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Authors: Susan Furlong Bolliger
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behavior….”
“Illegal behavior? Calina?”
“Yes, well…you know… like maybe the Russian mob.”
She sat upright, making some sort of weird noise that sounded like a mixture of air letting out of a tire and a cat’s hiss. I watched tiny droplets spray from her mouth, glad that I was positioned far enough away to be safe from the spittle-splash.
“Mobster?” her voice crackled with what I took to be laughter. “Why do all you people think every Russian is a mobster? Calina earned her money honestly. She was a… what do you say? Kept woman.”
That’s not what I expected to hear. “A kept woman?”
Mrs. Stanislav raised a wrinkled hand in my direction as if to emphasize her next point. “Such a beautiful woman. Too young for cancer. And where was he when she died? Nowhere. Not even descent enough to be with her in the last moments. She died all alone.”
“Her son wasn’t here?”
“No, her lover. But, her son? That no good…,” Mrs. Stanislav paused. I could see her working her tongue inside her mouth, adjusting her dentures. They must have been slipping. “Her son is a spoiled brat. Calina was a weak mother. She could never say ‘no’ to him. He never wanted for nothing.”
“I see,” I said, thinking that what Calina really should have given him was about fifty electrolysis sessions. “Do you know who her, her, um…?”
“It’s no secret. Calina talked about him all the time. An Irishman, James Farrell. They’d been together for years.”
My heart thudded with excitement. Golly gee, a solid clue. I jotted it down enthusiastically.
I heard the sharp dinging of bells. Mrs. Stanislav turned up the volume just as the showcase winner was announced. I was right; sixteen five was way too low.
She sat grinning at the boob tube, her cloudy eyes round with excitement and her jaw working frantically back and forth. I thanked her and quietly excused myself, nodding guiltily to the Madonna as I showed myself out.
Chapter 8
“ That James Farrell?” I was talking to myself as I typed on the keyboard. It had only really taken two clicks to get a full biography on Calina’s lover.
I thought the name sounded familiar. James Farrell the hot dog king. Of course! I ate at JimDogs all the time. Best deal in town. My personal favorite was the Junior J-dog combo meal with a CubbyPup and a frosty mug of root beer.
What a story James Farrell had. The product of a large, poor south-side Irish family, James Farrell had worked hard and built his hot dog dynasty from the ground up. No rich daddy, no fancy business degree, no government grants, just a determined spirit, hard work, and innovation—that innovation being his version of the hot dog bun. As the story goes, young James spent days in his mother’s kitchen, experimenting with her bread recipes, until he created what, in my opinion, was the best hot dog bun in the whole world. Light…flakey…buttery…my mouth was watering just thinking about it. He took his products and hit the streets, peddling his cart from one street corner to the next. His reputation grew quickly as everyone started talking about James’s Dogs which was eventually shortened to JimDogs. Soon, he had enough revenue to move his pups to a permanent JimDogs residence, which he opened right here in Naperville. Since then, the business had grown with franchises in twelve states. The guy was the quintessential American rags-to-riches story.
And now I had discovered that he was also the keeper of a Russian mistress. Not so good, considering he was married with a grown son.
All very interesting, but how could there possibly be any connection between JimDogs and Jane’s murder? I had no idea. My previous excitement began to fizzle. I thought I’d stumbled upon some case-breaking evidence, but there was no way to connect James Farrell with these murders. What motive would he have? The guy was worth millions; he’d probably never set foot in a consignment
“Illegal behavior? Calina?”
“Yes, well…you know… like maybe the Russian mob.”
She sat upright, making some sort of weird noise that sounded like a mixture of air letting out of a tire and a cat’s hiss. I watched tiny droplets spray from her mouth, glad that I was positioned far enough away to be safe from the spittle-splash.
“Mobster?” her voice crackled with what I took to be laughter. “Why do all you people think every Russian is a mobster? Calina earned her money honestly. She was a… what do you say? Kept woman.”
That’s not what I expected to hear. “A kept woman?”
Mrs. Stanislav raised a wrinkled hand in my direction as if to emphasize her next point. “Such a beautiful woman. Too young for cancer. And where was he when she died? Nowhere. Not even descent enough to be with her in the last moments. She died all alone.”
“Her son wasn’t here?”
“No, her lover. But, her son? That no good…,” Mrs. Stanislav paused. I could see her working her tongue inside her mouth, adjusting her dentures. They must have been slipping. “Her son is a spoiled brat. Calina was a weak mother. She could never say ‘no’ to him. He never wanted for nothing.”
“I see,” I said, thinking that what Calina really should have given him was about fifty electrolysis sessions. “Do you know who her, her, um…?”
“It’s no secret. Calina talked about him all the time. An Irishman, James Farrell. They’d been together for years.”
My heart thudded with excitement. Golly gee, a solid clue. I jotted it down enthusiastically.
I heard the sharp dinging of bells. Mrs. Stanislav turned up the volume just as the showcase winner was announced. I was right; sixteen five was way too low.
She sat grinning at the boob tube, her cloudy eyes round with excitement and her jaw working frantically back and forth. I thanked her and quietly excused myself, nodding guiltily to the Madonna as I showed myself out.
Chapter 8
“ That James Farrell?” I was talking to myself as I typed on the keyboard. It had only really taken two clicks to get a full biography on Calina’s lover.
I thought the name sounded familiar. James Farrell the hot dog king. Of course! I ate at JimDogs all the time. Best deal in town. My personal favorite was the Junior J-dog combo meal with a CubbyPup and a frosty mug of root beer.
What a story James Farrell had. The product of a large, poor south-side Irish family, James Farrell had worked hard and built his hot dog dynasty from the ground up. No rich daddy, no fancy business degree, no government grants, just a determined spirit, hard work, and innovation—that innovation being his version of the hot dog bun. As the story goes, young James spent days in his mother’s kitchen, experimenting with her bread recipes, until he created what, in my opinion, was the best hot dog bun in the whole world. Light…flakey…buttery…my mouth was watering just thinking about it. He took his products and hit the streets, peddling his cart from one street corner to the next. His reputation grew quickly as everyone started talking about James’s Dogs which was eventually shortened to JimDogs. Soon, he had enough revenue to move his pups to a permanent JimDogs residence, which he opened right here in Naperville. Since then, the business had grown with franchises in twelve states. The guy was the quintessential American rags-to-riches story.
And now I had discovered that he was also the keeper of a Russian mistress. Not so good, considering he was married with a grown son.
All very interesting, but how could there possibly be any connection between JimDogs and Jane’s murder? I had no idea. My previous excitement began to fizzle. I thought I’d stumbled upon some case-breaking evidence, but there was no way to connect James Farrell with these murders. What motive would he have? The guy was worth millions; he’d probably never set foot in a consignment
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