Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  CHAPTER 6

  Clarice guided the Subaru in a slow roll past the government sedan. “Empty,” she rasped in her lowest tone which is several decibels above a stage whisper.

  We were both slouched in our seats gangster-style, straining to see out the Subaru’s windows and through the government sedan’s tinted windows without appearing as though we cared in the least.

  “Which means he’s already searching the place,” she continued. “Should we make a run for it?”

  “Why delay the inevitable? I need coffee.”

  Clarice parked, and I scooted out of the station wagon, hauling a grocery sack with me. Just as I reached the kitchen door, it swung open.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the opening. He held a screwdriver in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. Big hands. He held the tools as though he knew what to do with them. As though they had weapon capabilities.

  I jumped back.

  Clarice let out a grunt when I landed on her foot.

  I dropped the sack and grabbed her arm. My toes dug in for a track start, muscles poised to launch into a full sprint.

  “Wait! Wait.” The man held his arms wide as if to prove he was harmless. “It’s not what you think.”

  “You wanna know what I think?” Clarice growled.

  A short smile flitted across his face. “Um, no.” He tucked the tools in the back pockets of his jeans and returned his hands where we could see them. “I’m Matt Jarvis. Noticed your power was out. Checked your breakers and the grounding on a few of these old outlets. You’ll be safe to plug in small appliances now.”

  “Coffee?” My voice came out squeaky.

  His hazel-eyed gaze took a long time, traveling from the top of my head all the way down to my feet and back up to my face. He didn’t stop and leer at any particular spots, though, didn’t seem to notice my lip scar. He gave a curt nod and turned.

  “Well, well, well,” Clarice muttered. “Our tax dollars at work.”

  “Be nice,” I whispered as I knelt beside her to collect the stray groceries.

  “I doubt this is a social call. We need to get you a lawyer.”

  “Freddy?” The contents of the paper sack bulged behind a few growing holes. I clasped it against my chest.

  “Might as well.” Clarice balanced a couple tuna cans under my chin. “Go entertain our gentleman caller, and I’ll see if I can wake the dead.”

  The pungent, comforting scent of freshly ground coffee beans filled the kitchen. Matt tipped a small electric grinder and dumped the grounds into a stainless steel French press.

  “At least the kitchen is well-equipped.” I nodded toward the French press.

  “It’s mine,” Matt said. “Part of my emergency kit. How’d you sleep?” He glanced pointedly at the tabletop nest of rumpled clothing that still bore my body-shaped hollow.

  I scowled. “Fine.” I pushed a corner clear and started unloading the sack.

  “That was a sneaky move — the flight plan change while en route. A few of my superiors aren’t very happy with you. They pulled me off vacation to be your welcoming committee, so I’m not very happy either.”

  I thunked a can of chili on the table. “You want me to be sorry? My husband is missing. He might even be dead. I’m waiting for a ransom phone call. On a misery scale of one to ten, I think I win.” I jabbed my hand back in the sack. Something thin and hard scraped my fingers and jammed under my wedding ring. I sucked in a sharp breath and pulled out the can opener stuck to my hand like a blood-sucking leech. I turned my back to Matt and pressed my hand into my stomach, trying to pry the tool loose.

  “Let me see.” Matt cleared a bigger space on the corner of the table. “Sit.” He pushed me back until I bumped the edge and scooted up onto the tabletop.

  My finger was already red and swelling against the constraint of the ring plus the can opener handle. I scrunched my eyes closed against the pain. If the ring hadn’t been too big in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.

  The kettle on the stove warbled a faint whistle.

  Matt pressed my wrist against my thigh, and I groaned.

  “Don’t look,” he said as he rustled through the paper sack. Then he started rubbing something cool and slimy on my finger, massaging it into the spaces around my ring. The kettle’s whistle escalated to a scream. Then a yank, and the can opener came free.

  My eyes flew open, and I peeked down — at my hand smeared with minty fresh blue gel. “Toothpaste?”

  Matt grinned, and I found myself grinning back into those hazel eyes.

