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

by John Duckworth

  “Join the club.”

  Stephen looked up from his phone. “There’s a Sunoco station off Highway 30.”

  “Where’s Highway 30?”

  “About ten miles from here, take a right. Exit 124.”

  Stuart leaned forward. “About my trash bag—”

  “Definitely high priority,” I said. “Or it would be, if we weren’t being chased by the mob. Assuming Gallagher didn’t put them out of commission.”

  Stuart made a frustrated noise. “You know, when I write a book I like to know what’s going to happen at least a page in advance. I have this card system. You put a plot point on each card, then thumbtack them all to a cork board on the wall and keep moving them around until—”

  I glanced in the mirror. “Stuart, they have computer programs for that now. And that only works for fiction. We don’t get to control real life.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “For now let’s have two goals: Fill the gas tank and keep driving until it’s empty.”

  We had about three gallons left when we got to the Sunoco station.

  “Who has to go?” I asked.

  Stephen and Stuart raised their hands.

  “I feel stupid dressed in this Amishwear,” Stephen said.

  “So do I,” Stuart said. “Conspicuous.”

  I opened my door. “Maybe they sell swimsuits. Or football jerseys. But I doubt it.”

  We went inside to get the restroom keys. The clerk was chubbier than Stuart, pale as a bean sprout. I figured from the Civil War cap on his balding head he was one of those people who wore costumes on weekends and toasted their breakfast burritos over a campfire. At least he wasn’t a Confederate.

  He stared. “Didn’t think you folks could drive,” he said.

  “Only in emergencies,” I replied.

  He nodded, apparently uninterested in the details.

  “Sell any clothes here?” Stephen asked.

  The clerk pointed at a display of clear plastic ponchos on the counter.

  Stephen sighed. “Not quite what I had in mind.”

  The keys were attached to hunks of wood with MEN and WOMEN on them. “Don’t worry, we’ll buy something,” I promised. “And we’re filling up.”

  Passing a rack of food so junky it would be better used as packing material than sustenance, I came to the door with the stick-lady symbol and unlocked it.

  Out of respect for the Sunoco people, but mostly for legal reasons, I must point out that what followed was no doubt unusual, perhaps due to the clerk’s desire to recreate nineteenth-century hygiene.

  In four words, the place was filthy. The toilet did flush, however, even though the indoor plumbing was an anachronism. Since paper towels had not been invented, I used the hem of my historically accurate dress.

  Returning the key, I resisted the urge to offer the clerk a review. I paid for the gas and purchased coffee, a granola bar, and a jumbo bottle of hand sanitizer.

  Stephen was already consuming his big bag of Cheetos and blue Slurpee. Stuart was swallowing half an overpriced vial of Tylenol with a Big Gulp Diet Pepsi.

  Back at the pump I squeegeed bugs from the windshield and watched traffic for a white Cadillac or whatever the “new girl” was driving. I didn’t see either.

  We got in the car. “That bathroom was the pits,” Stephen said. “I’m going on Yelp.”

  Stuart leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get . . . wherever we’re going.”

  I ate the granola bar with the coffee, the latter tasting like hot iodine. “Anybody want Cheetos?” Stephen asked.

  Stuart started to snore. I shook my head and pulled into traffic.

  I wanted to ask for a Tylenol, but didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

  We drove in silence for at least 15 minutes. The coffee, disgusting as it was, kept me awake.

  Finally Stephen spoke. “Love your plan,” he said. “What is it again?”

  “A work in progress.”

  He shook the last Cheeto crumbs into his mouth. “I like progress. Let’s make some.”

  I sighed. “I think in a couple of hours we should get off the interstate and find a place to stay for the night.”

  He took out his phone. “How many stars you want this place to have?”

  “We can only afford two. But it’s got to have locks on the doors.”

  He poked away at the screen. “You okay with Motel Six?”

  “I hear they’ve repented and leave the light on for all races, creeds, and colors.”

