by Ellen Parker
Hiding Places
Ellen Parker
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Ellen M. Parker.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8269-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8269-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8270-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8270-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/arekmalang and iStockphoton.com/ImagineGolf
To Rance and Roy
Brothers who have been teachers, protectors, and friends to this “little sister.”
Acknowledgments
Many people have contributed to this story. I’d like to especially recognize the members of Missouri Romance Writers of America for their continuing education and support.
Craig Schultz contributed generous time and expertise concerning apple orchards.
And to Lois Scorgie for support and thoughtful questions that strengthened the story from beginning to end.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
“He’s coming after you, sis.”
Mona Smith tensed and straightened her spine to parallel the gray metal chair. Matt’s voice grated harsh on her ears as he slowed his words through a split lip. Who beat you? She focused on her brother’s face, remembering him without a black eye and dark bruises against prison orange clothing.
The clink of metal against metal caused her to glance around the plain gray room. Three other tables of inmates, confined with shackles, and their visitors talked under the watchful gaze of a uniformed Minnesota Department of Corrections officer near the door. She made a quick comparison to last week’s visit at the county jail and didn’t like the difference. She breathed in a little courage. If Matt could live here for two years, she would visit. After all, she was the dependable child, the big sister attempting to keep little brother out of trouble.
“Who?” She rested her palms on the table, careful not to touch her brother.
“Basil. My boss. You’ve met him.”
She nodded as a cold shiver crossed her shoulders. Basil Berg embodied pure trouble. Matt had pointed him out months ago with a warning not to get involved. From what Mona picked up from stray bits of conversation, Basil’s primary revenue source was party drugs. Prostitution and burglary rounded out his business. “He came into the diner twice last week.”
“Not good, sis.”
“He behaves as a customer. No reason to refuse service.” He also drank iced tea with a full breakfast at three in the morning and stared at her past polite intervals. She felt like a mouse dropped into a snake’s cage when he looked her direction. “Why is he coming after me?”
Matt glanced toward the guard before dropping his voice even lower. “Money. Twenty-five grand.”
“That’s a year’s wages. I don’t have that sort of cash.” Cool moisture gathered on Mona’s neck. She separated her hands to reach for a tissue before realizing her pockets were empty. The only possession the officials let her bring into this room was a bright orange key to the locker in the reception area. “If I did—”
“I know.” Matt lifted one slight shoulder. “You’d pay off Mother’s final medical bills.”
“It’s the honest thing to do.” She sealed her lips before the beginning of their late mother’s basic monologue on the advantage of truth over expediency slipped out. She’d be visiting her brother at a Minneapolis park or coffee shop instead of prison if he’d taken that advice. “How did Basil get the notion I have money?”
Matt rubbed the three stars tattooed on his right forearm. “He got bad information. One of his minions convinced him I withheld a portion of his take on the pawnshop heist. I didn’t. Always gave him his cut on assignments.”
“Then—”
“I freelanced. A few jobs. Small stuff. Neighbor of the old lady they accused me of assaulting. One or two profitable break-ins the week before. You don’t need the details.” Matt dipped his face to rub one ear with a manacled hand. “Didn’t get near the amount his imaginative lackey reported. But Basil’s prone to believe what he wants.”
“He gives me the creeps.” And watches me like a predator. “Should I call the police if I see that flashy ride of his near the apartment?”
“No.” Matt jerked back, his chains clattering against the metal table, and the guard gave them a hard look. He eased forward again and lowered his voice to soft conversation volume. “Don’t call the cops on Basil—ever. And for your information, he drives a restored El Camino.”
She studied his face, and rated the expression as panic level twelve on a scale of ten. “Why shouldn’t I call the cops on him?”
“You’d have another funeral to arrange. I didn’t walk into a door.” He pointed first to his face and then to several bruises along the edge of his prison clothes. “Initiation. All I did was walk across the yard. Basil’s inside men play rough.”
“I’m leaving the apartment in two weeks.” She paused for an instant. Would his next sentence change her plans again? Her friend offered cheap rent but she didn’t want to put another person in danger. “I’m moving in—”
“Don’t tell me.” A shake of his head reinforced his words. “Don’t tell anyone. Just do it.”
“It’s that bad?” Mona rubbed her thumbs in lieu of asking the questions popping up like poisonous mushrooms after a rain. How much was Basil capable of? Could he order a murder to occur inside prison? Like a movie? She refused to put Matt’s life at further risk. The two of them only had each other. She chose not to count Aunt Lucy in Duluth. Mother’s sister was nice, she’d even helped with the funeral expenses, but their bond with her didn’t run deep.
