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

by John Duckworth

  He looked up. The stars were finally visible.

  “We are so small. I shouldn’t judge. But hasn’t the Lord spoken?”

  “Aaron, for some reason God has allowed us to be in the line of fire, and our pursuers don’t care who we’re attracted to.”

  He nodded.

  “The Bishop has known about the danger since we got here. I’m surprised he agreed to this arrangement, but he did.”

  He picked up a stone and flung it toward the horizon. “It’s a test, perhaps, or a way to remind us how little we miss by not following the ways of the world.”

  “Maybe. All I know is we have to be on our guard.”

  We stood there, listening. The sounds of civilization, like motors, were nonexistent. There was a chirping in the tall grass.

  “Camel crickets,” he said.

  “Getting dark. We’d better go.”

  We walked back toward the barn, still not holding hands.

  A pair of headlights flashed from behind us, lighting up the trees. An engine churning. Car coming down the road.

  “Get out of sight,” I whispered.

  We sprinted into the trees, the grass whipping my ankles. The white pines were slender, but crowded together. Doing our best to hide behind the trunks, we waited for the car to pass.

  It was hard to make out, but not a white Cadillac. Something smaller, maybe brown.

  I saw the profile of a young woman at the wheel.

  “Could be the Nameless Girl,” I whispered.

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Taking out my phone, I hit Gallagher’s number.

  There was no answer.

  Chapter 9

  Back at the barn, Stephen was watching something on his phone. Not sure what it was, but I kept hearing a grating tune from something called The Itchy and Scratchy Show.

  Stuart was pacing, wearing an oval in the straw. His hands were in his pockets. Didn’t look all that effeminate, but what did I know?

  “We’re leaving,” I announced, grabbing my trash bag of belongings.

  Stuart looked up. “Why?”

  “I think the Nameless Girl is here.”

  Stephen dropped his phone. “It’s too soon! I thought we had two weeks!”

  The sound of an engine grew louder outside, then stopped.

  Stuart and Stephen hefted their trash bags. Stephen picked up his phone, blew off the chaff, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Looking around, Aaron found a pitchfork on the wall. After yanking it from its bracket, he tapped the tines on the floor. Bits of dried manure fell away.

  “Oh, baby,” Stephen said. “Just what we need.”

  “I can’t do more than threaten anybody with it,” Aaron said, watching the door. “Violence isn’t our way.”

  “Better than nothing,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

  By the light of a single bulb we formed a caravan and snuck out the back. The smell of fertilizer vanished as we moved into the fresh air.

  “Into the car,” I said.

  I was about to push the unlock button on the fob when I froze.

  Silhouetted against the moon was the Nameless Girl, a pistol in her hand.

  The back screen door of the Stoltzfus house flew open with a bang. The Bishop’s wife stepped out, a rolling pin in her hand.

  “What’s going on?” she called.

  The Nameless Girl aimed at her.

  “She’s got nothing to do with this,” I said. “Your argument’s with Stuart. And us.”

  The young woman flicked off the safety. “Lady, my argument’s with everybody.”

  There was a growl on my right. I turned to see Aaron toss the pitchfork aside. Apparently the threat hadn’t worked. Like they say, never bring a farm implement to a gunfight.

  He trotted toward her. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to do; a good Amish boy would never strike a woman, English or not.

  Stephen, unconstrained by such values, spat in the dirt. Picking up the pitchfork, he proceeded to fling it like a javelin but missed. It knocked the gun from her hand, then nearly grazed Mrs. Stoltzfus and stuck in the side of the house like William Tell’s arrow with a chuck sound.

  The Nameless Girl snickered. “You throw like a girl, dipweed.” She walked toward the pistol.

  I dropped my purse on the driveway, pepper spray not being my weapon of choice in this situation, and asked myself what Harrison Ford would do.

  “You’re the dipweed, sister,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. Which of course I didn’t.

  She snorted. “What are you going to do, diss me to death?”

