Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Do you have wi-fi at the store?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll be in, maybe in an hour or so. Okay with you?”

  “Sure. I’ll just keep hovering over these beauties, inhaling their scent, until you get here.”

  I pulled my knees to my chin, wrapped my arms around them and dialed. I clenched my teeth against the involuntary shivers that racked my body as I waited for Matt to answer, not that I expected him to.

  At the beep, I rushed through my first few rehearsed sentences. I didn’t want to sound like a whiner. “I met the man who delivered the finger this morning. Actually, he took Eli and me hostage for a few minutes, but we were able to get away in the woods. He left a few things behind that I’m sure you’d like to collect.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Clarice’s fuzzy slippers — dyed purple to match the robe — appeared on the threshold. I glanced up to find a look of utter disgust on her face. She was staring at Wilbur who was sprawled beside me in a semi-comatose state, snoring softly, his head resting on the empty Oreo wrapper, his stubby legs protruding at odd angles from his enormous belly.

  And I got the giggles. Better than crying, I suppose. The adrenaline spike was draining fast, leaving me weak and vulnerable to crazy thoughts. The first synapse my brain explored was the similarity between Clarice and Wilbur — not necessarily their physical appearances, although those were a pretty good match — but their penchant for biting men’s ankles. At least Wilbur bit on the wrong side of the law.

  I rocked backward, giggling even harder, and wiped the corners of my eyes. Clarice was looking mad enough that she might start stomping the slippers. Then I remembered why the cell phone was in my hand.

  “Oh, uh—” I sniffed. “Description — you’ll want that. He came prepared to go cross-country, both on foot and on two wheels. He’s dressed in expensive trail running gear and riding a brand new dirt bike. Sorry, I don’t know the make or model. All black — the clothing and the bike. Native Spanish speaker, I’d guess, given the way he swears. A couple inches taller than I am. Medium build, athletic. Black hair, dark brown eyes, a couple days’ beard growth. Good with a knife. He might seek medical attention for pig bites on his legs.” I snorted, then tried to make my tone serious. “I am not kidding. It’s a long story.” With big gaps in it to protect Dwayne. I bit my lip. “Um, see you later?” I clicked off.

  “You have some explaining to do, young lady.” Clarice grabbed my arm and tugged me to my feet.

  “On the way to town. How fast can you get dressed?”

  Clarice’s normal speed, once the caffeine has kicked in, is turbo-charged whirlwind, so I hurried to collect my electronic gadgets from the attic. I was waiting in the passenger seat of the Subaru with the door propped open when Walt’s rattle-trap pickup rolled up and he jumped out.

  He crunched across the gravel and leaned into the opening, his hands on either door jam, blocking me in. His face under the stocking cap was calm as ever, but his eyes were furious and his breathing tight as if he was trying to regulate a pressure release valve.

  I guess it takes involving one of his boys in a kidnapping attempt to earn Walt’s straight-shooting, unflinching, laser-locked gaze. My head dropped, and I wedged my hands under my thighs, suddenly dead cold as though my blood had stopped flowing.

  “I know,” I murmured. “I know and I’m sorry. Is Eli — he’s with you?”

  “I made him promise to stay inside the bunkhouse for the rest of the day,” Walt said, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it. “And night. I’ve learned I have to be very specific with him when it comes to rules.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice.

  I shot a quick glance at him.

  Walt squatted down to my eye level and laid a hand on my knee. “I got enough of the story out of him to know the two of you could have been killed. I understand why you’re here, and you have every right to be here. But the kids—” He inhaled, his hand growing tighter on my knee, his fingertips pressing hard. “I need details, Nora. You have to talk to me. For the boys’ sake — and yours.”

  I told him everything I knew, which wasn’t much and sounded woefully inadequate as my voice faltered. Recounting the odd snips and gaps, the facts without the reasons, frustrated me as much as it did Walt. I tapped the back of his hand, which was now clamped like a claw on my leg.

  Walt jerked his hand away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—” His jaw tightened and he studied the lock mechanism on the Subaru’s door.