  “It was handy.” He dropped my wedding ring in my right palm and moved across the room to snap off the gas burner.

  “Which agency are you with?” I cranked the kitchen faucet and rubbed my hands under the stream of frigid water.

  “FBI.” He must have heard my groan as he pulled a couple mugs from a cupboard and blew dust out of them. “You have a problem with that?”

  “I was hoping for a little variety. CIA. IRS. Why not make it a party?” I balanced my ring on the windowsill above the sink then grabbed one of Skip’s t-shirts and dried my hands on it.

  “I don’t think you realize what kind of trouble you’re in.” Matt was suddenly close — very close, and staring hard into my eyes. It was a principal’s-office glare, intimidating and nothing romantic about it, but I flushed like a giddy schoolgirl. Heat zipped straight up my neck to the roots of my hair in nothing flat.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I breathed.

  “We’ll leave that for the grand jury. But prison would be pleasant compared to what might happen if any of your husband’s associates assume you have information they want. You know Felix Gonzalo Ochoa?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ziggy Beltran? Martin Zimmerman also known as Mart the Shark? Fat Al Canterino?”

  My head hurt, I was shaking it so hard.

  “Well, you don’t want to. Part of my job is to make sure any contact these guys might have with you is civil.” Matt pulled the damp t-shirt out of my clenched fist and replaced it with a mug of coffee.

  “Witness protection?” I whispered.

  “What have you witnessed?” At my blank look, Matt continued, “Nope. I need the contact info for all of your husband’s relatives.”

  “Good luck with that.” Clarice snorted from the doorway. “He was essentially a foundling. A flaky biological mother who never took responsibility for him, and that’s it.”

  I frowned at her. It wasn’t Skip’s fault he got a rough start in life. Part of what drove him so hard to succeed was the desire to prove he wasn’t tied to his roots. “I do have his mother’s phone number. Skip told her about the wedding, but she chose not to attend.”

  The kitchen door creaked open again behind Clarice. She reached back and slammed it shut. “Everything around here’s falling apart. Figures,” she huffed and thumped her purse — the size of a toaster oven — on the table. She pulled out her bulging, old-school Day-Timer. “Loretta was probably so sloshed she couldn’t stand up on the big day. Her no-show has nothing to do with you.”

  Clarice’s impression of my mother-in-law was obtained from one brief meeting. Loretta showed up at the foundation office one day while I was on a trip to review an orphanage in Argentina. According to Clarice, she was mostly incoherent and mumbling and reeked of alcohol. She’d made obvious efforts with her clothing and makeup but was in no condition to drive and had to be escorted into a taxi. She’d given her address as a Holiday Inn Express in Alameda Point.

  I know Skip supports his mother. I’ve seen the checks — it’s not a secret. But I don’t think he wants us to become best friends.

  “Let me call her — please?” I reached for the note Clarice had scribbled from her Day-Timer and glanced at Matt. “There’s no way she’d be able to pay a ransom, so I’ll just tell her to call me if she hears anything.”

  Matt didn’t look happy about my request, but he gave a brief nod after a moment’s hesitation
.

  Clarice helped herself to a mug of coffee while I dialed. I bit my lip, listening to the ringing on Loretta’s end. I was on the verge of panic about having to leave a message when a faint “hello?” sounded.

  “Loretta?” I gulped a quick breath. “It’s Nora. Nora Ingram, uh, Sheldon.” Saying my new last name still felt awkward.

  “Darling, how are you? Is Skip behaving? I miss him.”

  “Um—” I bent over the phone and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Oh, I know he is,” Loretta continued. She sounded surprisingly light and articulate. “My best boy. Do you know what he did? He found this nice place for me to stay. Of course I can’t have a drink here, not even one tiny sip, but the food is fabulous, and the staff is amazing. They come and tell me when it’s time for the next activity. No chance to rest. Group therapy sessions, tai chi, spa treatments from sunup to sundown.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Something Springs. Crystal Springs? Certainty Springs? Or maybe Serendipity Solstice — Sunrise Something. Oh dear,” Loretta sighed. “I’m terrible at names. Wait. It’s embroidered on my robe.” Soft fumbling came through the line, then she said, “Serenity Springs Spa. Three S’s. I should remember that.”

