like that at all. If you want the truth, I’ll tell you, no need to get all offended,” I said stalling for time, doing a quick reassessment.

  “Sure you will,” she said, and sped up even more, clearly not convinced.

  “I just met the guy the other day. He hired me to find out who attempted to kill him.”

  “What, someone tried to kill that piece of poop, fantastic!”

  “Sorry to be the one to break the news, I can tell you’re distressed.” I said.

  “You just made my day. Wait till I tell Annie, she’ll freak.”

  “Yeah, well the bad news is, I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mister Softee got pretty banged up in a car accident, broke a leg or something. He’ll recover, but…”

  “Damn!”

  “He’ll recover, but I think it was just a hit and run that just happened to hit. I can’t believe anyone was out to get him.”

  “Why not, the guy is an absolute butt hole, ask anyone,” she said.

  “Hey, that seems to be the common perception, I get that part. But his being dead, would that improve your business any? If he had been killed, would you or your sister sell anymore ice cream today as opposed to last week at this time?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So, even though the guy is a jerk, and that seems to be the universal conclusion. I don’t see anyone in the ice-cream business crossing over the sane lane trying to kill the guy.”

  She glanced back at me for a long moment, then returned to her driving, shaking her head.

  “You better get your facts straight. I wasn’t thinking about his ice-cream business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you work for the guy?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sort of, I already told you that.”

  “You better check with the cops. I know, I know, they can’t prove anything, but we have a pretty good idea of what the profit margins are in this business. Lose a dollar a day and make it up on volume, it just doesn’t add up.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “What I’m saying is, here we are. You can get out here, thanks for riding along. Sorry it didn’t work out better, but you should have been up front with me,” she said, then pulled alongside my Lincoln, stopped, and stared straight ahead.

  “Look Jill, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said.

  “That’s okay, I’m not upset, honest, but I’ve got to get back to work so you better hop out.”

  “Okay, its been interesting, thanks for your time and the help,” I said exiting. I was halfway out the rear door when she accelerated and sent me stumbling into the street. By the time I was on my feet she’d rounded the corner, and the clanging bell grew fainter and fainter.

  Chapter Seven

  “No sir, like I said before, they’re gone. He checked out sometime last night. I came in this morning and learned they’d left.”

  I was talking with the station nurse on the wing where Mr. Softee had been. She didn’t seem all that upset that he was off her floor.

  “He couldn’t have healed up that quickly, could he? I mean, I thought he had a broken leg. You guys had him immobilized with some cushion things, and he was on medications or painkillers or something.”

  “I know. Actually a broken ankle, by the way. We recommended he not leave, but if the patient insists on wanting to check out, well at some point, there’s nothing we can do about it. Can’t say that we tried too hard to change his mind,” she added, the disdain in her tone apparent.

  “Difficult patient?”

  “Difficult couple. Look, I’ve got twenty-seven patients I’m responsible for on this wing. All of them have needs, questions, medications, scheduled procedures. I can’t station myself at any one door and wait to be at someone’s beck and call. That would be rather unfair now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So the Sofmanns decided that they would receive better care if they hired someone in their home. They’re probably right, provided there aren’t any complications and they employ qualified individuals. You have to have people who know and understand what should be done. There are inherent risks on all sides of that equation,” then she gave me a perfunctory nod.

  “I see.”

  “Will there be anything else, Mister Haskell?”

  “No, you’ve been quite helpful. Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  I phoned Mr. Softee. Lola’s little girl’s voice answered, I’d lost count of the rings.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sofmann, this is Dev Haskell.”

  There was a long pause.

  “The private eye. We met yesterday in your husband’s hospital room,” I added.

  “Oh, you,” she half squealed.

  “Yeah, I was able to clear some time on my calendar,” I lied. “I was wondering if I could stop over and speak with your husband. Go over some facts, see if I could learn anything else from either of you.”

  “Well, he’d be the one to talk to about that,” she said.

  “Coming over?”

  “No, learning something. What time did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “The sooner the better. I’ve got some time later today, if that would work?” I said looking at my empty beer glass and nodding at Jimmy for another.

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  “Wait, you haven’t, well I’m not exactly sure where you …” I blurted just before she hung up.

  I phoned her back, got the address on one of the city’s most prominent streets, Summit Avenue. Then sipped my late lunch and wondered what in the hell I was going to ask Mr. Softee.

  Chapter Nine

  The house on Summit Avenue was a three-story brick structure built about 1890. It had a slate roof, dormers on all sides and looked imperious. A seven-foot wrought-iron fence, updated with security cameras surrounded the manicured yard. Two large black Dobermans lay in the sun on the front steps. Just in case you didn’t get the message a sign on the front gate stated in large red letters “No trespassi
ng or solicitors.”

  There was a phone mounted on one of the brick pillars at the front gate. The moment I picked the receiver up I heard the audible whir of a camera overhead. As it turned and sighted in on me a small green light on the camera began to blink. I listened to the phone ringing somewhere on the other end for what seemed to be ten minutes. Eventually it was picked up.

  I could hear breathing but no words.

  “This is Devlin Haskell, to see Mister and Mrs. Sofmann,” I said.

  “I’ll let you in,” a squeaky female voice replied. There was a buzz and the gate lock made an audible click. I hung up the phone, pushed open the gate, stepped in then pulled the gate closed behind me.

  The heads on both Dobermans snapped up for just half a second before they flew off the front steps, racing toward me, barking and growling. They were large and sleek. They looked identical as they flew toward me, black with brown muzzles, black leather spike collars, and very large white fangs. I tugged on the gate, but the electronic lock had reengaged and I was caught inside. They covered the fifty feet from the front steps to me in just a second or two. I turned to face them as they came alongside with throaty growls, one drooling a trail of droplets on the sidewalk. Rabies?

  “Oh god,” I whimpered and hoped they’d been recently fed. I reminded myself they were capable of smelling fear and began to slowly walk as unthreateningly as possible toward the front door. Eventually I made it to the front steps and reached up to ring the doorbell, which set off more vicious barking and snarling. If I was supposed to feel intimidated it worked. I waited for what seemed like a lifetime before the front door finally opened.

  “Oh, Mister Haskell,” Lola squeaked over the growling monsters. She sounded genuinely surprised to see me although I’d spoken to her just a minute before. The dogs held their ground, but increased the tempo and viciousness of their barking. Lola continued to stand in the doorway and smile, either oblivious of, or thoroughly enjoying my predicament.

  “Could I please come in?” I pleaded in a squeaky voice that rivaled hers.