  “We’ll get to one in just under three hours.”

  I grunted. “Worth waiting for, I’m sure.”

  He settled back in his seat and soon joined Stuart in the Land of Nod. Their combined snores were more powerful than caffeine.

  After about an hour of driving, I saw a REST STOP sign. The state of Pennsylvania was looking out for me, though I hoped God was looking harder.

  After refilling my water bottle at the drinking fountain, I got back in the car.

  “Anybody need to use the bathroom?” I asked loudly.

  Making irritated noises, Stephen and Stuart stretched and opened their doors without speaking. They walked back to the building, one with rock columns in front and a sharply pitched roof on top.

  Yawning, I took out my phone and punched in Gallagher’s number.

  No answer. Not even voice mail.

  I shivered. Maybe he hadn’t made it.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw a car rolling into the parking lot. The lights were too bright to identify it.

  I couldn’t take chances. Called Stephen’s number.

  “Yeah? What?” He sounded ticked.

  “You and Stuart have to get back to the car. Right now.”

  “I’m in the middle of something.”

  I wanted to scream, but just shrieked instead. “Hurry up!”

  The headlights behind me went out. The car door opened.

  The driver stepped into the light.

  It was Jeremy. No sunglasses now.

  I started the car.

  He stepped closer. Sending up a quick prayer, I threw it into reverse.

  There being little a compact can do to a barge-like Caddy, I aimed for Jeremy.

  Not being suicidal, he sprang out of the way.

  I looked at the restroom. Stephen, still zipping his pants, burst out the door first. Stuart followed, barely keeping up. They scrambled into the car.

  Gunfire erupted. The back window shattered, raining bits of glass on the back seat. Stephen and Stuart sheltered their heads with their arms.

  “What are you waiting for?” Stephen cried.

  “I’m not,” I said, and floored it onto the highway.

  Chapter 12

  Soon as I could, I made a U-turn.

  “I wasn’t finished,” Stuart whispered.

  “With what?” I asked.

  “The thing I went in the restroom to do.”

  I glanced at the mirror and hit the gas. “Not my problem.”

  He fidgeted.

  “We could stop and take care of it behind a tree,” Stephen said.

  “See that glass all over the back seat? Plenty more where that came from.”

  Stuart looked out his window. “Did we lose Jeremy?”

  “Who knows? At this rate, he’d have to—”

  Suddenly a high-pitched wail sounded behind us.

  “Oh, crap,” I said. A pair of stuttering blue lights flashed in the mirror.

  I hadn’t been pulled over since that time I got caught doing my makeup on the thruway into Manhattan. Officer said I’d been driving distracted. I made the mistake of correcting him: “Distracted-ly.”

  He’d shown his appreciation with a $75 ticket. I showed mine by paying the fine in quarters I’d collected, each in penance for an undeserved donut or word I should have left unspoken.

  Now, groaning, I pulled over.

  Walking toward us was a sheriff’s deputy, wearing one of those
Mountie hats and a leather jacket. He reminded me of Conan O’Brien’s sidekick, Andy Richter, pudgy but with an unstable streak.

  “License and registration,” he said.

  “They’re in my purse.”

  “Good hiding place. Would you mind getting them out?”

  I handed them over, watching for Jeremy.

  “What’s with the busted window, Ma’am?”

  “Somebody shot it out,” Stephen volunteered. “Trying to kill us.”

  The cop narrowed his eyes. “Care to tell me about it?”

  I pondered whether the truth would hurt. Us, that is.

  Stuart leaned forward. “He’s kidding, officer.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Better safe than sorry,” he whispered.

  “This happen recently?” asked the deputy.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “You’ve gotta get it fixed.”

  “Soon as I can.”

  He tore the ticket from his pad. “Hope you can afford it.”

  I looked at the fine. “Not after this.”

  “Got some plastic you can cover it with?”

  I sighed. “No.”

