A much more manageable number.
“But they’re the biggies,” Clarice continued, extinguishing my momentary flicker of encouragement. “I can’t do all this in my head. When — if — we stop, I’ll crack open a spreadsheet and total the damage.”
The next couple hours passed slowly, too slowly, mainly due to the fact that I was wrestling more and more with the steering wheel. The alignment problem had not been my imagination. Not a surprise considering the kind of terrain the old girl regularly traversed.
“Overheating?” Clarice asked as I pulled into the parking lot of a Denny’s restaurant just off the first Bellingham exit.
“Don’t even think that. She has enough problems as it is.”
“She?”
“Bertha. Or Maude. I’m trying to decide.”
“Not Gisele?”
“That sounds too much like something agile and nimble. No, I was going more for inert and stubborn.”
“I take it we’re early?”
“My behind’s numb, and I need breakfast.”
“’Bout time.” Clarice popped open her door and rolled off the seat.
CHAPTER 18
We weren’t the only ones who wanted served-all-day breakfast when it was actually nearing noon. We had to wait ten minutes for a booth still greasy with the fingerprints of the previous patrons. The place was packed with retirees sipping bottomless coffee and truckers inhaling mounds of pancakes — the kind of people who either don’t need to or can’t afford to observe proper mealtimes. And now I was in that category too, for both reasons.
Like a couple of workaholics, Clarice and I set up our laptops back to back — me on my own and Clarice on Skip’s — and ducked behind the screens. We clicked away in silence except for placing our orders when the waitress, a wan twenty-year-old in orthopedic shoes who smelled faintly of cigarettes, finally made an appearance. I was going to need the fortification of an entire side of bacon.
Clarice rose, fetched a carafe from the serving staff’s supply station and refilled our mugs. On the way back, she topped off mugs at several other tables. She returned with her hands full of single serving sized sealed plastic cups of cream and dumped them on the table. “Eat hearty.”
“Do I have to tip you?”
“A little gratuity wouldn’t hurt.” She plopped onto the end of the seat and propelled herself into the middle of the slick vinyl. “Just needed a dose of reality and caffeine before I showed you this.” She spun her laptop around. “Bad guys one through nine, in order of the current value of their business dealings with Skip.”
I leaned closer, my hands clamped on the edge of the table. Eye-popping numbers. My heart raced — the identical reaction I’d had to seeing the totals in Skip’s secret bank accounts. These amounts were in the same ballpark.
I forced myself to inhale before I passed out. “Let’s get beyond the nicknames. I’ll take it from the top. If you’ll start at the bottom?”
“The Nose. Charming,” Clarice muttered. Her silver hair actually glinted under the Tiffany replica stained glass pendant lamp that hung over our table, kind of like those multicolored fiber optic novelty sculpture things that show up at white elephant gift exchanges.
“You look good, you know,” I said.
My comment barely warranted a glance over the laptop screen. “Huh,” Clarice grunted, but her eyes sparkled a little.
“Don’t work too hard, now,” the waitress said as she plunked down our plates.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Clarice said as she doused her waffle with warm maple syrup. “Nigh unto impossible.”
The waitress stared at Clarice as if she was speaking a foreign language.
“This looks great,” I said. “Thank you.”
The waitress started as if she’d been in a trance, took the hint and whisked down the aisle.
I stuffed half an over-easy egg into my mouth and returned to the keyboard. We had to work hard — and fast. As if our lives depended on it, because they probably did. We were researching criminals in need of money laundering services. Not your typical lunch at the office away from the office.
By the time my three plates and mug were empty — I’d hardly noticed I was eating — I’d narrowed down Numero Uno’s identity to a few possibilities. I was pretty sure Numero Dos was one of two people. Tres was a little more overt, probably a drug cartel boss I’d actually read about in the papers. He seemed like the type to leave the unsubtle hint of a disembodied finger.