  It sounded like a high-end detox place. The word ‘spa’ is commonly a Californian euphemism for a rehab facility.

  “Darling? I have to go. Andre is waving at me. It’s time for my paraffin dip. Call again, okay, honey?” Loretta hung up.

  I balanced the phone in my palm and sagged against the edge of the table.

  “You didn’t tell her,” Matt blurted, his jaw clenched.

  “She sounded happy. And she didn’t ask — she just assumed—” I shook my head. “I don’t have the heart to worry her until I know for sure. Is there a chance Skip hid her in a safe place before — before this incident?” My voice trailed into a whisper. “Was he planning this?”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”

  I gave him the name of the spa. “If she’s safe, let’s just leave her alone. Maybe it’ll work this time.”

  “This time?” Matt took the paper with Loretta’s number on it and made a few notes.

  “Four, by my count,” Clarice said. “Every six months or so. She usually lasts about ten days, but her record in one treatment center is two months.”

  “So we have time,” I added. “Please?” I touched Matt’s sleeve. “Maybe we can figure things out, find Skip, and she doesn’t have to know. She’s so fragile, and he’s all she has.”

  Matt stared hard at me again, searching for something. What did he want to see? I glanced away.

  He inhaled deeply. “We will figure it out. But finding your husband?” He raised my chin with his index finger, forcing eye-contact. “Don’t hold your breath. You won’t find much on Google about those men I mentioned, but what is there is interesting reading.” He dropped a business card on the table beside me. “I’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Clarice and I waited in silence until the sound of Matt’s big-engined sedan crunching over the rutted tracks faded.

  “Good for us he forgot his French press.” Clarice refilled her mug. “Why are there no chairs in here?” She propped one padded hip against the counter and scowled around the kitchen. Fuchsia lipstick prints ringed her mug.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose against a stabbing pain that seemed to be splitting my forehead. “Freddy?”

  “Voicemail. I left three messages for good measure. Also tried Leroy and got his wife. He went out yesterday afternoon and hasn’t come home yet. Sounds like behavior she’s accustomed to. Feels fishy to me.”

  Clarice heaved a sigh and scooped my hiking boots off the floor. I’d rejected them last night as being too hard to sleep with. She shoved them against my chest. “I’m sticking, no matter what. You know that. But you need to get thinking, girl. Get us out of this mess. Go on.” She gave me a push toward the door. “I’ll rustle up some level of domesticity while you’re pondering.”

  I’m a rambler, as Clarice well knows. I’ve worn a groove in the sidewalks of Nob Hill and along the piers. I plopped down on the stoop outside and traded my sandals for the boots. Just tying the laces is therapeutic for me.

  I jumped up and dashed through the door again.

  Clarice was already folding clothes and tidying the mess on the tabletop. “Forget this?” She held out my think-things-through notebook and mechanical pencil, my tools of the trade.

  “And this.” I enveloped her in a monster squeeze. “What would I ever do without you?”

  “Oooof.” Clarice pushed me away and sniffed. “Go on.”

  Shhnork grumpf shnuff shnuff bump — from under the table.

  Clarice and I stared at each other wide-eyed.

  I backed away and peered under the table.

  Two beady eyes buried in deep, fleshy wrinkles glinted back. The delicate edges of its snout rippled with eager inquisitiveness as its neck stretched forward.

  I giggled.

  “What?” Clarice bent over just as the pig emerged. “Aaaiee. Get it away from me.” She flailed a few karate chops in the air and staggered backward, crashing into a pie safe. “What is that?” She slapped a hand over her heaving bosom.

  The pot bellied pig followed in her wake, snorting greedily.

  I could hardly breathe for laughing. The pig had a collar, so I grabbed it and dragged the little porker away from its active investigation of Clarice’s taupe Naturalizer loafers. Its hoofed feet skidded, splayed on the linoleum tiles.