  “Well, you can’t keep going with it that way. Stop as soon as possible. Get it fixed in the morning.”

  He returned to his car and drove off.

  “I still need to go,” Stuart said. The urgency in his voice was poignant.

  I put the ticket in my purse and closed my eyes. “Find a tree.”

  He searched the landscape. “Too close to traffic. Maybe down the road.”

  I started the car. “Remind me never to play miniature golf with you again.”

  Heading west, I kept checking the rearview mirror for the Cadillac. Stuart brushed glass shards onto the floor with his straw hat and made urgent noises.

  Just as the noises were graduating to agonized groans, Stephen spotted a likely-looking tree. Mercifully, he didn’t bother to identify it.

  I pulled onto the shoulder. While we waited for Stuart to do what had to be done, I undid my seat belt and turned around.

  “Can you find the most unlikely place for us to stay within the next hundred miles?”

  “There’s a Motel Six coming up, remember?”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  He scratched his chin. “How about a foxhole? Or a lean-to made of sticks?”

  “You’re getting colder.”

  He took out his phone.

  “Here are three other places rated even lower.”

  “Too obvious,” I said.

  Stuart knocked on his door, which had somehow gotten locked. I pushed the button on mine.

  “Anybody have hand sanitizer?”

  I rummaged around in my purse. The bottle was next to the pepper spray.

  “Thanks,” he said, and climbed in.

  “Okay,” said Stephen. “Here’s something different. One of those family camping places that has cabins. Couple miles off the highway. About fifteen minutes from here.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Yogi Bear?”

  “Jellystone Park? No. Huckleberry Acres.”

  “Is there a picture of Huckleberry Hound? Blue guy, weird hat.”

  He shook his head. “How could there be two campground franchises based on Hanna-Barbara cartoons?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him what a terrible idea the whole thing was, but he forged ahead.

  “This place also has teepees. Rustic. Refreshments. Pony rides.”

  I cringed. I loved camping as much as I loved bleeding ulcers.

  “Do they have yurts?” Stuart asked, clicking his seat belt.

  Stephen leaned back. “Is that a disease, like shingles? Or kind of like yogurt or tofu?”

  “No, it’s Mongolian. Think Genghis Khan. Tent. Round. Animal skin. Like a teepee with no point. Stayed in one once. Hot as you-know-what, but had a table and chairs. Sort of a cloth bungalow, but with—”

  “We get the idea,” I said.

  “This doesn’t say anything about yurts,” Stephen said.

  I raised a hand. “For the sake of full disclosure, I hate camping of all kinds.”

  “So do I,” Stuart said. But I can’t think of a less likely place—except maybe a treehouse or cave.”

  He stuck his hand over my seat. “Here. The rest of my Tylenol.”

  I’d save it for later. Things were bound to get worse.

  I took out my phone and tried once more to call Gallagher. Voice mail again.

  Figuring it was too dangerous to leave a message, I pushed the END button.

  “Camping, here we come,” I said without enthusiasm.

  I was smarter than the average bear.

  And I’d always wanted a pony ride.

  The arrow pointing toward Huckleberry Acres needed repainting.

  It hung from a grinning, billboard-sized cowboy who looked suspiciously like Woody from Toy Story sitting on a pony that resembled a dog. The Lincoln Log lettering was faded, chipped.

  Darkness veiled the long dirt driveway. Four teepees stood against the moon like 1950s-style rockets on a launchpad.

  The parking lot had three dusty sedans and a camper in it. The red neon sign in the office window said VACANCY. I couldn’t imagine it saying otherwise.

  The car stopped, which woke my companions up. They grunted, though not quite in unison.

  I peered through the windshield. “Doesn’t look like rain. Which is good, since we don’t have anything to patch the rear window with.”

  We walked wearily into the office. Empty.

  Checking my watch, I was surprised it was 11:38 p.m. Felt later.

