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

by John Duckworth

  “Man, what a mess.”

  The officer, a young man with a valiant attempt at a mustache, took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it.

  His partner, a slightly older pony-tailed woman who seemed unfazed by the heat, picked up a sofa pillow and threw it back on the couch. “Who’s the homeowner?” she asked.

  Marvin and Tracy raised their hands.

  “Want to file a report?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I do,” Marvin said. “This may be low priority for you, but it’s high for me.”

  Tracy sighed and patted his back. “Baby, it’s just stuff.”

  He looked at me for support, then deflated. “Yeah, my stuff.”

  I wondered whether to tell the cops the whole story. This was no run-of-the-mill breaking-and-entering, though they undoubtedly assumed it was.

  They’d never believe me. Not to mention the others.

  The fuzzy-lipped cop handed Marvin a form. “Fill this out. I’d advise you to get the door fixed as soon as you can. Change the locks, too.”

  Marvin turned to me. “Yeah, I know. ‘Don’t forget the good part.’”

  Chapter 20

  The condo maintenance man took half an hour to show up. He must have been at least 80, with a teal Miami Dolphins cap and a leather belt so stuffed with tools he looked like a suicide bomber.

  “You got a problem with the door?”

  Marvin pointed at the doorframe, which was splintered on the lock side. “Think you can shore it up?”

  “What’d you do, try to get a piano in here?”

  “You might put it that way.”

  He pulled out a crowbar. “Take me about fifteen minutes, tops.”

  Marvin leaned toward me. “More like an hour. We’ll be lucky if we can open it when he’s done.”

  We sat around and watched as the old man undid the brass hinges, whacked the frame until it was more or less square, and kept trying to get the door to swing. He took a sheet of sandpaper from the pocket of his overalls, ground away the splinters, and smoothed the threshold. Stephen ignored the home repair lesson and watched what sounded like Jimmy Kimmel on his smartphone.

  After replacing the hinges, the repairman patted the door as if it were a favorite horse.

  Marvin checked his watch. “I stand corrected. Forty-five minutes.”

  Tracy cleared her throat. “Marvin, give the man a tip.”

  “Baby, the condo association pays his—”

  “Do unto others.”

  He grunted and took a $20 bill from his wallet. “Hasn’t even gotten to the lock yet.”

  “He will.”

  After taking the money, the old man touched the brim of his cap. “Back in the morning.”

  “Morning?” Marvin cried. “We could be dead by then.”

  “From moving another piano?”

  “Natural causes,” Marvin said.

  “Tell you what. If you’re dead in the morning, you don’t have to tip me again.” He picked up his hammer and pulled the door shut behind him. Took three attempts to close it all the way.

  Tracy turned to me. “It keeps him busy. I think he’s the manager’s father.”

  She looked around and shook her head. “Anyone care to help me pick this place up?”

  Stuart raised his hand. Stephen was too absorbed in YouTube to notice.

  “Off to the bathroom,” Marvin said. “At my age, you can’t be too careful.”

  I figured it was time to call Gallagher again—on the landline, of course.

  He let loose with a four-letter Anglo-Saxonism when he heard what had happened. “Pardon my French,” he added, not sounding the least bit contrite.

  “It’s not French,” I said, “but never mind.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can. You can’t stay. The good news is I’ve found somebody who might be able to help us on the inside.”

  “Who?”

  “At this point, better you don’t know. For your sake and his.”

  “Tracy’s got an idea. You know how crooked accountants keep two books, one that’s secret and a doctored one for the tax people?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Don’t you think that’s what the Boudreauxs do?”

  “I’m only ninety-nine percent sure. But they’re probably in a safe at the mansion. Or some sleazy lawyer’s office. Getting access would be like breaking into the White House. I’ll see what I can do.”

  When everything was back in place, we were all hungry. But nobody felt like cooking.

  “Let’s do pizza,” Stephen said.

  Tracy and Stuart shrugged. I didn’t bother to vote.

  We let Marvin pick the toppings. It was his place, after all.

  While we waited for the delivery person, we talked about our next move.

  “We’ll stay put,” Tracy said. “If y’all are gone, the Boudreaux family won’t have any reason to be interested in us.” Marvin nodded.

  “Always wanted to live on a houseboat,” Stephen declared. “You know, like James Garner did on The Rockford Files.”

  “That was a trailer. On the beach, not the water.”

  “Then who was the guy with the houseboat?”

  I thought for a moment. “Travis McGee. But I don’t know anybody who lives in a houseboat, do you?”

  “Not in real life.”

  I looked at Stuart.

  “Are you sure you can’t scrape together the money you owe, or at least most of it?”

  “How?”

  “Maybe take out a real loan against your house or something.”

  He shook his head. “Already have a second mortgage.”

  The doorbell rang. I jumped.

  “Calm down, Cranberry,” Marvin said. “Probably just our dinner.”

  It was, borne by an unarmed young woman with braces on her teeth. I tipped her, Marvin having suffered enough for one day.

  Tracy got out paper plates and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper, then asked the blessing.

  We chewed in silence.

  Suddenly Marvin sat up straight.