Clarice had Siete, Ocho and Nueve nailed down. I checked my watch. The middle of the group would have to wait.
“Gotta go,” I said, laying a couple crisp twenties from my ATM raid the other day on the table. “This ought to cover it since the waitress won’t be back with our bill for a week.”
We packed our things and fled, smiling guiltily at the clumps of people waiting restlessly in the restaurant’s small foyer. I’m not sure I could have scarfed my food any faster, though.
Butterflies or the consequence of the reams of grease I’d consumed? Regardless, the hard knot in my stomach grew bigger the closer we got to the rendezvous point.
Clarice peered at the driving instructions and barked commands. Turned out the location I’d selected was the site of two fast food establishments of the non-playland variety and a green space rest stop next to the freeway.
I parked facing a row of battered picnic tables, a few spaces away from an empty minivan with two training wheel equipped bicycles strapped to the liftgate. It was far too cold for enjoyable outdoor dining. A semi-truck sat idling at the far end of the parking lot, its exhaust brownish-gray.
Wind gusts whipped a couple paper food wrappers around the pickup, and one got stuck in a windshield wiper. It crinkled against the glass for a few seconds before escaping.
“We drove four hours for this?” Clarice grumbled.
I craned my neck around and didn’t see a single person not in a moving vehicle zipping down the freeway. “Not too many witnesses.” Of course, the staff and customers in the taco and sub sandwich joints might glance out the windows, but I had to count on their being hungry or busy enough to not be curious.
Clarice shivered. “How long?”
I checked my watch. Then I pulled one of the prepaid phones from my tote and checked it for messages, but there were none. I shook my head. “Depends on customs.”
Clarice’s lips pinched into a tight bundle of wrinkles, but she spared me a comment.
A white, unmarked step van with British Columbia plates puttered along the access road, the turn signal blinking conscientiously. At the sight of the wide brown face of the man behind the wheel, my tension — well, most of it — slipped away. I hopped out of the pickup and waved.
He parked next to us, on the side away from the minivan. His door slammed, and I met him at the back of the step van.
“Any trouble?”
“Nora.” A huge smile creased his face, and he engulfed me in a bear hug. “First things first. Are you all right?” He held me by the shoulders at arm’s length and studied me.
His black hair was streaked with more gray than last time I’d seen him, but the black eyes were the same — intense and worried.
“I’m going to take the Fifth on that,” I whispered, “as I’m sure you know by my request.” I blinked back welling tears. “But is it ever good to see you.” I gave him another squeeze around his sturdy midsection.
Art Williams, in spite of his commonplace English name, is a First Nations elder. He directs social services for the collection of tribes in his jurisdiction. I first met him in Prince George while investigating a range of health initiatives the tribes were starting to implement. I was hoping to share their successful measures with medical facilities Skip’s foundation supports in Africa. I came away from those few days with a whole host of great ideas and a friend for life in Art. He worked tirelessly to help his people — and now, to help me.
“Well, if it isn’t Clarice.” Art grabbed Clarice
for a bear hug too, which she tolerated stiffly. He cast one extra glance over the top of her head, where her hair used to be, but maintained remarkable stoicism.
Then he turned back to me. “I will want answers,” he said in a low voice, “but I understand time is of the essence. With regard to your enquiry — only the usual list of complacent questions at the border and a quick peek at the cargo. But I don’t know if my ticker could survive that again.” He patted his chest with one hand and unlatched the roll-up rear door of the step van with the other. “Our Women’s and Children’s Relief Fund is going to support a free vision and dental clinic with part of your donation. We have yet to figure out what to do with the rest.” He shook his head. “The grand total, of what showed up in all our accounts, blew our minds, Nora.”
I grinned. “My pleasure — and Skip’s.”
Art climbed into the back of the van and hefted a plastic bag. “Bucket brigade style? They’re forty pounds apiece.” He set the bag into my waiting arms.
