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

by John Duckworth

  Finally Aaron spoke. “I’ve been spending time with a young lady named Susanna.”

  I blinked. A wave of jealousy and sadness washed over me. Unpleasant surprise.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said. I had to. “What’s she like?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “You know Proverbs 31?”

  “Not by heart.”

  “Well, Susanna fits the description of the Proverbs 31 woman.”

  “Virtuous.”

  He nodded. “Her price is far above rubies.”

  “I suppose she looks for wool and stuff and sews her own clothes.”

  “Sure does. Gives meat to her household. Knows how to invest, or would if we had any money.”

  “Lays her hand to the spindle?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she work out?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “As I recall, she’s supposed to gird her loins with strength and pump up her arms.”

  “Amish women get plenty of exercise. They don’t need to join muscle clubs.”

  “I think you mean health clubs.”

  I gazed up at the stars. “That’s a glowing review. But how about the Song of Solomon? Anything there apply to her?”

  Even in the moonlight, I could see him blush.

  He walked me back to the barn. “Sleep well,” he said, and touched the brim of his hat.

  Stephen and Stuart, lying on the straw, sat up when I came in.

  “Carolyn’s got a boyfriend,” Stephen said in a singsong voice.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Then you admit you had one.”

  “Yeah, but that was a long time ago.”

  He lay back down.

  Glancing up, I got an idea. A bale of hay was dangling from a hook over his head.

  I unwound the rope from a nearby post and let it go.

  The hay plummeted and hit him in the stomach.

  “Holy crap!” Doubling up, he started sneezing.

  Stuart stifled a laugh.

  “’Night, boys. See you in the morning.”

  I went to my corner, lay down, and wished I could do it again.

  We were awakened at dawn by a crowing rooster, followed immediately by the sound of my phone. The Stoltzfus household had a landline, but I decided to use my own. If Jeremy and the girl were close enough to monitor my calls, it was already too late.

  “It’s David. I’ve finally got the financial records from the safe.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Have to get them to the FBI, but can’t be seen there myself. Going to photocopy key pages and hire a courier to take them to Chicago. That’ll take several hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “In the meantime, I heard Angel on the phone yesterday, going ballistic over something she heard. ‘I’ll take care of it myself,’ she said.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Maybe it’s got nothing to do with you. Whatever it was, she packed up and left an hour later.”

  He hung up.

  With a grunt Stephen rose painfully from his bed in the straw.

  Sneezing, he pointed at me. “Hope you’re happy!”

  He found a rag next to a milk pail and blew his nose.

  “Ecstatic,” I said, and headed for the coop. It was my turn to feed the chickens.

  We breakfasted on scrapple, a dish made of pig parts, corn meal, and flour. The Bishop’s wife called it “pan rabbit.”

  It tasted better than it sounds but not much. “Reminds me of Scooby,” I said, but nobody knew what I was talking about.

  “Got a call this morning,” I said, and told them David’s news.

  The Bishop led a prayer for David’s safety and our own.

  The rest of the morning was spent on chores. We were out there with Aaron, dragging the irrigation system in the field, when two cars pulled up.

  One was the white Cadillac.

  From the other, a black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows, a man with a gun drawn emerged.

  It was Nick from the Boudreaux mansion. After surveying the scene, he motioned to his passenger.

  Out stepped Angel, squinting in the sun.

  We froze.

  She walked toward me, picking her way carefully among the dirt clods, turning up her nose at the smell of manure.

  She glared at me, not saying anything.

  Chapter 32

  “Don’t like having to clean up other people’s messes,” Angel said. “The flight from New Orleans was overbooked, and the drive from the airport was a bore.”

  She stepped toward Aaron, then circled him like a hawk. Obviously she liked what she saw.

  “What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

  “Aaron.”

  “I could use a young man like you. In more ways than one.”

  Blushing, he lowered his head.

  She laughed. “I can see it wouldn’t work out, plowboy. So back off. Don’t get any ideas about rescuing these thieves. ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ right?”

  He nodded.

  Nick ambled toward Stuart, followed by Jeremy and the Nameless Girl.

  “Don’t suppose you have my money, Mr. Lytle,” Angel said.

  “No.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.”

  Aaron leaned toward me. “One always has a choice,” he whispered.

  Angel frowned. “You care to share that with the rest of the class?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Guess we can take care of this right here. Can’t have my customers thinking they can get away with grand larceny.”

  She turned to her colleagues.

  “Take out the trash, please,” she said, and climbed back in the car.

  “Hands on your heads,” Nick ordered. “Kneel on the ground.”

  We did so, our knees sinking in the mud. I was going into tachycardia, my usual response to death threats and techno pop.

  “Let Aaron go,” I said. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “He does now.”

  “The FBI’s on its way.”

  He snorted. “Sure it is.”

  “They’ve got your financial records. Proof of tax evasion.”

  He lowered his gun, jogged to the car, and said something through the window to his boss.

  She flung the door open. He jumped back, nearly falling.