  Remembering my brief and undistinguished career in tenth grade P.E. as a flag football player, I launched myself in her direction.

  Head down and reaching out, I tackled her in the midsection. We hit the ground like a couple of hissing ferrets fighting for the alpha female spot.

  What was I thinking? She was probably 15 years younger than I, not to mention the muscles and the cool leather jacket. I found myself with my cheek in the dirt, breathless.

  Keeping her knee on the side of my neck, she edged toward the gun. “You’re pathetic,” she said.

  Suddenly a manure-encrusted boot descended and pinned her arm to the ground.

  “Sorry,” Aaron said. “You leave me no choice. ‘When the strong man guards his own house, his goods are safe.’ From Luke, chapter eleven.”

  He nodded at Stephen. “Perhaps you could take the weapon.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  The Nameless Girl writhed in the dust.

  “Crap,” she said, only it was something much worse.

  In no hurry to get up, I spit out the grit and watched a cricket hop past my nose. Ah, to be one of God’s less complicated creatures.

  Aaron carefully took his boot from the young woman’s neck and held down both of her arms with his hands. “I’d help you up, Carolyn, but I’m a little busy.”

  I looked at Stephen. “I know you’ve got that heavy artillery to hold, but maybe you could spare a second.” I lifted my hand from the dirt, noticing I’d managed to break a nail.

  He reached down and, keeping his eye on the girl, helped me to my feet. “Have you considered joining G.L.O.W.?”

  “Who?”

  “Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. Fictional, of course. Netflix series.”

  I wobbled a little. “If it’s fictional, how can I join?”

  “Well . . there’s an actual Women’s Wrestling Association.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t afford to break more than one nail.”

  “I swear you’ve got what it takes.”

  Speaking of swearing, the Nameless Girl chose that moment to prove once again she excelled in that department. My ears didn’t burn. Just smoldered a little.

  Deciding to speed-dial Gallagher, I fished my phone from my purse. No bars.

  “Stuart,” I yelled. “Call Gallagher, will you?”

  He still looked dazed. “Uh . . . sure.”

  I gave him the number. He was starting to punch it in when the rest of the Stoltzfus family poured from the house.

  “Good Lord,” cried the Bishop.

  Aaron tried to appear less entangled with his prisoner, but only succeeded in looking like a 19th century Twister player.

  The Bishop walked to the barn, then returned with a length of fat sisal rope. “Let all of you be witness. I do this with great reluctance, begging divine forgiveness should it be necessary.”

  Stuart gasped. “You’re not going to hang her, are you?”

  The old man’s eyes widened. “God forbid. I only wish to learn from our Lord’s observation in Mark 3:27, the verse about binding the strong man.”

  He scratched his beard, remembering. “‘No man can enter into a strong man’s house and despoil his goods, unless he will first bind the strong man; and then he will despoil his house.’ Not prescriptive, of course, but descriptive.”

  “What
ever,” Stephen said, still holding the gun.

  “Also a bit out of context,” the Bishop continued. “Yet I believe the grace of Christ will allow it under the circumstances.”

  He and Aaron tied the rope around the woman’s wrists and feet. Fortunately, it was long enough to keep her from looking like a trussed-up Thanksgiving turkey.

  I found a bale of straw and sat, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “What’s that?” the Bishop’s granddaughter asked, pointing down the driveway.

  “Oh, double crap,” Stephen muttered.

  Another car was pulling up.

  A white Cadillac.

  The white Cadillac.

  Chapter 10

  I stood up, searching for a place to run. There wasn’t any.

  “Triple crap,” Stephen said. He wheeled to face the car.

  “I’ll take the gun,” I said.

  “But—”

  “You look a little too desperate. Desperate people do surprisingly unpleasant things.”

  Frowning, he handed it over. I pointed it at my recent wrestling partner.

  The Cadillac’s door opened. Out climbed Jeremy, oilier than usual. His gun was bigger, too.

