“Guys don’t do that.”
I sipped my coffee. “That’s crazy.”
“You have to know a guy really well to wake him up. You’ve gotta know whether he’ll forgive you or go for your throat.”
“Stephen, we’re talking about Stuart. He’s more likely to commit suicide than homicide.”
“Fine. But don’t be surprised if he hates you for making me do this.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
I bit into Donut Number One. Not bad, except for those little seeds. They always got stuck in my teeth. But tomorrow was another day—maybe lemon custard.
When we got to the garage, Dependable Dan was sitting behind the counter, streaming what looked like Ford vs. Ferrari on his iPad. His denim overalls were greasy and he wore a black eyepatch, making him look like a landlocked pirate.
He looked us up and down, no doubt wondering why we were in costume.
“Don’t fix buggies,” he said.
“Haven’t got one.” I pointed out the window. “Our rear windshield is bashed in. We need to replace it.”
He stabbed the PAUSE icon on his tablet, sighed, and got to his feet. With his good eye he squinted at our car. “How’d that happen?”
“Long story.”
He pulled a big, black binder from under the counter and leafed through it. “What’s the year on that vehicle?”
I told him. He studied the book.
“Take two days to get the glass. At least.”
I groaned.
“Can you get tinted glass for all the windows?” Stuart asked.
Dependable Dan looked up. “Why?”
“Afraid of getting—”
“Sunburned,” I said.
“That’d take a week.”
“Oh,” Stuart said, watching the sparse traffic with disappointment.
“Have any plastic we can tape over the gap until the glass comes in?” I asked.
“Sure. Fifty bucks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It ain’t highway robbery, if that’s what you’re thinking. Got expenses, you know.”
I gave him my credit card. He handed me a roll of gray duct tape. “Labor’s extra,” he said.
I fantasized putting the tape over his other eye, but passed it to Stephen. He took the sheet of plastic and walked out the door.
After fishing a business card from my purse, I gave it to the mechanic. “Here’s my phone number. Please call me as soon as the glass gets here.”
We drove back to Huckleberry Acres. “Nice job on the windshield,” I told Stephen. “Cuts down on the breeze.”
“Probably improves the aerodynamics,” he said proudly.
When we got out of the car, three families came up to us. Two kids pointed at our outfits. One looked confused; the other snickered.
I leaned toward Stephen. “Always glad to be the center of attention,” I mumbled.
One of the mothers, a woman who looked grateful for something to do in this cultural black hole, bent to her son’s level. “They must work here. They wear clothes to go with the campground. It’s all old-fashioned.”
She straightened up. “Tell us about the old days,” she said excitedly.
Stephen stepped forward. “Gladly,” he said, and made up something about a tribe that had lived on this land, raising bison and selling beads and ultimately dying and returning to haunt the white settlers and any others who dared to set foot here.
The little boy started to cry. His parents glared at Stephen.
Not to be outdone, Stuart started telling a more innocent story. He called it “The Golden Eagle.”
But his style wasn’t quite as spellbinding as usual, perhaps because he knew he could die of gunshot wounds at any moment. The children took out their cell phones and drifted away, followed by their parents.
I looked at my watch.
Only 47 hours to go.
At least.
We wandered toward the ponies.
Stephen turned to Stuart. “Sorry to wake you up this morning. Carolyn made me do it.”
Stuart shrugged. “Harder and harder to get out of bed. Never know whether it’s my last day on earth.”
This being a very effective conversation killer, we walked on in silence.
Finally Stephen tried again. “Ever bet on the horses?”
Stuart shook his head. “Love animals too much to do that. Being a race horse must be like rowing in the galley of a slave ship. Or being whipped into building a pyramid for some Pharaoh.”
The closer we got to the ponies, the worse they looked. There were three lined up at the fence as if expecting apples or lumps of sugar.
“Man, talk about scrawny,” Stephen said.
Frowning, Stuart stepped up to the first in line. “The roan seems to have an eye infection. I’m going to report the owner.”
“You mean Mr. Huckleberry?” Stephen asked.
“Stuart, don’t give your name,” I said. “We’re hiding. Can’t trust anybody.”
“Back soon,” he said, and went off to make his call.
One of the other ponies, a reddish chestnut, nuzzled my hand. His eyes were so big, so sad. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I got nothin’.”
Turning my back on him, I leaned against the fence and scanned the horizon for suspicious cars. I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
A minute later Stuart was back. “Called the Humane Society animal abuse hotline. Just got a recording, but maybe they’ll do something.”
He moved closer. “Carolyn, I can’t keep this up. Can’t just keep running. Sooner or later they’ll find me.”
I turned to face the chestnut pony again, then scratched him between the ears. Two fat flies landed on his forehead, but I kept scratching anyway.
“We need to go on the offensive somehow, get to the Boudreauxs,” I said.
Stuart gave a hollow laugh. “Nobody gets to those people. The old man and his daughter live in a mansion in New Orleans, a fortress protected by crooked cops. The last sucker who tried to turn on them wound up face down in a swamp.”
All at once the pony reared his head and sneezed. The flies buzzed away. My hand was slimy.