  “You’re a wildlife magnet,” I chuckled. “It must have followed you in earlier.”

  “Bah.” Clarice scowled at the pig.

  The pig scrutinized her right back, its mouth open in a lolling guffaw expression as though it had just heard a raunchy joke. It was mostly pink with a few black blotches. One blotch covered its left eye in a half mask like a rakish Lone Ranger.

  I scratched it behind the ears, and it grunted accordingly. “See? Friendly.”

  “Out,” Clarice announced, her rigid arm pointing in an emphatic, no-nonsense gesture. “Pigs live outside. Take it with you.” She muttered a few other things I won’t repeat, and I lured the pig to safety with a stale bit of leftover cinnamon roll.

  I knelt beside the pig, and it shnuffled my fingers for crumbs.

  “Who do you live with? You don’t look neglected.”

  It blinked.

  I patted the side of its round belly and pushed off my haunches. “Want to give me the tour?”

  The pig took off trotting, its curly tail bobbing in time with its steady gait. I stuffed my notebook in the back pocket of my jeans and fell into line. Clean, cold air — I inhaled deeply and savored the ache in my lungs.

  A bit of meadow surrounded the house. More like a mansion, really. Three stories of brick and crumbling, ivy-covered colonnades in the center with two-story wings off each end. The kitchen was in the back of one of these wings. Slate roof with moss grown thick in every crevice. If this had been a poor farm, I wondered how the wealthy had lived.

  It was still thickly overcast, the clouds so low the roof’s peaks sliced through them as they drifted overhead. I shivered and blew on my hands.

  An impatient grunt drew my attention to the tree line where my escort waited beside a cud-chewing goat.

  I squinted to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. What was with the random animals? I couldn’t imagine the place was still functioning as a producing farm. A petting zoo?

  The goat had stubby horns, so I gave it a wide berth even though it was tethered. No point in testing the length of that rope. I slipped between two enormous trees into a different world — tangled vines sprawled across the ground and climbed soaring trunks, flitting chatter turned out to be tiny birds scouring unseen insects from tree bark. Collected condensation dripped off branches onto the thick layer of dead pine needles at my feet in soft syncopated plops. Peaceful and eerie at the same time.

  R
ustling undergrowth told me which direction the pig was taking. It took a while and some stumbling about to find the narrowly trod path. The pig was following a trace, probably etched into its little brain through repetition. I caught a whiff of wood smoke.

  I tripped over a root and slammed my palm against the rough bark of a tree to catch my balance. When I glanced back up, the same boy from this morning stood in front of me, nonchalantly tapping the butt end of a hatchet against the side of his leg.

  His crystal-clear, endless blue eyes drew me in. “Hello,” I ventured.

  “Are you lost?” the boy asked.

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Orville knows the way. To his slop bucket at any rate.”

  I nodded as if his statement made sense.

  “Wilbur’s around here too, but he’s anti-social.”

  “Is Wilbur the goat?” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.

  “No.” The boy’s tone was scornful. “Orville and Wilbur are twins. You know—” He took a practice swing at the nearest trunk with the hatchet. “When pigs fly.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “The goat’s Terminator ‘cause he has a four-part bionic stomach.”

  What kind of child was this? He couldn’t be more than seven or eight, tossing about such bizarre and yet strangely informed phrases. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Eli.”

  A sage and a prophet, and precocious. I grinned. “Where are you going?”

  A loud crack arced through the air and bounced off the trees — either a large branch breaking free or something else — something that sounded a lot like a gunshot. The idea seared through my mind, and I ducked instinctively. Eli’s face mirrored my own startled fear.

  Then the soft skin around his jaw hardened and he grabbed my hand. He tugged me off the semi-path into the undergrowth. We plunged through waist-high ferns and blackberries.

  Eli darted, twisting and turning and stringing me along, beating a surprisingly quiet retreat through the woods. I kept an arm up to protect my face from the taller branches he dodged under and tried to pace my breathing. He was a speedy kid for such short legs.