Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Hello,” I called.

  He jumped several inches, then squinted up at me, his rosy cheeks balling up under his eyes. “Woowee, girl, you ‘bout gave me a heart attack. You need to mail somethin’? I’ll be up in a sec.”

  “We haven’t got all day,” Clarice announced. She had joined me at the edge of the pit, hands on her hips.

  “Well now, no cause to get huffy.” The man ambled over to a ladder bolted to the side of the pit. It looked far too flimsy to hold him.

  “I can’t watch this,” Clarice muttered, but she didn’t move.

  The man placed one foot on the bottom rung, grasped the rails with two meaty hands, exhaled, tested his bouncing ability, then launched into a mighty lunge and made it safely one step up. It appeared the next step was going to require advanced gymnastics, so I turned Clarice by her shoulders and pushed her back into the little office.

  We waiting, cringing at every squeak of the ladder bolts, until the man rolled over the side of the pit and pushed to his feet, his face ten shades deeper red than before. He pulled a giant, truce-flag handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his entire head.

  “What can I do for you two fine ladies?” He shuffled sideways behind the counter. “I’m Gus, by the way. Angus O’Malley, but everyone calls me Gus. Postmaster and Hog mechanic as well as general handyman, at your service.”

  “Hogs?” Maybe I’d been right about the pigs.

  “Harleys. I can make your pipes sing.” His eyes were laughing, but I couldn’t see his mouth for all the beard.

  I frowned. “My pipes are fine, thank you. Has there been any mail for Nora Ingram-Sheldon or Clarice Wheaton? We’re at Mayfield.”

  “Oh, you’re the new ‘uns. Etherea told me.” The man pulled open a cupboard door and riffled through the top few inches of a haphazard stack of circular fliers and catalogs. He turned back to face us. “Nope. Not even the stuff addressed to ‘Resident’. Mayfield’s been unoccupied so long it doesn’t even get junk mail these days.”

  His eyes kept flickering over to Clarice. I’m accustomed to her foreboding presence attracting attention, but his gaze was directed higher. He seemed to be furtively examining her prodigious bouffant. Was he having hair envy?

  “What about Walt and the boys’ camp? Do they receive mail at Mayfield?” I asked.

  “Nope. Have a PO box. You want one of those too?” Gus reached under the counter and slapped a form on the glass, spinning it so it was right side up for me.

  I didn’t mind Etherea’s informal account keeping, but I wanted my official name and identification information recorded as few places as possible just now. I shook my head. “Can we stick with general delivery?”

  “You bet.” Gus stuffed the form back where it came from. “Most people do that. If you give me your phone number, I’ll call you if a package comes in. But mostly people just swing by to check their mail when they come into town for supplies.”

  Gus pinned the slip of paper with my phone number and first name into alphabetical order on a corkboard hanging on the wall beside an old pushbutton phone. Its cord dangled nearly to the floor, the coils twisted around each other from years of repeated stretching.

  “Anythin’ else?” Gus steepled his hands over his bulging belly.

  I got the impression that he was usually jovial — the crinkle lines beside his eyes were etched deep. But something about Clarice seemed to be making him nervous. His gaze angled upward again.

  He took a breath, his mustache indenting over where his mouth must be. He held it for a second, then said, “Seems I’ve seen that hair somewhere before.”

  As if hair can be a separate entity unto itself. I was tempted to laugh, but the look on Clarice’s face warned me off.

  “My mother was a wig maker,” Gus continued. “Grew up with mounds of hair piled on head forms lined up in rows in the living room. Kind of rough havin’ friends over. Got a motorcycle as soon as I could so I’d have a reason to be anywhere but at home. You remind me of — well, not in a bad way, of course. Just sayin’—” He was squeezing his hands together so tightly the knuckles were turning white.

  Clarice was about to blow. I’d observed that expression once before, and the outcome was memorable. I grabbed the straps of her tote bag which were hooked in the crook of her elbow and used them like a tow rope to drag her out of the post office. “Thank you,” I called over my shoulder.

