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

by John Duckworth

  “Yeah, I know,” Carl said. “Not quite perfect. We’ll adjust the ink flow and use the real paper.”

  I swallowed. “It’s got to be a lot better.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You sure you haven’t been here before?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Well, whatever.” He went back to confer with Bennie.

  A few minutes later Carl pulled a lever and pushed a button. Once more the press clacked and hummed.

  Pages and pages of bills flew off the belt in a continuous sheet. Bennie laid them out to dry. We waited another 20 minutes and the process was repeated.

  “The Bureau of Engraving and Printing has a trimmer that slices stacks of bills like a guillotine. We’ll need to use a regular paper cutter.”

  He showed me a sheet. Grant’s upper lip was a little smeared.

  “Gets better as the run progresses.”

  He led me over to what looked like a giant version of one of those automatic kitty litter box cleaners.

  “Feeds in here,” he said. “Be careful.”

  “Shouldn’t you be doing this?”

  “I can see you’re one of those ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself’ people.”

  He explained which buttons to push when, then walked away.

  After a brief one-woman prayer meeting, I followed what I could remember of his instructions. The sheets vibrated; slowly the stack grew smaller.

  “Hey!” yelled a voice behind me. The smell of cigar smoke mingled with the odor of ink.

  It was Jimmy. “Carl! What’s the matter with you? Trying to get us sued?”

  The foreman came over. “I just thought—”

  “No way to treat a lady, She’s paying good money for this.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Bennie trimmed the rest of the bills.

  When he was done, I wrote Jimmy a check.

  He picked up the first bill. “A souvenir. I’d like to frame it, but you never know when the feds might show up unannounced.”

  “You still look familiar,” Carl said, suspicious.

  “Nice doing business with you,” added Jimmy.

  I carried the plates and bills to the car and stashed them in the trunk.

  It seemed to take forever to get back to River City. I smelled like ink and sweat. I kept telling my eyes to focus.

  About halfway to relative safety I passed a car parked at a roadside diner.

  The Cadillac, only newer and whiter.

  Jeremy and the Nameless Girl were coming out.

  I hit the steering wheel with my palm. It was always something, wasn’t it?

  Gunning the engine, I took a side road and came to a railroad crossing.

  The arm was descending, the bell clanging.

  With a gulp I thumped across the tracks just before the train came barreling through.

  The engine roared like a hurricane behind me, followed by the click-clack, click-clack of freight cars.

  Thanking God it was the longest train I’d ever seen, I set course for the motel and hoped the Cadillac wouldn’t follow.

  Chapter 24

  Out of breath, I pulled into the motel parking lot and hammered on Stephen and Stuart’s door. The latter opened it. I could hear Antiques Roadshow playing on TV. Obviously it was Stuart’s turn to choose the entertainment.

  “Welcome back,” he whispered, and ushered me inside. “How did it go in—”

  The door closed behind me. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

  Stephen grabbed the remote and shut down some white-haired pottery appraiser. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll explain in the car.”

  While they got their luggage together, I picked up the room phone and dialed Albert.

  “I’ve got the bills,” I said. “But we can’t stick around. I nearly got run over by a train outrunning the people who are after us.”

  “How do they look?”

  “He’s kind of homely and oily-faced. She’s in her twenties, and—”

  “I meant the U.S. Grants.”

  “Oh.” I reminded myself I was tired, not stupid. “They’re good. They’d certainly fool me.”

  “Well, that’s a disappointment. That I won’t get to see them, I mean.”

  “Hey,” said Stephen. “We’re ready.”

  I waved him away. “Albert, you should be safe. Jeremy and the girl don’t know what we’re trying to do. Which means they won’t be looking for you.”

  He sniffed. “If they are, they’ll be sorry to meet my friend Mr. Remington.”

  “You named your rifle?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks, Albert. Couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “Don’t thank me too soon. You ain’t done it yet.”

  I hung up. After grabbing a coat I’d left in my room, I led the way to the front desk. We turned in our key cards.

  “Have a nice day,” said the clerk.

  “Too late for that,” I said.

  We piled into the car and took off.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” Stephen asked.

  Stuart made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “‘The least likely place they’d expect us to go.’ Pardon my insolence, but that’s always your plan.”

  I adjusted the rearview mirror to look him in the eye. “The plan is to get enough real bills to cover the fakes. We’ll have to hit every ATM from here to New Orleans and drain most of your bank account.”

  “No need to dwell on that.”

  “Good. Then it’s on to Boudreaux country.”

  We slept, or rather spent, the night in the car at a boarded-up rest stop along the Interstate. Theoretically we took turns watching for Cadillacs, but I was the only one who stayed awake.

  About 3 a.m. Stephen tapped me on the shoulder. “I have to pee,” he whispered.

  I grunted. “What are you, five? Just go behind the building.”

  “Cover me,” he said, and climbed out of the back seat.

  I shook my head. What was that supposed to mean?

  Stuart quit snoring and sat up. “Are we there yet?”

