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

by John Duckworth

  We introduced ourselves.

  She put the mammoth vehicle in gear and checked the rearview mirror. “I’m an independent trucker. Otherwise I’d have to fill out a bunch of paperwork to let you ride with me.” She shook her head. “God bless the Department of Transportation.”

  With a rumble the truck began moving like a barge leaving the dock.

  “You don’t look like typical hitchhikers,” she said.

  I nudged Stephen’s elbow out of my ribs. “Our car suddenly gave up the ghost. Had to leave it behind.”

  We rode in silence for a while. I watched the lights flash past the window.

  “Mind if I turn on the radio?” Paula asked, her fingers hovering over the button.

  “Go right ahead,” I said.

  It was an all-news station. After a slew of commercials for Rosland Capital and Gold Bond Medicated Powder, there was a story about a car on fire. I leaned forward.

  “ . . . in Hard Rock Canyon,” the reporter said. “Emergency vehicles on the scene. Probably no survivors.”

  Paula sighed and changed channels.

  The rest of us looked at each other. Except for Queenie, who whined in the back.

  “Shut up, you mutt,” the driver said. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

  I closed my eyes. Another show was coming on. Paula turned up the sound.

  Ah, a talk-show conspiracy theorist. I tried not to listen as he proceeded to hold forth on the coming war with the armies of Atlantis.

  Chapter 29

  We reached Oklahoma City at 6:00 a.m., bleary-eyed. Except for Paula, who appeared ready to do battle with Neptune’s minions.

  Her eyes were a little too shiny as she picked another truck stop. Rolling up to a propane tank, she braked with a hiss.

  She glanced back at the dog, who was asleep. “Good luck.”

  “It’s been real,” I said.

  Stephen mumbled something I couldn’t make out. Stuart gathered his belongings and nearly fell onto the pavement.

  Taking a look at our luggage, the waitress gave us menus and bustled to a corner booth. I could smell ketchup and bacon grease. The place was crowded, and not just with drivers. A busload of high school drum-and-bugle team members, half out of uniform, packed three tables. Two middle-aged chaperones developing PTSD tried unsuccessfully to keep them from making spit wads of straw wrappers and blow-gunning them at each other.

  We sat down. “Hash browns look good,” Stephen said loudly.

  Stuart studied the menu. “Grits with redeye gravy. Seems geographically misplaced.”

  Stephen put his menu down. “Isn’t that your phone?”

  “What?” I called over the din.

  “Your ringtone.”

  I looked down at my purse. “Oh.”

  I checked caller ID.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Problem?” Stuart asked.

  “Car rental company. Not looking forward to that conversation. Also can’t let anybody know we’re alive.” I let it ring. Eventually it gave up.

  The waitress returned and took our orders. English muffin and jam for me, hash browns and eggs for Stephen. Stuart couldn’t make up his mind yet.

  “We’ve got twenty hours to go until Pennsylvania,” Stephen announced.

  I sighed. “Should we try hitchhiking again?”

  “Seems to be our only choice.”

  “Eggs Benedict,” Stuart said, and closed his menu.

  Eventually we all got our food, splitting the bill. Stationing ourselves near the propane tank, this time without a sign, we stuck out our thumbs and looked hopeful.

  “No cardboard?” Stuart said.

  “Couldn’t find any,” said Stephen.

  After an hour without a bite, I shook my head. “Time to put on our Amish outfits,” I said.

  “Oh, that’ll do it,” Stephen said. “People will think it’s a fraternity hazing.”

  “We’re too old for that,” I said. “They might think we’ve just lost a bet.”

  We went back to the bathroom and changed. For the next half hour we got mostly stares from passersby. But finally a big Peterbilt rig pulled up just past the pumps and idled.

  There was a fish symbol near the USDOT number on the cab door. “Oh, look,” Stephen said. “One of your people, Carolyn.”

  “Maybe he just likes catching trout.”

  “No, he’s a Christian. Fishermen have bumper stickers that say things like ‘The Rodfather.’”

  A guy who resembled Neil Young in his heyday stuck his head out the window. He wore a blue stocking cap.

  “Looks like you need a ride.” I could swear he stifled a snicker.

  We squeezed into the seat. “Glad there’s no dog,” Stephen whispered.

  “My name’s Greg.” He shifted gears and slowly circled toward the highway.

  “You Amish?” he asked.

  “Well, not exactly,” I said.

  He scratched the side of his nose. “So why are you dressed like that?”

  Stephen leaned forward. “We’re . . . doing research for a book. It’s called . . . The Year of Living Amishly.”

  I gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

  “When I’m on the road I visit the Trucker’s Chapel. Helps me stay on the straight and narrow.”

  “Bless you, my son,” Stephen said. I kicked him.

  “DOT rules don’t let me drive twenty hours straight,” Greg said. “So I’ll be stopping along I-70E. Probably sleep in the cab, but for you I’ll park at a cheap motel I know of.”

  Stephen took out his phone. “What’s it called?”

  “Silver Moon.”

  Stephen looked it up. “Not even listed. That’s a good sign.”

  “Are Amish folks regular hitchhikers?”

  “Not in my experience,” I admitted.