  After some initial resistance, she trotted along behind me at the full length of her tote bag leash. I wedged her into the Subaru’s passenger seat and fished the car keys from her bag. She was flushed underneath the makeup — a dangerous, apoplectic shade. Her mouth opened sporadically, but no sound came out.

  I had no idea what to say to placate her, so I didn’t even try. I started the engine and pulled the Subaru out onto the county road, keeping a sedate pace.

  A couple miles from Mayfield, her words burst out, first in staccato then in a rush. “I. Am. Not. Old. Enough to be that fatso’s mother.”

  “He meant no harm. He just has unpleasant childhood associations. I’m certain he didn’t think—” I shrugged. “Well, I don’t think—” I sighed and tried again. “You and Gus look about the same age to me.”

  Ooops. Clarice’s withering glance indicated I had missed the mark. I gave up talking and concentrated on getting the Subaru through the gullies and over the ridges of our driveway in one piece.

  I carried in the flowers first and plunked the heavy vase on the kitchen table. I debated telling Matt about the roses but decided he’d find out about them soon enough, especially if he returned to collect Dirt Bike Man’s belongings. Clarice disappeared into her room, strangely silent and still seething, so I emptied the car and put things away.

  I settled at the table with my box of fiber goodness and cast on a forest green color for hat number one. The yarn slipped through my fingers, warm and soft and soothing. Just a few minutes. I needed the mental space to prioritize my to-do list.

  CHAPTER 16

  My phone ringing jerked me back to the present. It’d grown so dim I could hardly see the knitting needles. If the stitch is uncomplicated, I can knit without looking, so I hadn’t noticed. Where’d the time go?

  I grabbed my phone. My stomach lurched — I didn’t recognize the caller ID. Maybe it was Skip’s ransom request, at last. “Hello?” My voice wavered.

  “I’m thinkin’ I need to apologize.”

  I exhaled. “Gus. I’m sorry about our rudeness. We’re under a lot of stress just now. Clarice will be fine.”

  “You sure? She didn’t look fine.”

  “I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

  “Well I’d like to make it up to her by takin’ her for a ride on my bike. Think she’d enjoy that?”

  I tried not to sputter. “Next time we’re in town, you can ask her yourself.”

  “Will do.” Gus’s tone returned to the cheerfulness I’d first heard this morning. “Well, look at that—” his voice faded.

  “Gus?”

  “Yeah, punkin.” He sounded distracted or else I would have objected strongly to the casual endearment. “Some folks just drove up to the store across the way. Two big sedans and a gray, windowless van. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were Feds. I’d better go. You take care, now.” Gus hung up.

  The early warning system worked perfectly. My phone rang again three minutes later — Etherea to tell me that a blonde woman in a suit had stopped to ask directions to Mayfield. They’d left the store in a caravan, a series of dark vehicles. Was I expecting visitors? Looked like someone had died, she said.

  I forced a chuckle and assured her all was well. I mumbled something about surveying and data gathering, guessing that rumors of a housing development or other such nonsense might make the rounds in town from my intentional ambiguity. But better than hinting at the truth.

  Clarice was still hibernating, and I was starting to get worried about her. She’d never been antisocial before — grouchy, yes; pouting, no.
But if I could spare her the distress of another FBI evidence collection effort, I would. I flipped on all the lights I could find, layered on a couple more thin sweaters and laced up my hiking boots, then sat down to knit until the cavalry arrived.

  It felt like ages before I caught a glimpse of three sets of headlights through the kitchen window. They jigged and jagged over the ruts, making slow progress. I wondered how many times they had driven past the ivy-covered gate in the dark before finding it. Maybe they had better GPS than I’d had, although it was smart of them to ask for directions. Leave it to a woman.

  I stepped out onto the patio at the sound of slamming car doors.