  “Mercy,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Got an idea,” he said.

  “We can raise the money,” he continued. “In a manner of speaking.”

  I took a bite with a slice of pepperoni on it. “We’re listening,”

  “Years ago I met a guy in Kansas. Almost wrote a book about him. He’d been a counterfeiter, one of the best.”

  We waited as he gulped some Dr. Pepper and stifled a burp.

  “Name was Albert Treacher. He’d done twenty years in a federal prison. Must be 70 by now. A true artist, if you overlook the illegality of the thing.”

  Tracy shook her head.

  “The man was proud of his craftsmanship, but didn’t want to call attention to himself by doing a book.”

  “I don’t see how that could work,” I said. “For one thing, the family will recognize counterfeit money.”

  “Eventually, sure. But if we can raise enough real money to cover the fake bills in a briefcase, we might be able to buy enough time for Gallagher’s plan to work. Or for the IRS to get off its backside.” He took another bite.

  “Wouldn’t they have confiscated his plates?”

  “Before I left, Albert told me a secret. Not sure why. He’d hidden one set of fifties, but never told me where.”

  I leaned back in my chair. This dinner was giving me gas.

  “Does Albert have his own printing press?” I asked.

  “Probably not. But that’s your department. You’re in publishing. Got contacts, right?”

  “Not with anybody who prints money in his basement.”

  “All we need is somebody who’s . . . flexible.”

  “Marvin, I can’t believe you’re proposing doing something so wrong.”

  “We’re not going to spend it, just use it as a prop. We can promise that in writing.”

  I groaned. “Where does Mr. Treacher live?”

  “Just
a minute.” He went into his office.

  “Anybody need another drink?” Tracy asked. Nobody responded.

  A few moments later, Marvin returned with a scrap of paper. “Found this in my file. Old address in Kansas.”

  Stephen put both hands on his kneecaps, as if eager to get started. “Well, at least we know where to go next.”

  I picked up my last bit of cold pizza and chewed it, staring blankly at the wall.

  Chapter 21

  Being too tired to drive to Kansas myself, I threw caution to the winds and let Stephen and Stuart take turns. We stopped only for coffee, snacks, and the bathroom breaks those activities made essential.

  When the two boys were awake, they sang “Seventy-six Trombones” over and over until I literally screamed. Our destination was River City, a little sun-baked town in Kansas. My two Music Men kept chanting, “We got trouble, trouble, trouble, right here in—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  They’d snicker and call me Carolyn the Librarian, then eat their Funyuns and Slim Jims and pass out.

  At about ten o’clock the next morning we checked into the town’s only motel, which the sign dubbed MOTEL.

  “Mmm,” said Stuart, stretching. “Very creative.”

  I drove around the back and hid the car.

  Stephen yawned. “Can we get breakfast? I’m out of Funyuns.”

  “There’s a Carl’s Jr. down the street,” I said.

  “Great. They’re the sloppiest. Love their commercials.”

  “I hate ’em.” I paused. “We’ll walk. Don’t want to move the car.”

  Never mind what we ordered. It was salty, messy, had a stupid name, and cost too much.

  Passing one cornfield after another, we drove to Treacher’s old address on the edge of town. I spotted the mailbox, but couldn’t see much else.

  “Oh, man!” Stephen said. “An earth house!”

  I took another look. All I saw was a lump in the dry ground, a swelling no higher than I was tall. With a door. It looked like something J.R.R. Tolkien might have built for a homeless Hobbit.

  I didn’t see a vehicle. “Maybe it’s abandoned,” Stuart said.

  I got out and leaned on the hood of our car. The Music Men followed.

  Suddenly an old man in a tan suede vest and baggy jeans stepped out the door with a rifle. His ponytail was steel gray.

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t expect someone that eco-conscious to carry a gun.”

  I raised my hands. The two boys did the same.

  “Albert Treacher?” I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Marvin Ainsley Pitts sent us.”

  “You lie.”

  I shook my head. “Told us all about you. Mostly that you’re the best at what you do.”

  He grunted. “Used to do.”

  “We’ve got a business proposition for you.”

  He raised an eyebrow and lowered his weapon. “Marvin, eh?”

  “Can we come inside?”

  Still looking skeptical, he nodded. “Only if you’re not packing.”

  “As in ‘packing heat’?” I asked.

  “Or wired.”

  “No guns, no wires.”

  “You got five minutes,” he said, and waved us inside.

  Albert didn’t offer us anything, but leaned his rifle against an ancient stereo. An old LP by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass lay on top. The one with a half-nude girl enveloped in whipped cream, or so it would appear. There was a rose-shaped blob on her hair.

  Stephen stared. “Whipped Cream & Other Delights. A classic.”

  I folded my arms. “My uncle used to have that album. If you look closely, you’ll see she’s really wrapped in cotton or something. And it’s shaving cream, not Redi-Whip. Cheaper. But don’t look closer. Raging hormones could affect your judgment.”

  “Take a load off,” Albert said, and nodded toward a sagging charcoal couch that may or may not have seen better days. We all sat.

  “Marvin said you hid your favorite counterfeiting plates,” I began.

