Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5)

by John Duckworth

She pointed down the road. “Just past the feed store. Pretty much your only choice. Windmill Cafe.”

  After dumping our stuff in the two rooms we’d been assigned, we followed her directions.

  The restaurant’s lot was sparsely populated, too. “No buggies?” Stephen asked.

  “Quit thinking Amish,” I said.

  An unexpectedly skinny girl in an all-denim outfit handed us menus. “We’re out of everything except sausage, sauerkraut, and pie.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll have one of everything.”

  “So will I,” Stephen said.

  Stuart sighed. “I’ll be sorry, but me, too.”

  The sausage was greasy, the sauerkraut sauer, the pie was a tart lemon meringue. My gorge was rising as we split the bill and left a tip.

  Back at the Quilter’s Rest, Stephen and Stuart were stuck together. I got my own room.

  Between indigestion and worrying about who might find us, I had a hard time sleeping. About midnight I heard a crash from next door. Rising from bed, still clad in my green blouse and jeans, I grabbed my pepper spray from my purse and ventured into the hallway.

  Stephen answered my knock. “Stuart bumped into the desk on his fourth trip to the bathroom. And he’s so nervous about Jeremy that it just makes it worse. How about you trade places with me?” He rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  “If I were Amish and this was Rumspringa, it might be proper. But I’m not and it isn’t.”

  “What the heck is Rumspringa?”

  I started to answer, but Stuart’s groans were too pathetic.

  I handed him my pepper spray. “You need this more than I do,” I said.

  Next morning we met in the hallway to compare sleep-deprivation stories. The circles under our eyes were the color of coffee, a cup of which we held in our shaky grips.

  “Oh, what a night,” I mumbled.

  “The Four Seasons,” Stephen said. “Late December, back in ’63 . . .”

  Stuart took a sip. “Sorry about last night,” he said, looking down at the brown carpet I imagined harbored a multitude of silverfish. “Must have lost about ten pounds. Maybe I should do a diet book.”

  “Anybody up for breakfast?” I asked, hoping nobody would say yes. Nobody did.

  We didn’t have the strength to hit the road, exactly, so we just drove on it. Or I did, doing my best not to drift off.

  “No white Cadillacs yet,” Stuart said, tapping a Tylenol out of his vial and discovering it was empty.

  “Did you see Christine?” Stephen asked.

  “Christine who?” Stuart groused, trying to lick the inside of the tube.

  “Stephen King movie about a possessed car.”

  “You mean repossessed?”

  “Demon-possessed. Stuart, you’ve got to keep up with pop culture if you’re going to relate to your audience.”

  I snorted. “Christine came out in the late eighties.”

  Stephen frowned. “Maybe I meant the remake in 2016. Certified Fresh on Rotten Tomatoes.”

  “I never saw either one,” Stuart said, sinking lower in his seat.

  “Okay, how about Duel? Directed by Spielberg. Very different. About a possessed semi-truck. Starred Dennis Weaver. Released in 1971.”

  “That’s even older,” I said.

  “You know Dennis Weaver, right? Chester on Gunsmoke?”

  “You’re getting positively prehistoric,” I said.

  “Gunsmoke I’ve heard of,” mumbled Stuart. “Duel I wouldn’t know from Hamilton.”

  Stephen leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Weaver was probably more famous for playing Marshal Matt Dillon’s sidekick, Chester. He was replaced by Ken Curtis as Festus. Not many people know why.”

  He paused, waiting for us to beg for details. We ignored him.

  “Weaver got a swelled head and wanted to move on to better things. He went on to play McCloud, a sheriff with one of those wooly-collared jackets. Whether that was better is a matter of—”

  “Uh-oh,” Stuart said, looking out the back window.

  I checked the mirror. The road was straight enough that I could see what appeared to be a white Cadillac a mile or so behind us.

  “Time to take a back road,” I said.

  “I thought this was a back road,” Stephen said.

  We passed more barns and hexes, but no alternate routes. Finally an old sign saying SMUCKER’S WAY appeared on the right, and I took it. Still paved, but potholed.