“You know what to do.”
She nodded. Through the years they’d discussed several ways Matt could leave the Twin Cities and start fresh. Half of them involved a vanishing act before looking up their father. It’d been three years since the last letter from Joseph Ignatius Smith. She closed her eyes and thought hard for a moment, but the name of the city in Washington State on the envelope didn’t come. In all their bantered planning through the years she’d never thought she’d be the one needing to run. “I don’t want to abandon you.”
“I’m past your help. You need to take care of you.” He le
aned forward to the invisible midline of the table.
She sighed. Matt was right. She needed to get away, give Basil and his drug organization time to forget her. I’ll start when I get home. A list of actions to take, beginning with giving notice and asking for a reference at the diner, had already started in the list-making portion of her mind. She’d find a place to land and seek work. She could waitress. Or cook. Or work as a maid.
“Two minutes, visitors.” The guard announced the imminent end of their time together.
“Until next time?” Matt looked up from his handcuffs and stared into her eyes.
“Yes. Next time.” She struggled with the lump in her throat representing how long to “next time.” Would it be weeks? Months? When she walked out of this windowless room and back into an early June afternoon, would it be up to Matt to find her after his two-year sentence? She stared into his deep, dark eyes and memorized the face too worn for twenty-three years. “Take care, little brother.”
• • •
Mona opened the brass mailbox and tucked the contents into her waistband. A moment later she unlocked the apartment building’s interior door and headed for the stairs. Bits and pieces of Matt’s conversation continued to chase each other, undeterred by the three bus transfers, two-block walk, and pleasant spring weather.
Will I visit the prison again? She grasped the wooden handrail at the memory of all the negative aspects of the visit. Even after researching the facility, the sheer size had nearly overwhelmed her. She’d expected rules and formality, but not the extent of the difference with the county jail.
He’s coming after you. Initiation. Matt’s words, plus the tone of voice used to say them, were enough to keep a person awake at night. Her self-assigned duty to protect Matt needed to be put on hold. He told her to take care of herself. The best way to be the good big sister in this case was to get away from Basil’s reach.
She paused, adjusted a backpack strap, and listened to the soft thud of the elevator doors half a flight above her. The elderly motor started, hesitated, and began again with a steady growl. Even after three years in this building the sound still brought thoughts of a tiger staking claim to supper. She continued her climb to the third floor.
A few moments later Mona tensed in front of her apartment. The door, so carefully closed and locked behind her this morning, showed a sliver of air between the frame and panel. She threaded her keys between the fingers of her right hand and nudged the door open with her foot.
Silence. And—smoke? A cigar? She eased inside and stifled a gasp. Drawers and their contents lay scattered across the living room floor. The closet door stood open, the boxes from the shelf strewn on the carpet. To her left, the Murphy bed doors were flung wide, the bed pulled a third of the way down like a monster emerging from the wall.
He’s coming after you. For an instant the room sucked her into a gray whirlpool. She sagged, rested one shoulder against the wall, and wrapped her arms in a self-hug. Basil carried cigars. He’d been here—moments ago. Had she avoided him only by taking the stairs? She concentrated on taking her next breath.
The plans for her disappearance tomorrow, plotted during the long bus ride, vanished. She needed to go. Now. Forget giving notice at work. Jennifer, her best friend, would have to cope without a phone call.
Mona hurried to the bedroom and began to fill her backpack. She picked up enough clean clothes from the confusion in front of the dresser to last a few days. Documents and papers from one of the drawers lay across the bed and she gathered two large handfuls, stuffed them under her best jeans in the backpack, and added today’s mail to the stash. In the bathroom she grabbed only her toothbrush and small cosmetic case. Money. She carried seventeen dollars and a transit card in her pockets. Not enough.
She took her full pack across the defiled living room and dropped it beside a tipped dinette chair. Both hands swept up to block her mouth as her foot touched the kitchen vinyl. I will not scream. She forced her gaze to move across the kitchen from top to bottom, left to right. Every cabinet door hung open. Flatware, broken china, and kitchen gadgets lay on every flat surface. A tipped bottle of olive oil dripped into a mound of rice on the floor.
One step forward, then another, she forced her body to move until she stood by the sink. In the photo she stood, smiling, at the diner’s cashier station. Now the picture was fastened to a thick cutting board with her best boning knife, the tip through the base of her throat. Red marker repeated the threat: “I’m coming.”
She reached back, pulled out her phone, and flipped it open. Her fingers dialed without an order from her brain.
“Emergency services. May I help you?”