  “Nora Sheldon?” I heard her first, then she entered the pool of light from the new bulb in the porch light. “Special Agent Violet Burns.” She stuck out her right hand, and I shook it. “You’ve met my partner, Matt Jarvis, already.”

  She was a tiny little thing, the top of her head barely reaching my chin. But she was prim, orderly and all business in a perfectly-tailored dark suit and sturdy, patent leather ankle boots. Even her sleek blonde hair was pulled back in a tight knot. She would probably make traipsing through the woods look fashionable and easy.

  More shadowy figures appeared behind her with more doors slamming, and I realized her crew was unloading equipment.

  “Not here,” I said. “I’ll take you to the spot. It’s a ten or fifteen minute hike from the nearest road.”

  Violet waved a petite hand, and the process behind her started reversing, accompanied by a few male mutterings. “Good. We need to talk. Inside?”

  She circled the kitchen, keenly noting our attempts at domesticity, then turned to me, her green eyes bright and inquisitive. “Leroy Hardiman.”

  “Ahhh.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “You found him?”

  “At Brown Field Municipal Airport outside San Diego, as you suggested. He was trying to bribe a flight crew to fly him to the Caymans even though they hadn’t met the FAA’s requirement for downtime since their last flight.”

  That sounded like Leroy. My opinion of him had slipped considerably in the past few days.

  “He turned into quite the blabber,” Violet continued, “once he was apprehended and taken to interrogation. Full of information, much of which wasn’t helpful and some of it absolute speculation.” Her lips curled in disgust. “We’re ninety percent certain he does not know where your husband is.”

  “I didn’t expect him to.”

  “But he claims that Skip was tipped off, about what he couldn’t say.”

  “Tipped off?”

  Violet inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, just for a fraction of a second, then she plunged ahead. “He named an FBI agent in the San Francisco office, said the man had been friendly with Skip and was feeding him information on the side. The agent was working organized crime cases mostly, perhaps Skip’s clients. I’m embarrassed to tell you this, but sometimes an agent can be turned. We’re checking his assets, seeing if he received payoffs. Obviously, he’s been relieved of duty.”

  “A mole.” My heart hammered in my chest and in my ears, but I tried to keep my surprise from showing. Since finding Skip’s journal, I’d known his scheme was big and organized, but the fact that he was working with someone inside law enforcement added an intriguing wrinkle.

  “I’m also sorry to say I know him personally.” Violet’s nostrils flared slightly. “I went through the Academy with him. He was so gung-ho then, very zealous. I’d lost touch with him, but something must have happened to make him go over to the other side.”

  The other side. With Skip. I used to see the world in black and white, just like Violet. She had to — it was her job. But I wasn’t so sure anymore. Better to change the subject until I could do some thinking on the matter. “So you’re Matt’s partner. I thought you were on vacation?”

  She smiled slightly. “It was getting a little boring. My husband and I are both workaholics, so we didn’t mind returning two days early. He has a big trial coming up.”

  “A lawyer? I need a lawyer — a good one, anyway,” I muttered.

  Violet’s eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s off limits. Conflict of interest, obviously.” The last word was said with such severe terseness, I knew I’d hit a nerve. Maybe there’d been more than just work responsibilities that had made them happy to cut short a glamorous vacation.

  I bit back a grin and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

  oOo

  The FBI is nothing if not prepared. They packed tons of equipment into duffel bags and followed me through the woods. One of the technicians lent me a massive flashlight, but in the end I moved more by feel than sight. Tree trunks mostly look the same to me, but I remembered the ground swells and a few big roots I stumbled over while pushing Eli ahead of me.

  The moon cast eerie, slanting, blue-tinged light between the trees, and my breath came in short, steamy bursts. My ears prickled with cold, and my nose was threatening to drip. Violet trudged on my heels.

  “You sure you want to do this in the dark?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “The sooner the better. We’ll stick around until daylight to make sure we didn’t miss anything. Frankly, I’m a little surprised you’re not freaking out.”