  There being no speed limit sign, I accelerated to about 40. But rounding a corner I suddenly came upon a pair of Amish-looking black buggies with red triangular signs on their rears. Stomping the brake, which protested with the screech of a night owl, I stopped just short of hitting the one directly ahead.

  “Thought you said we weren’t in Amish country yet,” Stephen said.

  “I was misinformed.”

  We crawled along for a mile or so. Couldn’t pass.

  Stuart cleared his throat. “I can’t tell anymore whether my ideas are good, but I have one.” He paused. “Maybe we should buy some Amish clothes and hide out in a barn like Harrison Ford did in Witness.”

  There was silence, except for the clip-clop of the horses in front of us.

  “Nothing personal, but that’s a crazy idea,” Stephen said.

  I frowned. “You should talk.”

  I looked in the rearview mirror. “Very creative, Stuart. But we won’t be safe until we get to Mr. Gallagher in Columbus.”

  “If then,” Stuart said with a sigh.

  More clip-clop.

  “Let’s think positive,” I said brightly, and smiled.

  As I always said, it was best to say the opposite of what you were thinking.

  Against my better judgment, I surrendered the wheel a few miles later. Letting anyone else drive my car was anathema to me, but given our lack of velocity the risk seemed small.

  We took turns maneuvering the back roads for several hours, watching the woods go by. At one point Stephen, who was driving, started listing the varieties of foliage he observed. I punched the radio button and turned up the volume on NPR’s Car Talk. He got the message but said nothing.

  Despite the deepening darkness, I couldn’t nap. I was determined to monitor the vigilance of my colleagues. Stuart seemed to squint a lot. “My night vision stinks,” he said offhandedly.

  I made a show of checking my watch. “Oh, look. Your shift is over.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  Finally we came to a major highway. The lights of Columbus glowed in the distance.

  Stephen stretched in the back seat. “Thought we’d never get to civilization again. Or get my appetite back.”

  I turned to Stuart. “How’s your stomach?”

  “Better than my head.”

  The first Columbus exit came none too soon. I stopped at the first familiar-looking motel, a Rodeway Inn. We got two rooms and freshened up, which in my case meant washing my face and using half my stick of deodorant.

  We’d spotted a Subway down the street, and I appointed myself to pick up a few sandwiches. After taking orders, I walked the well-lit sidewalk, searching for white Cadillacs. Same thing on the way back. Nothing more threatening than an oversized red pickup full of guys wearing baseball caps, wolf-whistling and yelling what they apparently felt were compliments on my appearance. I pretended to be offended.

  We congregated in my room, where I passed out the submarines, chips, and drinks. Stephen had asked for a chocolate-chip cookie, which I conveniently forgot.

  “I can’t keep paying for everything,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “When all this is over, we split the bills equally. And don’t think I won’t keep track.”

  After asking an open-eyed blessing, I bit into my Cold Cut Combo and started chewing. Stephen attacked his meatball sandwich, a mess of barbecue sauce and shreds of lettuce that dropped to the carpet. Stuart, who’d chosen a tuna salad, was more dainty.

  “M
aybe we should call Mr. Gallagher,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Too late.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”

  We finished our repast. I handed Stephen a tan-and-green napkin and pointed at the blobs of lettuce and mayo. “Cleanliness may not be next to godliness, but this is my room.”

  With a grunt he licked his fingers and went to work. I bade them farewell and dropped the cups and wrappers in the wastebasket.

  I watched about 15 minutes of the local news, then fell into bed. I’d almost drifted off when my phone jangled on the nightstand.

  “Ms. Neville?” It was Gallagher, his voice raspy. “Sorry to call so late. Trying to quit smoking, and nicotine withdrawal’s keeping me up.”

  “We may have seen Jeremy’s Cadillac this morning.”

  “Catch a license number?”

  “Too far away.”