“Uh.” She gripped the phone and sealed her lips. Matt. Never call the police on Basil. She couldn’t put his life at greater risk. He was all her family that mattered. “No. I’m sorry. It’s been a mistake.”
She snapped the phone shut and tossed it into the trash.
Within two minutes she’d retrieved the cloth bag of cash from the never-used electric teakettle. By rare good luck it had escaped notice in the back of a base cabinet. On her way to the door she added her Chinese grandparents’ wedding photo, cracked glass and all, plus the framed portrait of her mother to her luggage. She settled the backpack on her shoulders and snatched a pastel blue ball cap and her windbreaker from the closet floor. In the doorway she turned for a final look and blew a kiss to the apartment of memories.
“Fastest way out of town.” She muttered her need as she hurried down three flights of stairs. She discarded the idea of the bus; during the wait at the Greyhound station she’d be a target. She needed something quick and private. She exited the apartment building and turned away from her usual bus stop. Six blocks away she could catch a train at the light rail platform. From there—
She crossed the first side street, and hurried her steps. At the next cross street she tensed at a glimpse of bright red paint and polished chrome. She blinked, confirmed it was Basil’s restored classic El Camino, and pulled in a deep breath.
Walk. Don’t run or act guilty. Mona crushed her windbreaker against her chest and marched toward the light rail stop.
Chapter Two
Linc Dray ignored the airport overhead speakers and merged onto the escalator. How many times had he listened to the unattended baggage script today? He could probably recite it backward if given a minute or two. The only difference appeared to be the name of the airport. The air filled with a recorded voice again, this time starting, “Welcome to Minneapolis/St. Paul International.” He walked in the herd from his flight toward a digital sign over the baggage carousal.
Wanted: single female, age 21-30. He reviewed the first line of the ad overdue to be posted on the regional Craigslist. Desire quick marriage? Seeking long-term relationship? No, he discarded the second line as tacky. The truth in the mental discard file mattered less as the days counted down. Today left thirteen. Less than two weeks to find a woman, convince her he wasn’t a pervert or serial killer, and legally marry.
If he failed, his grandfather’s farm would be sold to strangers. Last year, when he’d discovered his grandparents wrote the will so that he could only inherit if married within a year of his grandmother’s death, he hadn’t panicked. He and Tami were a steady couple. She accepted his ring a month later and set a date.
And blindsided me three weeks before the wedding. He reached up and rubbed at the tension in his neck. In one winter afternoon she’d deflated years of hopes. He could see his dream, expanding the tiny orchard to a viable business, blowing away quicker than blossoms on a sudden gust of wind. Most likely, go corporate. He shook his head at the idea that a farm passed down through a family for more than a century would become no more than a line entry on a spreadsheet.
Twice he scrolled through his mental list of single former classmates and co-workers. Each of them ranked less promising than the sister of a friend he’d just visited. There was not one hint of hesitation or uncertainty in her negative a
nswer yesterday. Until she’d realized the arrangement included a move to rural Wisconsin, she’d been open to the idea of a quick marriage. But she had the beginning of a good career in Texas and intended to stay.
Another announcement broke his silent review. He stepped forward and a moment later spotted luggage from the Dallas flight sliding onto the conveyer. He adjusted the computer bag slung over his shoulder and snatched the suitcase with stickers of President Lincoln’s profile plastered next to the handles.
“You’re here.” A young woman called out the words an instant before her head collided with his chest. Her arms wrapped around his waist, pulling them together.
Linc’s body automatically began a retreat, and managed half a step with her following every inch. He tipped his face down and discovered smooth, youthful features half concealed by a blue cap decorated with the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Pickpocket?
“Help me. Act like we’re friends.” She clung tight and dropped her voice to keep the words private.
“Because?” He glanced around, not sure what he was looking for. His fellow passengers from the flight ignored them in favor of their own baggage and family reunions. A trio of business travelers walked past.
“There’s a man, black T-shirt and tattooed arms, following me. He’s a criminal.” She eased away half a step without breaking the circle around him.
Linc reached back and separated her hands, retained a grip on one, and brought it forward. Her dainty fingers clung to him, sending a dual message of desperation and warmth into his arm. “There’s uniformed security by door number three.”
“It’s complicated.”
He laughed one syllable. “Story of my life.”
“Please. I won’t be trouble.”
He looked over his shoulder and spotted a man fitting her hurried description. Did she tell the truth? Or was the muscular man on the phone her partner in an illegal scheme? He tightened his grip on her with one hand and jerked out his suitcase handle with the other before taking one long step. “Let’s walk. Who are you?”