  “I swear this is like having two little kids with none of the cuteness. No, we’re not there. We’re here.”

  “Oh,” he said, and settled back. By the time Stephen returned, he was sawing logs again.

  At sunrise I parked at a truck stop, then looked for a pay phone. I wasn’t sure they made them anymore. But I found one right outside the entrance. It wasn’t a booth, just a shelf with a copy of the Yellow pages chained to the wall.

  I dialed Gallagher. He was ticked.

  “You know what time it is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve got the bills. We’re on the road. Barely ahead of you-know-who.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s five in the morning.”

  “Can’t help that. I’m at one of two remaining payphones in the continental United States, and I’m running out of change.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “How about we meet in Oklahoma City?”

  Long pause.

  “Where?”

  “Let’s figure that out later.”

  “Yes, let’s. We’ve got all the time in the world.” His sneer was practically audible.

  “I’ll call when we get there.”

  “You do that.” He hung up.

  I got a cup of coffee and drove on. The boys were still asleep.

  About 90 minutes later a passing ambulance siren woke them up. I spotted an exit with a knot of businesses at the top.

  Stephen rubbed his eyes. “I’ve gotta—”

  “There’s a 7-Eleven,” I said. “Hang on.”

  I parked in front of the Red Box DVD machine. Stuart slowly resumed consciousness.

  “You guys use the potty and get whatever you can pay for,” I said. “I’ll gas up.”

  I was squeegeeing the windshield when the
y emerged with a sack.

  “Breakfast burritos and coffee for three,” Stephen said.

  I put the fuel nozzle back in its holder and tossed the receipt. “Great. Just one more thing.”

  “What?” Stuart asked.

  “Time to use the ATM. You’re collecting cash, remember? Let’s start with three hundred.”

  He whimpered. “That’s a tenth of my limit.”

  “Right you are. Who says artists can’t do math?”

  He got out his wallet and trudged toward the money dispenser.

  Stephen held the bag to his nose, drew a deep breath, and smiled. “I think we should disguise the car. Go to a body shop and give it the cheapest paint job we can find.”

  I shook my head. “It’s rented in my name. I’m in enough trouble already.”

  Stuart was back, looking undead. “Hope you’re happy,” he mumbled. “I’m drained—in more ways than one.”

  That night we splurged and stayed at the worst motel we could find in Ponca City, halfway between Kansas City and Oklahoma City.

  “Hey,” Stephen said. “It’s A Tale of Three Cities.”

  I groaned.

  “Literary reference. I’m an editor, remember?”

  “You’re giving us a bad name.”

  Another night and nine ATMs later, we passed the green WELCOME TO OKLAHOMA CITY sign.

  When we found a more decent motel I dialed Gallagher.

  “We’re here,” I said.

  He coughed. “I’m about fifty miles away. Let’s meet near the memorial to the victims of the Oklahoma City bombing. There’s a place called Heartland Chapel across the street.”

  Stephen’s GPS app showed us the way, though it couldn’t stop the traffic jam en route. When we got there we sat inside the memorial’s low wooden walls, watching warily for anybody who might recognize us.

  Finally Gallagher showed up, followed by a stone-faced, black-haired young man I recognized from Max’s funeral.

  The two of them sat down.

  “This is our new friend, David,” Gallagher whispered. “Max’s nephew.”

  Stuart backed up, fear in his eyes.

  I wanted to say I couldn’t believe it, but couldn’t risk reminding David how dangerous it was.

  The young man stood up. “Too many people here.”

  Stephen consulted his phone. “North Harvey Avenue. There’s a big stand of trees.”

  “Let’s go,” Gallagher said.

  We wended our way through the foliage, then came to a clearing.

  “Still too many,” David said. He looked ready to run.

  “No problem,” Gallagher assured him. “St. Joseph’s Old Cathedral is across the street.”

  As we stepped off the curb I noticed a marble statue of Jesus, grief-stricken, turning away from the Federal Building.

  I swallowed. Too many people, too much tragedy.

  Gallagher pointed to a series of black stone walls surrounding the statue. “Behind that one,” he whispered.

  We stood there, huddling together.

  On the wall name after name of the victims were engraved.

  David crossed himself.

  Stuart ran his finger down the list. “At least we’re not here.”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  Chapter 25

  We sat on two benches under a tree. Mercifully, Stephen didn’t bother looking up the species.

  The memorial wasn’t busy at the moment. Nine or ten tourists took turns posing in front of the wall of victims. A few of them actually smiled. I guess nothing’s sacred anymore.

  Gallagher crossed his leg over his knee and looked at David. “Tell them what you told me.”

  The young man leaned back and sighed. “Angel’s crossed the line. She’s hiding the fact that Max has had a stroke. She’s running things herself.”

  Gallagher bent forward and tapped my shoulder. “What did I tell you?”

  David kept an eye on the street adjoining the park. “She’s told me in no uncertain terms that I’ll never be more than a gopher as long as she’s alive.”

  “Kind of a dead-end job, eh?” Stephen asked. “I can relate.”