  Stuart grunted. “It was this or driving a buggy—and we haven’t got the time for that.”

  “What’re you going to do when you get there?”

  “Visit friends and try not to get them killed,” I said.

  He nodded. “Two admirable goals.” He tapped the wheel with both index fingers. “Can I pray for you?”

  “Do you have to?” Stephen asked.

  “He’s doing us a favor,” I growled.

  “Just don’t close your eyes,” Stephen muttered.

  The driver chuckled, then filed a brief request for protection.

  I kept my eyes open too, checking the side mirror.

  We got to the Silver Moon around suppertime.

  It was surrounded by flatlands, but Swiss-looking yellow dingbats decorated its peeling blue balconies.

  Gently Greg brought the Peterbilt to a halt on the edge of a vacant lot nearby.

  He stayed in the cab; we checked in. The clerk was a girl who looked about 14, with a black sweatshirt and gray circles under her eyes.

  “We’d like two rooms,” I said. My gaze dropped to the counter, where sat a greasy paper plate, circled by flies. After fishing around in my purse for hand sanitizer, I applied it liberally.

  We flipped a coin to see who got which room. I lost.

  It smelled like it had been attacked by a giant Glad Hawaiian Breeze plug-in. I decided not to turn back the blanket until it was too dark to see. No use trying to find a better place. The nearest Stephen could locate was 75 miles away.

  I tugged the curtain pull cord; it refused to budge.

  Just as well. Last thing I needed was to be spotted by anybody who thought I was dead.

  I lifted the receiver of the room phone. At least I got a dial tone.

  Tried to call David again. No answer.

  This time I left a message.

  The three of us went to dinner at the only place around. Louie’s, where there was no wait, a whole swarm of flies, and no other customers.

  The waitress, who was using a walker, looked us up and down.

  “I’m starting to feel weird in this outfit,” Stuart whispered. “Going to change in the morning.” />
  We sat down. “Wonder whether David has gotten into the safe,” Stephen said.

  “Not sure he’s still alive,” I replied.

  Stuart picked up the HEY, KIDS! COLOR ME! paper placemat on the table and turned it to the blank side. Choosing a black crayon from the little box, he proceeded to draw caricatures of Stephen and me.

  He held them up. “Not my best work. Consider the medium and circumstances.”

  “I like the one of me,” Stephen said.

  Mine made me look like Melissa McCarthy, which was off by about 50 pounds. I just smiled.

  Stuart finished by drawing Angel from memory. He gave her horns.

  We all ordered the most inexpensive item on the menu, meatloaf.

  When it came time to pay the bill, the waitress slowly took it to the back room and returned several minutes later.

  “Credit card’s been rejected,” she said, handing it over.

  “Maybe they heard you’re dead,” Stephen whispered, and pulled out his Visa. “As Mark Twain said, ‘The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’”

  I sighed. “Not mine. In my case, they’re merely premature.”

  After dinner, back in my room, I finally got a call from David.

  “Gallagher’s dead,” he said.

  Chapter 30

  I almost dropped the phone.

  It didn’t surprise me, having seen Gallagher shot down. But suddenly I felt alone, unprotected.

  I put the receiver back to my ear. “What did they do with the body? Surely they didn’t call the police.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Don’t think you want to know. Let’s just say the family and their favorite mortuary took care of things.”

  “Man had no relatives I know of. Guess the Boudreauxs can get away with anything they want.”

  “Almost got the set of books from the safe last night, but Ernie walked in on me.”

  “We’re in Oklahoma, on our way to Pennsylvania. We’ll be laying low in an Amish community.”

  “Amish. The ones with the buggies?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “Hey, we’ve done it before.”

  “God, I can’t imagine pretending to be Amish, let alone actually being that way. For one thing, I’m allergic to hay.”

  “Like on Green Acres? The TV show?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “How about Witness? The movie.”

  “Haven’t seen it. Must be about shutting an informer up. You trying to make me feel worse, or what?”

  “Sorry.” He seemed pretty thin-skinned for a gangster. Maybe it was a family trait.

  “I’ll try the safe again tomorrow,” he said. “Angel or Ernie or somebody’s going to wise up. Can’t keep doing this forever.”

  The line went dead.

  I hung up. “Neither can I.”

  Next morning I told Stephen and Stuart about Gallagher and David. Stuart shook his head sadly. I started to choke up, remembering the former agent’s gruff way of keeping an eye on us. I even missed his cough.

  Stuart went to the window and parted the blinds with his fingers. “Everything depends on David now. The longer we have to spend in Amish country, the greater the chance we’ll be ambushed and take our hosts with us.”

  “We’ve got to leave. But no more hitchhiking.”

  Stephen took out his phone. “Plane, train, or automobile?”

  “I’m thinking bus.”

  “As in Greyhound?” Stuart asked.

  “Let’s try Trailways. Heard they’re cheaper.”

  Two hours later we hit the road. We used Stephen’s card, but only after I promised to reimburse him.

  The bus was half empty. Most of the passengers were asleep. The place smelled of sweat and gasoline.

  “Spread out,” I told the boys. “I’m sick of being stuffed in the cab of a truck.”