  He looked down. “You must be the new girl.” He shook his head. “I hope they don’t expect me to train you.”

  She swore again. He just chuckled.

  “Hey, Jethro,” he said, glancing at Aaron. “Untie the lady.”

  Having abandoned his game of Twister, Aaron sighed and took a penknife from his pocket.

  Jeremy stepped closer. “Try to use that for anything other than rope and you’ll be dangling from the rafters yourself.”

  Aaron sawed away at the woman’s bonds. “I understand,” he mumbled.

  Mr. Oilyface turned to me. “I’ll take the gun, Sweetheart.”

  Yeah, I could picture Dwight Schrute saying that. Only Dwight would be armed with a stapler.

  I handed over the weapon. One of the Stoltzfus girls was crying softly. The Bishop’s wife put her arm around her.

  Jeremy sauntered over to Stuart, who was hiding in the shadows. “Got the money, Mr. Lytle?”

  “No. But—”

  “Time’s up.”

  He turned to the Bishop. “I bet Farmer Brown here’s got some cash. Where do you guys hide your money, under a mattress?”

  “I am reminded of a verse from the Book of Acts: ‘Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee.’”

  Jeremy cocked his head to one side. “So what have you got?”

  “Forgiveness.”

  “Not interested.”

  The Bishop sighed. “Sometimes we want least what we need most.”

  “What I need least is a sermon from you.”

  “God will be the judge.”

  “Great.” He paused, then looked back at Stuart. “My employer’s been very patient but even he has his limits. His competitors notice the slightest sign of weakness.”

  “If I just had another couple of weeks—”

  Ignoring him, Jeremy tossed the young woman’s gun in her direction. Aaron cut the last bit of rope. She sat up, grabbed the weapon, and kicked him in the side of the head.

  “Ooh,” said Jeremy. “Jethro, that’s gotta hurt.”

  Aaron said nothing, but looked dazed.

  Jeremy raised his firearm and took aim at Stuart.

  “You farm folk turn around. No need to see this.”

  The Bishop closed his eyes, probably praying. His wife took their granddaughter by the shoulders and marched her back into the house.

  “Next time, Stuart, don’t make bets you can’t cover,” Jeremy said.

  I tried not to look Stuart in the eye. There would be no next time, and he knew it.

  Another car door shut on the other side of the house. I could hear gravel crunching under somebody’s shoes.

  Jeremy and the Nameless Girl whirled toward the sound.

  “Lay down on the ground, Stuart,” Jeremy ordered.

  The crunching stopped. There was a rustling in the bushes.

  “Whoever you are, this isn’t a good time,” Jeremy called, gripping the butt of his gun with both hands. He aimed at the foliage. “Dare you to show your face.”

  The young woman took cover behind the corner of the barn. The Bishop’s eyes were still shut.

  A gunshot exploded from somewhere in the greenery. The young woman hissed, then swore again. Stumbling from her hiding place, she held her shoulder.

  Gun pointed at the sky, Jeremy dashed toward me. “Get down,” he told the girl. “God, don’t you know anything?”

  I froze. He grabbed me, bent his arm around my neck, and squeezed. I couldn’t recall being a human shield before. The harder he squeezed, the less I could see. Sparks of color danced at the edges of my peripheral vision.

  A figure rose from the bushes like Botticelli’s Venus from the giant clamshell. This one was clothed, though, in a ratty tan raincoat Columbo would be proud of. And armed with a gun that probably required a special permit.

  It was Gallagher.

  “Put down your weapons!” he barked.

  The cavalry had come after all. But the odds were anything but promising.

  “Is that you, Gallagher?” Jeremy asked, incredulous. “You’ve really let yourself go. Aren’t you a little too old for this sort of thing?”

  “Aren’t you a little too stupid?” the former agent called.

  “Two of us. One of you. Sounds pretty dumb to me.”

  “The FBI is on its way.”