“Gross,” Stephen said.
I found a tissue in my purse and began to wipe. “Stuart, you’re right. Maybe we should stand out by the highway with a sign that says HONK IF YOU WANT TO KILL ME. Or just call the Boudreauxs and turn ourselves in.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not supposed to agree with me. I’m being ironic.”
“Oh.”
“These little ponies deserve a chance to survive, don’t they? To live a normal life?”
He nodded.
“Well, so do you,” I said, and tossed the tissue in a nearby pail.
That night Huckleberry Acres staged a Hot Dog and Marshmallow Roast at a campfire near the ponies. The event had been announced on a poorly photocopied flier slipped under each cabin door. And teepee flap, I guess.
About a dozen of us gathered. The kids were still on their cell phones; the parents looked hollow-eyed, desperate.
“The pony with the eye infection looks worse,” I said.
“Humane Society said they’d get around to looking at them in a week or so,” Stuart reported.
It was getting dark. Light from the concession stand cast shadows on the dirt. We sat in a circle on white plastic chairs around a fire pit.
The desk clerk approached with a box of hot dogs and buns. Her possible little sister carried a can of liquid fire starter and a long, green butane lighter.
A mosquito whined near my left ear. I slapped. Hurt me more than it did him.
One of the fathers stood up and pointed at Stuart. “Could you tell us another story? Or just finish the one you started?”
“A ghost story?”
The dad glanced at his little girl. “Uh, no.” He sat down.
Stuart got to his feet, then paced slowly back and forth as red-braided Wendy soaked the st
icks in the fire pit and they ignited with a whump.
“There once was a one-armed man who liked to roast hot dogs on his hook.”
I looked around, hoping no one was offended. You couldn’t be too careful.
Stuart looked up at the sky. I could see Venus and Orion’s belt.
“People would come from miles around to see how many hot dogs he could get on his hook at once. The record was nine.”
Stephen got up and started acting it out, pantomiming. Stuart looked puzzled at first, but then tried to ignore him.
The tale continued, the stakes rising to include the annual Hot Dog Eating Contest, with a prize of $10,000 or all the mustard you could eat for the rest of your life. Stephen’s efforts intensified, making him look like an interpreter for the deaf who’d had three too many cocktails.
Just as the one-armed man was swallowing his 31st sausage, Stephen managed to lose his balance.
There was a gasp as he toppled into the fire, spraying sparks everywhere. He found his voice and shrieked.
I stood up and ran to the edge of the fire pit, offering my hand. Stuart did the same.
“Coming through!” yelled the young woman from the office. She was hauling a fire extinguisher. Her apparent red-haired sibling carried another canister.
With a wind-tunnel hooooosh and a cloud of white powder they put him out. Stuart and I helped him up, all of us coughing.
“Can’t sue us,” the desk clerk said. “Your fault.”
The parents and kids stared.
“I’m okay,” Stephen said, “except for my straw hat.”
Not even an ember glowed in the pit.
“Sorry, folks,” said the clerk. “Party’s over. We’ll keep the concession stand open for half an hour.”
Stephen checked his arms for burns, but didn’t seem to find any. The right hem of his pants smoked a bit. “We need more clothes,” he said, and coughed once more.
I checked my watch again.
Only 42 hours left.
Chapter 14
In the morning I woke up not smelling coffee.
The odor was more like burning newspaper, the unbroiled version of which had not been slipped under my door. A look in the mirror showed a fine white dust coating my face. I hoped it made me flame-repellant.
I’d slept well enough to erase the events of the previous evening, at least temporarily. That lasted about 20 seconds.
A shower got my blood moving. Reluctantly I put on my funky, smelly garments and opened the door. I’d grown overconfident, not bothering to block my path with the dresser.
The scent of lighter fluid and cremated wieners met my nostrils.
The other cabin’s door flew open. “Ah,” said Stephen. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”
He looked at me. “Robert Duvall, Apocalypse Now. He was crazy, but not as nuts as Brando.”
I felt like Martin Sheen, caught between lunatics, slowly rising from that Vietnamese swamp, dripping.
“Morning to you, too,” I mumbled, and went back inside.
Taking my phone from the nightstand, I tried Gallagher again. No answer.
There was a knock at my door. “Hey,” Stephen called. “Free breakfast. Leftover hot dogs and marshmallows.”
“Thanks anyway.”
I recalled seeing a vending machine in the office. The little red-haired girl was manning the desk when I got there.
“You look sleepy,” she said.
“Must be the light.” The machine was down a short hall, next to the ice. I looked in my wallet. “You have change for a five?”
She reached under the counter. “Nope. Sorry.”
So I bought all the donuts they had, those little cellophane packs, one powdered and one coconut crunch. I wished they had chocolate, but you can’t always get what you want.
I went back to my cabin, buying a cup of coffee on the way. The older sister acted like she didn’t know me.
I asked a longer-than-usual blessing, figuring the donuts were stale. It didn’t work.
After breakfast I dialed the boys next door on the room phone. Stuart answered. “Let’s convene here,” I said.
“Shouldn’t we be talking in code or something?” he whispered.