  “If I slow down at all, if I really stop to think about this, I’ll be scared out of my mind. So I have to keep going. I have to keep experimenting until I flush out the real enemy. I don’t know who it is, or why.”

  “What do you need?” The pupils in Walt’s eyes were small and hard. Deep inside his mind, I could tell he was already running through scenarios, trying to solve my problem.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Protection. In case he comes back. I’ll stay here with you tonight.” He tipped his head toward the mansion. “Or you can stay at the bunkhouse. We could clear out a bedroom for you and Clarice.”

  “No. Please,” I whispered. “We need separation. I don’t think they have any reason to go after the boys, and let’s not give them one. As much as I enjoy Eli’s company, I think the farther apart we are, physically, the better. The FBI will come soon, and maybe they can offer help.” It was my turn to squeeze his hand. “I don’t want anything to happen to the boys. Please, Walt. You’ll stay with them?”

  He didn’t answer, but the grim set of his mouth and narrowed eyes told me I’d made my case, for now.

  “Did Eli tell you that Dwayne was there?”

  Walt’s right eyebrow shot up.

  “What do you know about Dwayne’s past? Any reason he might not want to come in contact with law enforcement?”

  The tiniest smirk flitted across Walt’s face, and he shifted to rub the back of his neck. “I think he might have a still.”

  “A what?”

  “Making moonshine. I don’t know where he lives, what he does. Sounds like you’ve exchanged more words with him than I have. I’ve just put a few things together from my observations and what Eli’s told me.”

  “Isn’t it easier just to buy alcohol?”

  “Dwayne doesn’t exactly go into town. I’d know about it if he did because — well, word like that would get around. I’m not sure he operates within our currency structure, if you know what I mean.”

  “No money.”

  “Every once in a while stuff goes missing from our storeroom. At first I thought the boys had wanted snacks, and I don’t mind — I just want them to be honest. But when the snacks turned out to be several fifty-pound bags of potatoes at regular intervals, well—” Walt shrugged. “I think Eli takes care of providing Dwayne with basic food, but the potatoes are a business matter. I haven’t figured out what to do about it yet, or if I even need to do anything. I think Dwayne means to give back. Sometimes I’ll find a piece of equipment that’s been fixed or a repair job to an outbuilding that I’m sure the boys didn’t do. Makes me think he’s sort of watching out for us.”

  “He was certainly watching out for me. But that shotgun—” I frowned. “He seemed very willing to use it, and he has ammo. Be careful. If someone surprised him in the woods, the person on either end of that gun might get hurt. He’s awfully old.”

  Clarice banged the kitchen door closed and strode over to us. She was wearing an aqua pantsuit with floral scarf around her neck and sensible beige loafers, her giant tote slung from the crook of her elbow, as though we were about to embark on a day of shopping in the high street of a major metropolis.

  Walt stood and nodded to her.

  “Interrupting something?” Clarice asked with false sweetness.

  “Nope. You’re next. I’m just full of debriefings this morning,” I answered, my eyes locked on Walt’s. “Thank you,” I added in a lower voice.

  He gave me a short nod and turned toward
his pickup.

  CHAPTER 15

  Just because Clarice looked like a well-stodgified member of the British aristocracy doesn’t mean she drove like one. I gripped the edges of my seat and cast a sidelong glance at her. My recounting of the morning’s excitement didn’t seem to faze her, but then again, very little did.

  If I looked out the window at the blur of trees, I’d lose my ability to breathe at regular intervals, so I focused on the denim weave pattern of my jeans. “Ideas?” I asked.

  “That’s your department,” Clarice muttered. “I’m support.”

  “I need to spend some time using the store’s Internet connection, preferably without the proprietor watching over my shoulder. Can you run interference?”

  “Do bears crap in the woods?” Clarice growled.

  I don’t know why she likes me, but I’d dissolve into a puddle of atoms if she was on any other side but mine. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around her in a hug — she had plenty to concentrate on at the moment — and smiled quietly to myself instead.