Clarice unlatched the pickup’s tailgate and tipped her upper half over it, wriggling and scrambling with her legs in the air. She would have been horrified if she knew how ridiculous she looked, so I struggled to suppress my giggling. She certainly wouldn’t have appreciated a boost. Besides, I had my hands full. She finally scootched her belly and then her hips onto the truck bed and pushed up onto her knees.
“You’re really getting the hang of this country living thing,” I said.
“Shut up.” She grabbed my bag, dropped it with a surprised ooof, then pushed it up against the cab. “Get a move on, girl.”
I shifted into autopilot and lost count of the bags I transferred. In fact, I purposely tried to disengage my brain from my body so I didn’t get so many stop-you’re-killing-me signals. I doubted my poor, underused muscles would let me walk tomorrow.
Somewhere mid-stream, the minivan family strolled out of the taco joint, clambered into their vehicle and drove off without giving us a second glance. Several other travelers took brief respites in the parking lot too, but none seemed to take particular notice of us. Maybe black market deals were a common occurrence. Maybe people knew better than to ask.
Art took care of strapping our load, for which I was grateful. The piled layers of bags blocked all but the top few inches of the cab’s rear window. Bertha’s back tires bulged, and I didn’t have much faith in the integrity of her shock absorbers.
Art shared a skeptical look with me. “Good luck. Drive slow.”
“That part won’t be difficult.” I leaned closer to him. “I know this—” I waved a hand toward the overburdened pickup, “—what I asked of you, is illegal. Thank you,” I whispered.
Art slipped a warm hand under my elbow. “Only for you, Nora, given your extreme circumstances. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Promise you’ll stay in touch?”
I nodded.
“It’ll be dark in another hour — hour and a half.” Clarice announced.
Art squeezed my arm. “Go. Text me when you’re safely home. I won’t be able to sleep until you do.”
I laid a hand on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Art Williams.”
“Don’t I know it.” He smiled again, but the expression didn’t erase the worry from his eyes.
CHAPTER 19
Art took the northbound on-ramp while Clarice and I chugged up the southbound entrance to I-5, Bertha’s springs groaning. No question we were an eyesore, and we garnered plenty of irritated glances as drivers slammed on their brakes behind us then sped past as soon as possible.
“Am I supposed to believe those bags are full of wood pellets like the labels say?” Clarice asked.
She was becoming peskier than a four-year-old in the ‘why’ stage. “They’re a free trade product under NAFTA,” I answered.
Clarice snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Clarice stewed in silence as dusk descended. The pickup was making new noises which put me in a state of high alert. I compulsively checked the mirrors to see if any bags had slipped. If we lost even one, it might trigger an investigation that would be disastrous for Art as well as Clarice and me.
While all the rural parts of the state I’d seen so far were about trees, the Seattle metro area was all about traffic, which backed up fast and for miles. We were bookended in the slow lane — rolling, stopping, rolling, stopping. I read the political smorgasbord of bumper stickers on the car in front of us twenty times. My toes cramped from fluctuating pressure on the clutch and gas pedals.
I fiddled with knobs until the headlamps came on. In the dim glow of the dashboard light, the fuel gauge needle vibrated in the red zone.
“I need an exit with a gas station,” I said. “Soon.”
Clarice peered through the windshield, reading aloud all the signs, relevant or not.
I think I held my breath until the bright Texaco sign came into view. Just as I pulled in next to the pumps, one of my phones rang.
“Art,” Clarice whispered hoarsely. “He got caught.”
“He doesn’t have the incriminating evidence anymore. We do.” I finally found the phone that was lit up. “Besides, wrong phone.”
I plastered a fake smile on my face, even though the caller couldn’t see me and answered. “Hi, Mom.”
Beside me, Clarice snorted, but I refused to look at her.
“It’s your lucky day,” Mom piped.
“I sure hope so.”
“Josh Freeney. He’s your disgraced FBI agent.”