  Mr. Oilyface gave a cynical laugh. “Bullcrap.”

  Gallagher raised his gun and fired. With a POP the sodium lamp illuminating the barnyard shattered. The only light left was a kerosene lantern in the window of the house.

  Swearing, Jeremy released his grip and waved his weapon blindly at the shadows.

  It was now or never. I pulled away, my neck throbbing.

  In the half-dark I could barely make out Aaron’s profile. He seemed to be picking up the rope and slinking toward Jeremy.

  “What the—” Jeremy cried. Aaron tripped him, sending him into a badly executed cartwheel. His gun went flying.

  The dark shape of Stephen leapt forward, picked up the sidearm, and flung it into the woods.

  “Good time to surrender,” Gallagher said, and coughed.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Jeremy said, panting on the ground. “My colleague, inept as she may be, is still armed.” He paused. “You are, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  I helped Stuart up. “This way,” I whispered, then dragged him toward Stephen.

  A shot rang out, the bullet zipping past my ear. The Nameless Girl’s aim might be a little off, but not enough to give me any comfort.

  “Stephen, follow us,” I said, and led them toward the car.

  Jeremy got up, swaying like a drunk, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. Staggering toward the trees, he squinted at the darkness. Apparently he was looking for the gun.

  He tripped over something but caught himself at the last second. His profanity was half-hearted, or maybe just exhausted.

  Gallagher coughed again. “Like I said, a good time to—”

  Another POP, and it was Gallagher’s turn to curse.

  “Thanks for letting me know where you are,” the Nameless Girl called.

  “Missed me,” he said. “And that works both ways.”

  A shot sounded from his direction. She cried out in pain.

  A member of the Stoltzfus clan finally switched on the porch light. I could see the young woman limping to her car, still holding her shoulder.

  “Now,” I whispered, herding Stephen and Stuart in the opposite direction.

  We scrambled toward the car. Jeremy gave up his search among the trees and turned toward us, his eyes cold. He checked his gun to make sure he wasn’t out of ammo.

  Gallagher stepped into the light and popped something in his mouth. Cough drop, maybe.

  “Ms.
Neville, I’ll take it from here.”

  “God be with you!” the Bishop called, looking one-fourth worried and three-fourths glad to be rid of us.

  Aaron waved sadly. I wondered whether I’d see him again.

  Swallowing, I got behind the wheel and turned the key. I could hear Stephen and Stuart slam their doors and buckle their seatbelts.

  I waved back.

  Then I drove into the night, the tires spitting gravel.

  Chapter 11

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “The first Amish action hero.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Aaron. Like to see what he could do with Harrison Ford’s bullwhip.”

  “Where are we going?” Stuart asked, sounding shell-shocked.

  “God only knows,” I said.

  There was nothing in the rearview mirror. I eased my foot off the accelerator, slowing from 65 to 50. The last speed limit sign I’d seen said 45.

  “We’ve got about a quarter of a tank. That should take us somewhere.”

  Stephen took out his phone. “I’m gonna check for the nearest major highway and gas station.”

  Stuart cleared his throat. “Carolyn, I’m glad you feel the Almighty knows where we’re going, but He and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I wonder what Gallagher’s going to do,” Stuart said, looking out the window.

  “I doubt the FBI is on its way,” I said. “I’d give him a fifty-fifty chance of holding off Jeremy and what’s-her-face.”

  “Let’s go to Mexico,” Stephen said, still looking at his phone. “I speak a little Spanish.”

  “God, no,” Stuart said. “If I wanted to live in the middle of a drug war, I’d move to Los Angeles.”

  “Okay. How about Idaho? We could stay with Carolyn’s family. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  I laughed. “You don’t know my parents. They’d drive you nuts. Besides, the Boudreauxs will have all our families under surveillance.”

  “All we’ve got is the shirts on our backs,” Stuart said. “I didn’t even have time to bring my trash bag.”