  “Fine,” Stephen said. “Be that way.”

  I sat about two-thirds of the way back, by a window. Stowing my purse under the seat, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and felt the vertebrae in my neck pop.

  “Can I sit here?” a high-pitched voice asked.

  I opened my eyes and turned right. A boy about eleven, apparently traveling alone, stood in the aisle with his hands in his pockets. Skinny, hair the color of a new penny, wearing a black Sonic the Hedgehog sweatshirt. He wore a green backpack.

  “Name’s Michael. You remind me of my third grade teacher, Mrs. Lovelace.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m on my way to Philadelphia to spend a month with my aunt and see the Liberty Bell.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “So, can I sit here?”

  I looked around. The place was starting to fill up.

  I sighed. “Yeah. Just try to keep yourself entertained.”

  “Okay.”

  The driver took his seat and shut the door. With a rumble the bus rolled away from the station.

  The kid kept his promise for a mile or so. After that he wouldn’t shut up, which explained why his mother was sending him several states away.

  “Let’s play the license plate game,” he said.

  I groaned. “You start.” I shut my eyes again.

  “Tennessee,” he said.

  I grunted.

  “Iowa.”

  This went on for five minutes. I couldn’t stand any more.

  “You win,” I said.

  “Awesome! So why are you dressed up like a pioneer or whatever?”

  “I feel safer that way.”

  He looked around and saw Stephen and Stuart. “Didn’t those guys get on the bus with you?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Are they afraid of something too?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’m not scared of anything,” he whispered.

  I stared out the window. A white Cadillac was passing us. Couldn’t tell whether it was anybody we knew.

  Just in case, I ducked down. “Can you trade me places?”

  “How come?”

  “I’d feel even safer.”

  He shrugged and we traded.

  I sneaked to the back and warned Stephen and Stuart to stay out of sight.

  “Oh, crap,” Stephen said. They sank into their seats.

  Returning to my place, I dialed David. I had no choice, there being a lack of pay phones in the vicinity.

  He answered.

  “Is it likely that Jeremy and the girl are on our trail?” I whispered.

  “All I know is they’re not in New Orleans.”

  “Talk to you later. I hope.”

  I turned to Michael. “Did you see the license on that Cadillac?”

  “Sure. Louisiana. I know it from the pelican and flowers. Says, ‘Sportsman’s Paradise’.”

  I swallowed. “Back in a minute.”

  Making my way to Stephen and Stuart, I proceeded to kneel in the aisle next to them.

  “I suggest we hide in the restrooms for a while.”

  “Why?” Stuart asked.

  “Just do it, okay?”

  We did, but soon other passengers were pounding on the doors.

  We went back to our seats.

  “Wow,” Michael said. “You must have really needed to go to the bathroom.”

  I nodded. “But not for the reason you think.”

  He winked. “Smoking, right?”

  “You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

  “Not if you give me five dollars.”

  I found the hush money in my purse and handed it over, wondering why I still wished I had children.

  After what seemed like a geologic age, we pulled into the Philadelphia Bus Station. I waved to Michael as he headed for the taxi stand. “Don’t worry,” he called. “I’ll be fine. And thanks for all the money.”

  Looking over our shoulders to see whether we were being followed, we found a rental agency and got the cheapest compact we could find on Stephen’s card.

  Taking
back roads, we drove to the Stoltzfus place.

  The three of us were bathed in yellow porch light as I knocked on the door.

  Aaron answered.

  He stepped back, astonished. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  I almost smiled. “Not sure what you mean by that.”

  The door opened wider. The Bishop peered around it and straightened his glasses.

  “The prodigals return,” he said, looking as if the gift of hospitality had finally slipped from his grasp. “Lord help us.”

  Chapter 31

  They invited us inside, of course. They had to.

  We sat on the couch while the Bishop’s wife got us lemonade. “They’re still after us,” I said. “You know what happens when you disturb a hornet’s nest?”

  “Only too well,” the old man said.

  “They shot the man from the FBI who was helping us. He found a member of the family to look for their financial records. That could put them in jail. You and God willing, we need to stay here again. But just until we have the books.”

  The Bishop bowed his head, no doubt seeking divine guidance. After a few moments he nodded. “Seventy times seven,” he said.

  Stephen accepted a glass of lemonade. “Don’t have to stay that long—490 days.”

  I got the next drink and nodded at Mrs. Stoltzfus. “That’s the number of times a follower of Jesus should forgive someone who sins against him. Or her.”

  “Not that this is a sin,” the old man said. “Not exactly.”

  “More of a gross imposition,” his wife muttered, and handed Stuart his glass.

  After a few more minutes of awkward conversation, we rose to take our things back to the barn.

  “You are welcome to join us for supper. You don’t mind leftovers?”

  “Not yours,” Stephen said.

  After a dinner of ham, brown bread, and string beans, Aaron stood behind my chair. “Care to take a walk?” he whispered.

  My heart beat a little faster. Don’t get your hopes up, I told myself.

  We walked to the spot where we’d last met to watch the stars and distant village lights. The only sound was cattle mooing. I wondered how long those lights and sounds had remained the same in this land that time forgot.