  He sighed. “I assume you’re staying in a motel in Columbus.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d recommend moving your car out of sight if you haven’t already.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Now here’s the deal. Let’s meet in the morning at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium. I’m sure you can get directions.”

  “What time?”

  “Oh, say nine o’clock. Get an Uber or a taxi to throw Jeremy off the trail if he’s around.”

  “Okay.”

  “Never been to the zoo, but I see on the Internet they’ve got a Reptile House. We’ll meet there.”

  “I hate snakes.”

  “You’d hate meeting up with Jeremy a lot more. I’ll be the bald guy in the tan raincoat pacing back and forth and trying not to think about having a cigarette.”

  He hung up.

  I got dressed and moved the car under a tree in the back, then threw every possible lock and latch on my room.

  After jamming two chairs against the door, I switched off the light, prayed, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  Next morning, about ten, we took an Uber to the zoo. The driver, a gray-haired lady with a British accent, took us down West Powell Road and dropped us at the entrance.

  “Give me a call when you’re done,” she said. “And give my regards to the Komodo Dragon.”

  There was already a line at the entrance under the leopard-skin banner that said ZOO and ZOOMBEZI BAY, mostly moms with preschoolers. “Who’s paying?” Stephen asked.

  “Your turn,” I said. “I got the Uber.”

  Ahead of us was a little girl in a yellow dress, maybe four years old, begging her mother for an elephant-shaped balloon. When Mom resisted, she stopped her entreaties long enough to throw up. I guess some people can do that on command. I’m that way with cracking my knuckles, but only use it in emergencies.

  After squeezing through the turnstile, I waited in front of the Salty Seal Gift Shop while Stuart took considerably more time and effort in accomplishing the same. Searching the crowd, I saw no one resembling anybody I didn’t want to see.

  I examined the map in my hand. “Let’s skip the aquarium.”

  Stuart, trembling slightly as usual, seemed disappointed. “But I love the electric eels. Always been fascinated by them. Did you know they’re related to catfish? And they have to surface every ten minutes to breathe. They can deliver a shock of 650 volts. And—”

  “You’re starting to sound like Stephen. Maybe you’ve spent a little too much time around those repulsive things already.”

  I folded up my map. “Maybe we can come back when we’re done with Mr. Gallagher.”

  He looked around and bit his lip. “We’re too exposed here.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “This is the last place Jeremy will look. And the Reptile House is even more private.”

  Following the signs, we found ourselves facing an older, low-slung building with lots of stone. Inside it was humid, smelling of sweat but not much else.

  To no one’s surprise, Stephen took out his phone and began to enlighten us about our scaly friends and enemies. “That brown one on the fake rock’s a reticulated python. Over there’s an eyelash viper, the little yellow one peeking through the leaves.” Neither animal even twitched, perhaps lulled to docility by his lecture.

  “Next we have the spider tortoise. He often lives to the ripe old age of—”

  “Oh, look,” Stuart mercifully interrupted. “The Komodo Dragon. Almost as interesting as the electric eel.” He pointed at a Doberman-sized creature with scaly green skin, the spitting image of a bogus dinosaur from a really bad science-fiction movie.

  “World’s largest living lizard,” he continued. Flicking its forked tongue, the thing slid into a swamp-deep water tank.

  Stuart took out his phone, pressed a button, and started recording. “Note to self: Work Komodo Dragon into next Jennifer story.” He turned it off. “If I survive,” he mumbled.

  My armpits were starting to tingle. “I think I’ll stop by the girls’ room,” I said. “My Ophidiophobia’s kicking in.”

  Stephen poked his phone again.

  “Let me save you some time,” I said. “It means fear of snakes.”

  “I know that,” he said loftily. “Just wanted to confirm.”

  The restroom was clean but steamy, apparently unoccupied. There being no other place to take refuge, I sat on a toilet and locked the stall door.

  Women and children came and went for several minutes. I started to nod off.

  Suddenly there was a knock two feet from my face. “Carolyn Neville?” a woman asked.

  I froze. “Who wants to know?”

  “Some guy asked me to get you.”