  Everything I did from now on was going to be a risk — had been for a while, actually — I was just starting to realize it. Might as well go for the gusto. Except for the boys. And Walt. There was no way I could ask them to leave. The camp was probably the only stable home the boys had had in their lives.

  I ticked through my options — Skip’s properties, at least the ones I knew about — but no others were so remote. There was a huge measure of security in being in a place where strangers were glaringly obvious to anyone who encountered them. In this tiny town, any new person would be noted with wary but insatiable curiosity, and this network of neighbors was a far greater web of protection than the rote anonymity city locations offered. I was certain now that Etherea would call me if anyone asked directions to Mayfield. Dirt Bike Man had probably gotten lucky on his own.

  Wherever I went, I’d become caustic to my surroundings because of the attention I was attracting. If I could keep myself separate from the boys — and the property was certainly big enough for that — Mayfield seemed like the best roost, at least for now.

  Clarice veered into the store’s parking lot, slinging gravel against the dented dumpster that guarded the propane tanks. We lurched to a stop, the Subaru’s bumper resting lightly against the wood railing of the long porch.

  “Want to just drive on in?” I asked.

  “Shut up.” Clarice swung open her door and swiveled both hips to the side so she could keep her knees together as she exited the car. I wished Clarice’s mother was still alive. I was fascinated by the woman who produced and trained such a conglomeration of contrasts. I grinned as I scooted out of the car in a less graceful fashion. Maybe I was a bundle of contrasts too and didn’t know it.

  Etherea had been right. The biggest bouquet of giant red roses I had ever seen dominated her checkout counter. Three — four dozen? I was tempted to stand there and count them, except their scent made me deliriously queasy. Skip always was extravagant with flowers.

  Skip. I fingered the card. What was he doing? I desperately wanted to take the bouquet as a sign he was alive. But why would he send me flowers but not try to be with me or rescue me or — something? I swayed.

  “Steady.” Clarice’s remarkably bony elbow jabbed into my side.

  “Nora.” Etherea bustled through a doorway behind the counter. I caught a glimpse of a cramped, cluttered office before she pulled the door shut. “Worth coming out for, aren’t they?”

  I managed a tight smile. “Thanks for calling. And for accepting the delivery.”

  “Wasn’t a burden. How’re you holding up?” Etherea fixed her warm brown eyes on me. “You sounded a bit shaken on the phone.”

  “How long since Mayfield was occupied?” Clarice blurted loudly.

  Etherea jumped a little but turned her attention to Clarice. “Early ‘60s. After welfare took care of the families, the few remaining male residents were relocated and the place was used as a nursing home for a while. Got too expensive to maintain that old heap, I expect.”

  “No kidding,” Clarice grunted. “You should see the ovens. They sure didn’t clean them when they packed up.”

  “I have just the thing.” Etherea hurried around the counter and started down an aisle with her finger in the air.

  “You don’t mind if Nora uses your office, do you?” Clarice bellowed. “She needs to check her email.”

  “Sure, sure.” Etherea’s voice wafted from deep in the merchandise. “Don’t mind the mess, but don’t rearrange it. I know where everything is.”

  Clarice winked at me and trundled after Etherea.

  I left the door open a crack so I would have a few seconds’ warning when Etherea returned. I sat in the creaky rolling chair, pulled my laptop from my tote and carefully balanced it on top of the shifting paper piles.

  First, as Clarice had said, email. That way she wasn’t lying for me. I’d set up several new email accounts in conjunction with my personal welfare management activities the other day. The notes in the new inboxes made me smile. Orphanages never have enough money, but the few I’d asked to report in were rejoicing over the infusions that gave them breathing room for a while.

  I had to assume the FBI knew about my old email accounts, probably my new email accounts and the ISP addresses I usually accessed the Internet from. Hopping onto Etherea’s Internet service wasn’t much of a foil, but I had to try all the back alleys possible.

  There was an email from the recipient I was most worried about, from a First Nations charity in Prince George, British Columbia. I held my breath and clicked it open. And read it with a fist pump and my heart thumping like crazy.