“You’re sure?” I scrambled for some paper and a pencil, but Clarice beat me to it, nudging them into my free hand.
“Of course I am. His wife goes to yoga with my massage therapist’s fiancé’s mother. The poor woman was in tears and couldn’t finish her session. She’s considering divorce.”
At least she knew where her husband was, which was one step ahead of me.
“You’re amazing,” I said.
“Yes, honey. Now for your other request. I couldn’t tell if the florist’s clerk was inherently obstinate or just obtuse. He hemmed and hawed but finally gave me the email address used for your order’s confirmation. What a lovely bouquet,” Mom gushed. “Did you know it cost almost three hundred dollars, not including delivery?”
“The email address?” I tried to keep irritation from creeping into my voice.
“Oh yes.” Mom spelled out the address, and I scribbled it down.
A meaningless combination of letters and numbers, not someone’s personal account. The domain extension was Australian. Email accounts can be forwarded and rerouted endlessly, so I didn’t put too much stock in the location. Probably meant to be a diversion, which also meant I’d be wasting any more time spent trying to track it down.
But the idea reinforced my hope that Skip was still alive. It also escalated the gnawing feeling that he was leaving me alone to clean up his mess while he bailed out. Skip — if it was Skip — was blowing money on roses while I resorted to illegal activity to support myself and the boys’ camp I was placing in danger.
If he was alive — where was he? One hardly sends three-hundred-dollar flower arrangements from a kidnapper’s concrete cell while subsisting on gruel and water.
A knuckle rapped hard on my window, and I jumped.
A haggard, middle-aged man in a khaki uniform stood next to the truck, his badge shiny under the gas station’s florescent lights.
“Uh-oh.” Clarice’s face wrinkled into a ghastly approximation of a smile as she nodded to the officer through the window. “Nora,” she hissed through immobile lips, “do something.”
“Hang on,” I blurted to Mom. I wrestled with the window crank handle until I got it down halfway.
“Evening.” The officer tipped his head. “Where are you ladies headed?”
“Home.” My mouth was still open, although I didn’t know what else to add to that statement without implicating myself, when a tinny voice screeched from the phone in m
y lap.
It was a good thing we couldn’t make out Mom’s words, although her agitated, high-pitched tone conveyed enough meaning.
“My mother,” I said. “Didn’t want to drive and talk at the same time. Oh, and we need gas.”
Clarice surreptitiously pinched me in the side — hard.
I held up the phone. “Would you like to tell my mother I’m not in trouble?”
The officer cracked a reluctant grin. “Nope. You have a heavy load here. Good job securing it.”
The tightness in my chest eased. “Thank you.” I tried fluttering my eyelashes.
That made him reach for his gun.
Whew — I exhaled — he was just resting his hands on his hips, arms akimbo.
“You have a brake light out.” He said it wearily, as if it was the fourteenth negligent brake light of his shift, and he wished people would just get it together so he could stop repeating himself.
“Really?” Not exactly a surprise — yet another item in a long list of things wrong with Bertha. I tried to make my face ditzy blank. “Which one?”
“Left. Driver’s side.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll get it fixed right away.”
He frowned down Bertha’s entire length, then brought his gaze back to my window. “Drive safe.”
“Yes, sir.” My sincerity was overwhelming. That was exactly what I planned to do.
Why do cops walk so slowly? Clarice and I watched him stroll to his cruiser and lean against the door’s logo, apparently content to take a break while talking on the radio through his open window.
The tinny tirade hadn’t stopped. Clarice reached over and punched the end call button on my phone, and the screen went dark.
“Good grief,” she muttered. “How long was he back there?”
“No idea. I can’t see directly behind us because of the load.”
“Pump the gas. Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t have agreed with her more.
oOo
“I hate to tell you this,” I said as we bounced over the rutted track toward the mansion, “but we have to unload the truck tonight. I don’t want to keep Bertha out past her curfew. I expect Walt will need her tomorrow.”
Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 13