  A razor-sharp comeback was on the tip of my tongue, but I decided it wasn’t worth uttering.

  “I want to bring her down,” David said.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just get a better job?” Stephen asked.

  David snorted. “You don’t know how this works. It’s a family business. If anybody knew I was doing this, I’d be dead within the hour.”

  “How do you plan to get the set of books?” I asked.

  He lowered his voice. “They’re in a safe at the mansion. I’ve been spending a lot of time with a girl who knows the combination.”

  “Isn’t that a little risky?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But what you’re planning with the counterfeit money could be worse.”

  He turned to Stuart. “Ever had acid thrown in your face?”

  Stuart turned pale.

  “That’s almost as bad as what they’d actually do. I can’t describe it. There’s a lady present.”

  Stuart closed his eyes.

  “I suggest you stay as far as you can from the mansion,” David said. “I can help Carolyn get in—but not necessarily out.”

  Gallagher patted him on the knee. “I’ll take care of that.”

  I checked my watch. “When do you think I should make my move?”

  “Angel likes to read after dinner,” David said. “Mostly financial stuff like Robert Kiyosaki and Willow Hayly.”

  “She’s one of our biggest authors. Wouldn’t be happy to know she’s advising a murdering crook.”

  David scratched his chin. “I could introduce you as Hayly’s publisher or something just to get you in. Bring a couple of books, maybe autographed. The rest will be up to you.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “I’ll check Angel’s schedule and give you a call.”

  He stood up. Gallagher did likewise.

  “I’ll be in touch, David,” he said. The two of them left in opposite directions.

  Stephen stuck his hands in his pockets. “Boy, I’d love to know what’s worse than having acid thrown in your face.”

  Stuart’s eyes were still closed. “Nothing personal, but put a cork in it.”

  We drove back to the motel, still watching for suspicious cars and faces. When we got there I called Pendleton House and asked my admin to overnight an autographed copy of Willow’s memoir, Worth It.

  “There should be one in my office,” I said gently.

  “I’ll try. But I don’t do my best under pressure.”

  “I know.” She was perhaps the world’s worst assistant, but nepotism gave her permanent job security.

  I dialed Marvin. Got Tracy.

  “Can’t go into details,” I said, “but could you pray for me?”

  “’Course I can, girl. Sorry Marvin suggested the whole counterfeiting thing. Isn’t there still time to back out?”

  “Afraid not. Stumbling into this was my own fault.”

  “If you say so. But I hope your guardian angel’s the kind with one of those flaming swords.”

  Next morning I got a call. I could barely hear the whisper. “Tomorrow night looks good.”

  “Is this David?”

  “Let’s not use names, okay?” He hung up.

  Around 9:00 a.m., there was a knock at my door. It was a FedEx man with a big envelope. My overnighted book had arrived.

  I called Stephen and Stuart and told them to grab their luggage. “We’ll take turns driving to New Orleans.”

  It took just over ten hours and several pit stops to get there. Stephen and Stuart checked into a Relax Inn. Nice sentiment, but even the Hotel St. Pierre couldn’t have unwound our nerves at that point.

  I met David and Gallagher in a parking garage, feeling like Deep Throat if he’d just wrestled Haldeman and Ehrlichman for ten hours.

  “Sure you want to go through wit
h it?” Gallagher asked.

  I nodded.

  “We’ll meet you there.”

  Taking the book and briefcase, I parked about half a mile from the estate.

  David flashed the headlights on his car. I got in.

  Gallagher ducked down in the back under a blanket. “Thank God I don’t live in this town. It’s like a steam bath without getting to take your clothes off.” He coughed.

  The guard, who looked like a football player turned jungle mercenary, let us through the gate.

  David parked along the cobbled circular driveway. I followed him to the front door, a massive wooden monolith on brass hinges.

  David used his key to open it.

  We stepped inside. It looked like something out of a movie I’d seen once. Ten Little Indians, maybe. Winding staircase, fountain rising from a mosaic base, a portrait of Max over an empty bar.

  I set the briefcase on the marble floor.

  Another painting of Angel hung on the opposite wall over a bank of prehistoric-looking ferns.

  “The library’s upstairs,” David whispered. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course not.”

  I scanned the place for a heavenly guardian with a flaming sword.

  “Not even Bart Simpson with a slingshot,” I mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Taking a deep breath, I picked up the briefcase.

  Chapter 26

  He led me up the stairs, the plush red carpet silencing my high heels. I was already dizzy, and nothing had happened yet.

  After knocking gently at what looked like a solid walnut door, he adjusted his tie.

  “Who is it?” called a testy female voice.

  “It’s me. David.”

  He pushed the door open. Angel was at her desk, reading. She could have been any fortyish businesswoman with an unlimited wardrobe budget.

  “This is Carolyn Neville,” David said. “From Pendleton Publishing in New York.”

  She peered over the top of her reading glasses and frowned. “I’m not interested in telling my life story, if that’s what you’re here for.”

  “So you like Willow Hayly.” I placed Worth It next to the telephone. “This is for you.”