  “Heck, you don’t spend a lot of time on niceties, do you?”

  “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Why not?”

  I explained our predicament. He maintained a bemused expression, as if he couldn’t believe such amateurs had managed to survive despite themselves.

  “And you want me to print you up some nice new money.”

  “No, just sell us the plates.”

  He laughed.

  “Where are they?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t remember.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Do you have a general idea?” Stuart asked.

  “In a cornfield, I think. Down the road apiece, but I couldn’t tell you what road or how far a piece.”

  Stuart sighed.

  “Didn’t make a map,” the old man continued. “Never could draw worth anything.”

  Stuart scratched his chin. “We could start looking when the sun goes down. Too hot now.”

  “Also, we don’t know whether the white Cadillac followed us,” I said. “How many cornfields are there around here?”

  Albert thought for a moment. “Six, maybe seven. All look alike to me.”

  “What did you bury the plates in?”

  “Big old steamer trunk.”

  Stephen snapped his fingers. “We could use a metal detector.”

  The old man leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “These plates are steel, which means they’d set off a detector. Too bad we don’t have one. Don’t know anyone who does. Besides, the wooden box they’re in is too thick.”

  Closing his eyes, he put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Now, wait a minute. Seems the field I used had a windmill next to it. Could narrow it down.”

  We waited for more. Nothing came.

  I checked my watch.

  “Am I the only one who’s hungry?” Stephen asked.

  Albert opened his eyes. “Hit a deer on the highway last week and put it in the freezer.”

  Stephen gasped. For a guy who loved hamburgers, he was remarkably sensitive to a short list of animals with big, brown eyes.

  “I could whip up an omelet or something,” Stuart suggested.

  Albert frowned. “What’s in all this for me?”

  “You can have half the cash we’re going to raise,” I said, “plus the joy of doing what you do best. After all, why keep the plates all this time unless you hoped to use them again?”

  With a grunt, Albert got up, fished in the freezer, and found half a dozen dinners. Probably freezer-burned. Better than eating Bambi’s dad, though.

  “Okay if I play this record?” Stephen asked as the old man turned on the oven.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Stephen lifted the hi-fi’s lid and put the platter on the turntable. “A Taste of Honey” blared from the antique speakers.

  Twenty minutes later, we all sat in the living room, gnawing chicken legs so gnarly they could have been severed from Foghorn Leghorn. The only way I could tell the mashed potatoes from the corn was by color.

  “They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” Albert said, smacking his lips.

  “Thank God,” Stuart said, sawing at a chunk of meat with a butter knife.

  “Sorry the TV’s busted,” muttered the old man.

  I looked out the front window, watching for trouble, trouble, trouble in you-know-where.

  The sun had set by the time we’d all picked the sinews from our teeth. We squeezed into the car and started looking for cornfields.

  “Reminds me of that Stephen King movie,” Stuart said. “Children of the Corn. Don’t know where that man gets his idea, but you’ll never find Jennifer Jenner murdering hapless travelers.”

  “A windmill,” I said, pulling over.

  “Corn’s high as an elephant’s eye,” Stephen said.

  “Oklahoma!” said Stuart. “Now there’s a drama worthy of your time.”


  I parked at the edge of the field, as far from the farmhouse as possible.

  Albert had scrounged up three prehistoric flashlights, a couple of shovels, a hoe, and a big stick. We got out of the car and I divvied them up.

  “How deep did you bury the trunk?” I asked.

  “Not very. Don’t care much for manual labor. But I remember dragging it to the middle of the field and hiding it there.”

  “Let’s do this like on TV,” Stephen said, “when they fan out at arms’ length and search for a dead body. Except they have dogs, which wouldn’t help here.”

  “There are only four of us,” I said. “So it’ll take longer. Just move slowly down the rows, sticking your shovel or whatever in the ground every yard or so.”

  We switched on the flashlights. At least the batteries were working.

  It got darker and darker. We kept hitting rocks.

  After two hours or so, the flashlights were fading. We’d found four boulders and the bones of what I hoped was an errant cow.

  “I give up,” Stephen said.

  I sighed. “Guess we should turn back and—”

  With a scraping sound my shovel hit something hard. My heart rate sped up.

  “Found something.”

  Albert and I held the flashlight while the boys got to work.

  Stuart was the first to hit wood.

  “I think it’s the trunk,” he said, panting.

  We all pried the box from the ground. The smell of wet dirt was everywhere. A huge, rusty lock held the hasp.

  “Don’t have the key anymore,” Albert said.

  “No problem,” Stephen said, and lunged at the lock with his shovel, snapping it off.

  The plates were inside, wrapped in clear plastic.

  “Mission accomplished,” said Stephen.

  There was a rumbling sound, then a wet hissssss.

  I gasped as a sheet of cold water hit me in the side of the head.

  “Oh, crap,” Albert said. “Irrigation system.”

  Stephen and Stuart grabbed the handles on the side of the trunk and began dragging it away.

  Already soaked, I shivered and gathered up the tools.

  “Put it in the car,” I called.

  A chorus of thumps and clanks came from the trunk as we unloaded our treasures.