“Don’t see why. It’s not wireless, and the kid at the desk doesn’t seem like the type to get involved in organized crime.”
“Oh.”
I hung up and sat on the bed, waiting.
“Brainstorming time,” I announced when we’d gathered. Stephen took the chair by the desk; Stuart couldn’t quit pacing.
Stephen burped, probably from the hot dogs. He rose to his feet.
“I like the idea of going on the offensive,” he said.
“Does this involve automatic weapons?” I asked. “Maybe sprinkling nails on the highway?”
He shook his head. “What kind of clown do you think I am?”
“How many kinds are there?”
“Listen. We park in a conspicuous but unpopulated place. We stuff one of our outfits with newspaper and rig it with a bomb. Jeremy or Nameless Girl—or both—find it, open the door, and blow themselves to kingdom come.”
“Excellent. Except that would be murder, not to mention the fact that one of us wouldn’t have anything to wear.”
Stuart came to a halt. “Where would we get a bomb?”
“We passed a fireworks stand somewhere along the Interstate,” Stephen said.
“We can’t kill them with sparklers and roman candles.”
“We can if we use enough of them.”
“Do you know how to wire them to the ignition?”
Stephen took out his phone. “They’ve got everything on the Internet.” He started poking.
I stood up. “Okay! Stop right there!”
“Was it something I said?” Stephen asked.
“Isn’t it always? We can’t make a move until we hear from Gallagher. And we especially can’t make that one.”
He shrugged and put the phone away.
We stood there for a moment. I wrinkled my nose.
“You know, we stink.”
“Guess I’ve gotten used to it,” Stephen said.
“I haven’t,” Stuart mumbled.
I picked up the room phone and dialed the front desk. Little Miss Wendy answered.
“Is there a laundry here?”
“Closed for the season. Actually, the motor on the washer burned out and they won’t let me fix it.”
“How about a place to buy clothes?”
“Normal ones?”
“Right.”
“There’s a secondhand place near Dependable Dan’s.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
“Stuart, we need your fashion sense.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that because you think I’m—”
“Yeah,” I said. “Because I think you and I are the only ones around here with any taste.”
We ventured down the highway to a consignment shop named Sister Sue’s, a place with one eerie male mannequin in the window, along with a couple of wig heads bearing hair that made Dolly Parton look like Sinead O’Connor.
There was a gravel lot in the back, where we hid the car.
The place smelled like mothballs, a distinct improvement on our musk. I went straight to the Women and Girls section; the boys got waylaid by the golf clubs and a pair of radio-controlled cars.
Sister Sue, a chubby beamer who might have been a nun if she’d had a habit, stood behind the counter and watched us warily.
Ten minutes later, she rang us up. The boys flopped an armload of clothing on the counter. Stuart added a golf club; Stephen plunked down an orange Mustang with a little wire sticking out the top. His eyes were a little too bright.
“Got any batteries?” he asked excitedly.
Sister Sue shook her head. “Try the Family Dollar down the road.”
I drummed my fingernails on the counter. “Stephen, we’re traveling light, remember?”
“I only
got one.”
Sighing, I laid my purchases next to theirs. Three outfits and a pair of sensible black Kizik’s shoes.
We took turns getting dressed in the only fitting room. Out on the sidewalk we looked like we were roughly in the right century, though Stephen’s mint-green leisure suit looked out of place. Apparently he’d rejected Stuart’s advice.
Stuart looked down at his midsection. “At least I don’t need a belt to hold up my pants. Didn’t have any. They’re at least three inches too small.”
My gray wool outfit was itchy, but tasteful. I longed for my tweedy brown editor’s blazer.
Down the street, at the town’s only laundromat, we washed our Amishwear. We took turns standing guard, watching out the window.
When we came out, Stephen pointed next door. “Hey, look! World of Guns and Ammo! I could use a—”
“Keep walking, Texas Ranger,” I said, and pushed him in the car.
That afternoon, back at the cabin, I finally got hold of Gallagher. He sounded very much alive.
“I’ve got to ask,” I said. “How’d you get away from Jeremy and the girl?”
“Clean living,” he said, and coughed. “But I’ve got bigger news. CNN says Max Boudreaux’s dead. Natural causes, supposedly.”
“Wow. We’ve kind of been out of the loop here.”
“If you ask me, it’s a power struggle. Although they always said the old man had a heart condition.”
“Good news for us, right?”
He grunted. “One down and a heck of a lot more to go. Angel’s been running the show for the last few years anyway.”
It hit me that I was relieved Max was dead. Was it wrong? I felt the same way about Osama Bin Laden. I’d have to consult C.S. Lewis about it someday.
“So what are you doing?” Gallagher asked.
“Probably better if I don’t tell you where we are yet. Not exactly a secure line.” I paused. “Jeremy blasted out our rear windshield. We barely got away.”
“Jeez. Is it fixed?”
“Need a couple more days. We also think it might be time to go on the offensive.”
“You and what army?”
“We haven’t worked out the details.”
“Well, that’s where the devil is, lady. But I’ll give it some thought.”
Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5) Page 9