  A brass cowbell sat on the counter. I picked it up. When I tried to ring it, there was only a faint clanking sound.

  From the back room emerged a yawning college-age girl in pajamas and robe so puffy they obscured any anatomical details that might have made the place less than family-friendly. Her long, dark brown hair needed a brush.

  She seemed startled when she saw our outfits. I couldn’t blame her.

  Frowning, Stephen slipped his thumbs behind his suspenders. “Does thee have a cabin?”

  I cleared my throat conspicuously.

  “Make that two,” he said.

  The girl rubbed her eyes and named a price. “Checkout time’s 11 a.m. No pets, no smoking.” She paused. “Do you people smoke those corncob pipe thingies?”

  “We’re trying to quit,” Stephen said solemnly.

  Sighing, I paid with a credit card.

  “You sell toothbrushes?” I asked.

  The clerk nodded and pointed at a pegboard below the front desk. I chose a child-sized model with a tiny tube of no-name toothpaste. Stuart did the same. Three bucks apiece.

  “I’m good,” Stephen said, picking Cheetos from his teeth with a toothpick he’d found in a mug on the desk.

  I was too tired to shudder.

  Our cabins were marked Six and Seven. Easy to find, thanks to the giant numbers made of orange reflective tape.

  The decor was rustic, all right. Most of the furniture looked like it was from the Three Little Pigs Collection, fashioned of sticks. A beat-up leather saddle hung on the wall.

  I pushed on my mattress. No sharp objects poked through the army green blanket.

  After locking the door, I dragged a small chest of drawers in front of it. Until I replenished my wardrobe, I wouldn’t need it for anything else.

  I brushed my teeth. The water tasted like chlorine.

  Sitting on the bed, I set my purse on the nightstand. I counted my blessings, but ran out after four. Don’t recall what they were, but this time Stephen and Stuart weren’t on the list.

  I fell into bed. The blanket was scratchy.

  Despite my better judgment, I went to sleep.

  Chapter 13

  Next morning I woke to the sound of pounding. After rolling out of bed I got dressed and went to the door, then regretted having pushed the chest of drawers against it. With a gr
unt I moved the furniture aside.

  Squinting against the sun, I spotted a workman on a ladder, hammering one pole into another. One of the teepees had collapsed.

  “Morning,” called a voice to my right. It was Stephen, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

  “It was empty,” he said. “The wigwam, I mean.”

  He raised his cup as if toasting the start of a wonderful day. “The concession stand’s got breakfast. Well, stuff like coffee and muffins.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Donuts?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  I looked at our car, wondering whether any birds or raccoons had taken up residence inside. My stomach growled. I’d investigate later.

  The person in charge of refreshments was almost too short to see over the counter. She could have been the desk clerk’s little sister, maybe ten years old. First person I’d seen in red pigtails since they updated the logo at Wendy’s.

  “Help you?” she asked.

  “Are the donuts good?”

  She shrugged. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what day it is. We get ’em from a place in town. Wednesday’s raspberry. Got two left.”

  “I’ll take ’em. And one coffee.”

  She went to work filling my order. I wondered whether Huckleberry Acres was violating some child labor law. She didn’t seem to mind.

  “Cream and sugar are over there,” she said, handing me a bag and taking my credit card.

  “I’m looking for a shop to get my car window replaced,” I said. “Don’t suppose you know—”

  “There’s a garage about eight miles down the highway. Dan’s Dependable Auto.”

  “I’m impressed. Most girls your age probably wouldn’t know that.”

  “Why not?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. She had me there. “I mean I didn’t know that kind of stuff at your age.”

  “Huh,” she said, and went off to wait on another customer.

  Stephen strolled over and dropped his empty cup in a nearby trash can. “Something, isn’t she? Even I didn’t know that stuff.”

  I sat down at a nearby picnic table and opened my bag. “Could you go get Stuart?”

  “I think he’s still asleep.”

  “Then wake him up.”