  I shrugged. “Could’ve been worse. I’m just grateful to have escaped.”

  Violet made a noise somewhere between disgust and curiosity. “The pig — it’d be helpful to get photos, bite measurements.”

  “Good luck with that.” I giggled. Oreos probably aren’t part of a standard FBI supply kit. “Wilbur’s rather antisocial.” I stopped in a small clearing and panned the flashlight until it hit the torn blue sleeping bag. “We’re here.”

  Violet barked orders, and her crew fanned out, each one with a specific job to do. I backed into the shadows with camera flashbulbs popping all around me, hoping Dwayne had made a clean getaway. I’d made my statement without mentioning his part in the drama this morning. I think having a pot-bellied pig as a protagonist distracted Violet from asking probing questions. She’d barely even registered Eli’s part in the story, so I was hopeful he’d be spared an interrogation as well.

  As I watched a technician preparing casting medium next to a tread mark from the dirt bike, I realized this operation was going to take hours — miserable hours stomping my feet to try to keep my toes from going numb and blowing on my hands. What better time to visit Walt than under cover of both darkness and a whole horde of FBI agents? I’d be willing to bet all bad guys were keeping clear tonight.

  I snuck away unnoticed. Violet really didn’t need my presence at the campsite, anyway, and I wasn’t terribly eager to see what they found, especially in that blue plastic bag hanging from the tree branch.

  The rutted gravel road was lonely in a comforting way — silent but not unfamiliar. I kept to the track’s edge, close to the trees, my feet crunching on the already frozen surface.

  It felt good to lengthen into my rambling stride, my arms swinging. I grew sweaty under my layers of clothing, and my eyes watered in the cold air. But I drew in great gulps of that same cold air, clearing out the dregs of worry and tension.

  Clarice and I were still alive. Walt and the boys were still alive. There was a very good chance Skip was still alive — if the roses were an indicator, and the FBI seemed to be taking my problems seriously. I had a network of new friends on the lookout for me. All in all, it’d been a pretty good few days at Mayfield. Except for the finger. I could have done without the finger.

  I found Walt in an outbuilding — if it could be called that — near the bunkhouse. All the buildings on the property I’d seen other than my decrepit mansion were outbuildings, afterthoughts in even worse repair. It was a sloped-roof barn of sorts, or had been, and the large sliding door was open, revealing the glow of several lights and blue-dashed flickering inside.

  Walt wore a full facemask and bent over a workbench, welding something. I recognized him from the worn boots and sketchy patch on the right knee o
f his jeans. I wondered if he’d let me mend his clothes. The boys might need some sewing attention too. They were a ragtag bunch, clothing obviously handed down only when it was straining at the seams and limbs extended several inches out of cuffs and hems. If things went according to my plan, I’d buy them winter coats, boots that fit and a couple new pairs of jeans each.

  I leaned against the doorframe and waited. Not a great idea to surprise a man who’s holding a welding torch.

  He leaned back and shut off the flame. He flipped up the visor, and I moved into his range of vision.

  “Nora.” Walt jumped up and tore the mask off. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Have a few minutes?”

  “Of course. I checked on Eli half an hour ago. He was in his room, reading. He hasn’t gone and done something he shouldn’t, has he?”

  I grinned. “Not that I’m aware of. You were like him as a child?”

  Walt sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Hard to imagine, huh?”

  “Not at all.” I clenched my fists behind my back, nearly overwhelmed with the desire to brush back the clump of hair that stuck out over his ear.

  Walt cleared his throat and gave me a pointed look.

  Right. I’d asked for this conference. “The FBI’s here. Close to a dozen agents scouring the campsite where Eli and I—” I gestured vaguely. “I think they’ll pack up and leave shortly after daybreak.” I took a deep breath. “I have a favor to ask, but the timing’s important.”

  Walt gave a curt nod, his lips pressed in a thin line — meager encouragement.

  “Can I borrow your pickup tomorrow? I’d like to hit the road as soon as the FBI leaves.”