  “What’s this about records?” she yelled at me.

  “It’s over, Angel.”

  Stephen grinned. “Like Al Capone.”

  “They can’t get you for murder,” I said, “but the IRS will be very interested in the contents of your safe.”

  She got out her phone and stabbed at the screen.

  “Who’s this? Where’s David?” There was a pause. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Swearing, she hung up and paced back and forth.

  Angel waggled her fingers dismissively in our direction. “Okay, take them with us. We’ll need some bargaining chips.”

  Nick grabbed my shoulder and yanked me to my feet. “You heard the lady.”

  She got back in the car, this time in the driver’s seat.

  Chapter 33

  Three dark blue unmarked cars thumped and bumped their way down the rutted dirt road toward us.

  Stephen struggled to his feet and leaned against a tree. “What took you so long?” he yelled.

  Stuart gasped. “Reinforcements?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Theirs or ours?”

  “Ours, I hope.”

  Seven heavily-armed men and one woman wearing bulletproof vests clambered out. The tallest one swung his automatic rifle back and forth like a reaper’s scythe. He was built like Dwayne Johnson, but his glasses made him look like Napoleon Dynamite.

  “Federal agents!” he shouted. “Throw your weapons on the ground!”

  Nick, Jeremy, and the Nameless Girl glanced at each other, hesitating.

  Napoleon Johnson stamped his foot. “Now!”
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  One at a time, they dropped their guns.

  It hurt to get up. One of my shoes was half buried in muck. Aaron straightened, looking angrier than any Amishman had a right to.

  Stephen helped Stuart up.

  The Lincoln’s engine roared to life.

  “Crap,” Stephen said. “She’s getting away.”

  Two agents whirled and pointed their guns at the car. The backs of their jackets yelled FBI in yellow.

  I gripped my leg and yanked. My shoe popped out of the gunk with a sucking sound.

  For reasons I didn’t quite understand, I grabbed my purse and ran toward the car. Maybe I couldn’t stand the thought of losing after all we’d been through. Or perhaps I wasn’t thinking at all.

  “Ma’am, don’t!” the nearest FBI man said.

  “Sorry,” I said, panting. “Got the greatest respect for law enforcement. Next time you guys call raising money, count on me for a donation.”

  Grabbing the front passenger door and jerking, I climbed in just as the car got seriously underway.

  Squeezing the wheel with both hands, Angel swore. Not in a general way. It was very personal.

  The wheel shook as she guided the Lincoln in reverse to the highway. I belted myself in.

  Pausing just long enough to fumble a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment, she stomped on the accelerator and spun with a screech onto the asphalt.

  “What the [expletive deleted] do you think you’re doing?” Angel asked.

  “Darned if I know.”

  “Those agents may have bulletproof vests. You sure don’t.”

  We whizzed past a horse and buggy with a triangular red sign on the back. Keeping her eyes on the road, she manhandled a gun from her own purse.

  “It was David, wasn’t it?” she asked. “How much did you pay him? I thought you were broke.”

  I started to answer. But I couldn’t put David in more danger by revealing his complicity.

  “If you think you’re putting me in prison, forget it. I’ve got more lawyers than Capone ever did, and better. And if you think I’m going to let you out of this car alive, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

  She pulled into the passing lane again. Hitting the gas, she barely avoided an oncoming semi, which condemned her with a blast like a foghorn.

  I reached over and tried to wrestle the gun from her hand. The muscles in her forearms tensed in sharp relief, and her fingernails drew blood.

  “Trying to get us both killed?” she asked.

  With a kraaaak the gun went off, shattering the windshield.

  The car swerved. With her left hand, she took hold of the wheel and forced the car hard to the right.

  The Lincoln sailed gracefully into a ditch, water gushing in where the windshield used to be.

  I unbuckled. So did she, but with more profane commentary.

  The car sank just deep enough to submerge our chins.

  The engine choked, shuddered, then died.

  I opened my door; the water rushed in like high tide at the Bay of Fundy.

  Dragging my purse, I made my way through the mire and grass to a barbed-wire fence up the hill.

  A cow mooed ahead of me. I turned to see Angel stumble out on her side.

  She held the gun and aimed at me. I ducked, as if that would do any good.

  There was a click.

  That was it. No firing. Apparently the thing was too wet.

  She threw the gun aside and waded through the water.

  I backed away, trying not to touch the barbed wire.

  “It’s over,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Probably.”

  “Lady, you obviously don’t know the first thing about me. I didn’t get where I am by waving a white flag.”

  The sound of squealing brakes met my ears.

  One of the FBI cars halted on the other side of the ditch. Out climbed a pair of agents, a man and a woman, with assault weapons drawn.

  “Freeze, Angel,” the woman said, and not softly.

  The cow mooed again.

  Muddy and dripping, I stepped back from the fence and collapsed in the grass.

  Chapter 34

  Angel didn’t move.

  The female agent handcuffed her. “Angel Boudreaux, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “I know all that.”