  “What does he look like? About thirty, messed-up hair, oily?”

  “Uh . . . no. More like an old bald guy in a tan raincoat.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll be right there.”

  I heard the door close behind her. By now I actually had to use the facilities, the details of which are unnecessary to recount.

  As soon as I flushed, the knocking resumed. “You in there?” growled the former agent. “Jeez, you women take forever in the can.”

  I opened the door. “Don’t you need a search warrant or something?”

  “Not under the circumstances.”

  I went to the sink and washed up. “I can see we’re going to get along famously.”

  “Hey, we don’t have all day. Let’s find ourselves a dark little corner where we can all talk.”

  A woman came in, towing a toddler. When she saw Gallagher, she gasped.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Smirking, I followed him out.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but Agent Gallagher had a large manila envelope under his arm. He made a circle-the-wagons gesture to get us rounded up. The sounds of children running and parents berating echoed in the mostly-stone chamber.

  He raised two fingers to his lips as if preparing to smoke an absent cigarette, then saved face by scratching the side of his nose.

  “In case you’re wondering why they say I’m obsessed with the Boudreaux family, here’re some things you should know. First, back in 1967 a guy in Boston named Pete had a problem with betting on the horses. His glasses were rose-colored, and his instincts were terrible.

  “He hid it from his wife and kids as long as he could, especially the part about borrowing big-time cash from an up-and-coming loan shark named Max Boudreaux. Started drinking. Max didn’t have much of a staff in those days, so he followed Pete home from a bar one night, blocked his way with a light blue Chevy Impala, and pulled out a gun.”

  I looked around to see whether a crowd was gathering to hear his story. So far, the snakes were more interesting.

  “Pete was 42,” Gallagher continued. “If you saw him you’d swear he was ten years older. Between the debt and the booze, he couldn’t hold up to the stress. Max never had to use his gun. Next morning cops found Pete dead, propped up next to a tree. Heart attack.”

  He paused, and I could imagine him t
aking a long draw on that imaginary cigarette and slowly exhaling. “Pete was my dad.”

  We looked at each other. Stephen proved he didn’t know what to say by shaking his head and offering the former agent a stick of Dentyne. Maybe because his mouth needed something to do, Gallagher accepted.

  “I’ve been lugging this rogue’s gallery around for at least fifteen years,” he said, pulling out a blurry photocopy and holding up a picture of an older man with thinning gray hair and thick glasses. Lots of liver spots on his face. He was smiling, showing off a set of unnaturally white dentures. “This is Max. Always thought he looked a little like that actor, James Garner. But don’t let the smile fool you.”

  He took out another. “His daughter, Angel.” Fortyish, angular, blonde. “Never smiles except when she’s around her father or has killed an addict who couldn’t pay.”

  Stuart shivered.

  “Looks like Jane Lynch,” Stephen said.

  “Who?” Gallagher asked.

  “Never mind.”

  Next was Jeremy. “We’ve met,” I said.

  One more photo. “Even the Bureau doesn’t know her name,” the former agent said. “New hire. Being trained on the job.”

  He handed me the picture. Early twenties, lean. Short, strawberry blonde hair. Leather jacket. Could have been my daughter, but thank God she wasn’t.

  “Let’s call her the Nameless Girl,” Stephen said.

  “Why?”

  “Sounds creepy.”

  Gallagher rolled his eyes. “The Boudreauxs are based in the Big Easy, but they’re really everywhere. You name it, they’re into it—loans, yeah, but they make a heck of a lot more in drugs and prostitution.”

  He turned to Stuart. “You’re the victim, right?”

  Stuart nodded sheepishly.

  “Don’t tell me. You lost so much at the tables you couldn’t get out. Now you’re in hock to these animals and aren’t safe anywhere.”

  Gallagher shoved the portraits back in the envelope. “And now these innocent bystanders don’t have anywhere to go, either.” He nodded toward us.

  “I didn’t mean for it to turn out that way,” Stuart said faintly.

  “What in blazes is the matter with you?”