  Then I scurried through Google Maps. I needed a rural spot, agrarian, near the I-5 freeway. The kind of place where truckers pulled over to sleep but with enough coming and going that a transfer of goods would not arouse suspicion.

  How could I possibly judge suitability from aerial photos that might be several years old? I zoomed in and finally chose a spot with at least twenty parking spaces and two buildings that looked like either fast food or convenience stores plus a gas station with a picnic area to the side. I copied the latitude and longitude coordinates into a reply email and hit send. I jotted down a few driving directions so I could find the place in person.

  In case anyone in etherland was watching, I also spent a few minutes looking at other locations near the Canadian and Mexican borders and sent coordinates in emails to old college acquaintances. I hoped they would assume the messages were spam. Kind of fun, actually. I was chuckling to myself and wondering how many people I was sending on geocaching goose chases when a snatch of Clarice’s voice — something about environmentally friendly laundry detergent — carried through the cracked opening.

  I shut down the laptop and collected my things, leaving no obvious disturbance to Etherea’s filing system. Behind the checkout counter, a partially unpacked box caught my eye. I dug through it, enjoying listening to the easy conversation between Etherea and Clarice as they traded housekeeping tips and compared cleaning products.

  Bulky wool, a few alpaca blends — lovely yarn in luscious colors. I sank my hands into the box, rooting around for the softest skeins. I hadn’t felt this kind of deliciousness since my last visit to my favorite yarn shop in San Francisco — seemed like eons ago.

  “Yummy, aren’t they?” Etherea leaned over the counter. “New arrivals. I try to keep yarn on hand for a few of my elderly lady customers who like to crochet afghans in the winter.”

  “The boys need Christmas gifts.” Clarice’s face split into a smile, her eyes sparkly behind her glasses.

  I matched her grin and turned to Etherea. “How much? Actually, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take the whole box — if you don’t mind my buying your entire supply.”

  Etherea blinked a few times, but took my odd request in stride. “Can always order more. You need needles or hooks?”

  She led me to a carousel rack in the craft corner where I
selected a few sizes of circular knitting needles. Gotta love a well-stocked country store.

  As she was ringing up our purchases and adding them to our growing tab, Etherea said, “You know, you should go across the street and meet our postmaster, Gus O’Malley. Just thinking that if you were to get mail, it’d probably end up at general delivery over there—” She tipped her head. “Do you have a mailbox at Mayfield anymore? Could be why the florist’s delivery driver couldn’t find you. I also sell mailboxes — the sturdy kind that can survive being bashed with a baseball bat or backed into by a truck — if you need one.”

  Clarice and I shared a raised-eyebrow glance. Good question. I wasn’t about to tell Etherea that we’d managed to receive a gruesome special delivery without the benefit of a mailbox. At this point, I’d prefer not to stick Mayfield’s street number out by the road and make it easier for the next creep to find us.

  After we bundled our on-credit purchases into the Subaru, we jaywalked diagonally across the intersection to the combo gas station and post office. We skirted oil stains on the pavement and entered the tiny glass-fronted office that was attached like an afterthought to the open service bay.

  Clarice drummed her fingers on a dirty glass countertop which encased commemorative stamps in denominations that hadn’t been sufficient first-class postage in a couple presidential administrations, scowling fiercely. She must have been distracted by something Etherea had said because normally she wouldn’t touch anything in such a grimy place.

  I was about to suggest leaving when grunts sounded from the oil change pit in the service bay, reminding me of Wilbur and his penchant for Oreos. Surely the postmaster didn’t keep pigs? It didn’t appear as though he checked vehicle fluids very often.

  I eased to the edge of the pit and peered in. It took me a few seconds to realize that the greasy navy blue mound was actually a man — perhaps the largest, baldest, roundest man I’d ever seen. What he lacked in hair on top he more than made up for below his nose. Like Santa Claus but with a gray beard down to his waist, or what passed for a waist — the empty elastic casing sewn into his coveralls. The elastic must have been removed out of necessity. He was collecting empty oil bottles and other junk in a five-gallon bucket.