  She looked at me, smirking. “I’ll be out before the sun goes down. But you’ll be running the rest of your life.”

  The officer tugged her arm. “Get in the car.”

  “You okay, Ma’am?” the male agent asked me.

  “Sure, considering I just received a death threat.”

  Another car pulled up. I saw Stephen, Stuart, and Aaron inside, an agent at the wheel. They piled out.

  Stephen took one look at me and shook his head.

  Stuart was panting, hand over his heart. I started to reach for my phone to dial 911, but opted to wait until he actually fell over.

  Frowning, Aaron leaped the ditch and helped me up.

  “You look like a horse that got rode too hard and put away wet,” he said. “Or just an Amish girl who never learned how to swim.”

  Feeling dizzy, I took his hand to steady myself.

  He looked down and pulled away, clearly embarrassed.

  “That barbed wire got you pretty good,” he said.

  “I’ll live.” I paused. “We passed one of your brethren on the road. Didn’t slow us down a bit.”

  Suddenly my knees buckled. My head seemed to float off my neck. I started to sway.

  “Lord have mercy,” he said, catching me. Strong arms carried me through the ditch and back to the car.

  Stuart spread his coat on the back seat. I got in.

  The FBI car with Angel in it headed for the highway.

  My phone rang. It was Marvin.

  “Cranberry, you dead yet?”

  “What?”

  “You were gonna fake your own expiration, remember?”

  I shook myself, trying to clear my head. “Did that. It worked, more or less. The FBI swung its sweet chariot low. They’re taking Angel and her unheavenly host across the Jordan.”

  “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but sounds like you could use a week or two down here. In somebody else’s condo.”

  “I’ll call back later and tell you all about it, okay?”

  “See that you do.”

  I hung up.

  Aaron squeezed into the back seat. His shoulder was warm against my soggy side.

  Stephen got in the front passenger seat and turned to the agent. “Can I try on your bulletproof vest? It’s just so cool.”

  “Negative,” he said, and started the car. “Get your own on the Internet.”

  We went back to the Stoltzfus place.

  The Bishop’s wife opened the door, panic in her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” Aaron said. “The English criminals are on their way to jail.”

  She relaxed. Melted might be a better word.

  We stepped over the threshold. The Bishop rose from his rocking chair. Without warning he led a prayer of thanks. I could barely get my eyes shut in time.

  “You need a clean outfit,” his wife told me when it was over. “I’ll find you one.” She disappeared into a bedroom.

  “Guess I can go,” the FBI agent said. “You folks will have to—”

  His phone rang.

  He listened for a moment. “Gotcha.”

  Looking slightly less unsmiling, he stuffed the phone in his pocket. “David’s copied pages have reached the office in Chicago.”

  “All right,” Stephen said.

  “Got a loose end to tie up—getting a search warrant to impound every piece of paper, weapon, and computer in the Boudreaux mansion. Then the FBI will have a little celebration of its own—and raise a glass of Bob Gallagher’s favorite whiskey in his honor.”

  “Can we come?” Stephen asked.

  “No. But they’ve got booze on the Int
ernet too. I’ll be in touch. Lot of paperwork.” He went out the door.

  The Bishop’s wife returned with a dress. “Did you square dance with a barbed-wire fence?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Let’s take care of those cuts. I’ve got a poultice that might be just the thing.” She led me to the bedroom.

  The stuff smelled like sulfur and wintergreen. But darned if it didn’t help.

  When we came out, Stuart was setting the table for lunch.

  “I owe you one, Carolyn,” he said. “How’d you like a brand new series to come out next year? Jennifer Jenner’s getting on my nerves. When she hits puberty, it’ll only get worse.”

  “Can I afford it?”

  He set down the last platter. “I’ll take half my usual advance.”

  I sat. “How about no advance? Seems like the least you could do.”

  He looked pained, then shrugged. “First manuscript due in six months.”

  “Make it three. My back’s killing me.”

  “I thought owing the Boudreauxs was bad.”

  “I don’t pull out authors’ fingernails. Even though most of them deserve it.”

  After lunch we gathered our belongings from the barn and put them in a horse-drawn buggy. “This will take you to town,” the Bishop said. “Godspeed.” He and his wife went inside.

  Aaron and I lingered by the barn. Farewells weren’t so dramatic in the middle of the day, and the smell of manure didn’t add to the ambiance.

  “I never felt the need to go through Rumspringa,” he said. “But if I had, I doubt it would have matched the last few weeks.”

  I pushed a little pile of straw with the toe of my shoe. “Think you’ll ever leave?”

  “Can’t. We all have to be true to ourselves, don’t we?”

  I looked at the horse. He looked at me.

  “Expected you’d say that. This is your path, and you have to follow it.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Think you’ll ever see Witness, though? The movie, I mean.”

  He smiled. “Might. Have to work my way up to it, though. I could start with having a root beer next time I’m in town. Then maybe an actual Mountain Dew.”