She knew exactly what she wanted. “Gimme a Peggy Sue’s special, loaded, with extra thousand island dressing on marble rye. And a monster Pepsi.”
Nodding, he went to work on building her made-to-order grinder.
Sliding onto one of the dozen classic bolted swivel-seat soda fountain stools in front of the narrow counter, she waited, strumming her fingers on the glossy red bar while continuing to bathe in the scene.
Three waitresses, with their hair pulled high into a ponytail, wearing poodle skirts and vintage lace-up white roller skates relaxed in a front corner booth, waiting for the lunch rush to begin. Grinning, she remembered how she was declined employment at Peggy Sue’s simply because she failed the roller skating audition. Fell flat on her ass. Twice.
An idea regarding her current situation unexpectedly jolted her from the stroll down memory lane. “Do you have a piece of paper, like a notebook sheet or something like that?” she asked the sandwich maker, a tone of urgency in her voice.
Grunting, he looked around. “Will this work?” he asked, waving a disposable white paper placemat at her.
“Perfect. Paper is paper, right?” she said, eagerly snatching it from his hand. “And how about something to write with?”
“What? Writing a love letter or something?” he quizzed. Acting put out, he moseyed to the cash register, plucking one of the pens out of the Pepsi cup posted next to the register. All the pens in the paper cup had a long red plastic spoon taped on the end to keep them from walking off with customers. “Will this do?” he asked, waving it at her.
“You’re the best. And I promise to return it,” she said, quickly snatching it from his hand.
Moments later, “Here’s your sandwich and drink. And if you need another piece of paper, use the one under your lunch,” he said, sliding the plastic carry tray toward her.
After paying for her sandwich and drink, nostalgia—along with the desire for much-needed privacy—motivated her to relax in the secluded horseshoe booth at the back of the restaurant.
While eating, she feverishly sketched, and by no means would she ever be accused of being an artist. Nonetheless, she did her best.
The cowbell clanged.
She glanced up, did a double take. Gasped. Coughed. Practically choked on the bite of sandwich she had just stuffed in her mouth. Instinctively she shoved her art under her thigh to hide it, at the time watching him pivot his head in her direction.
Before she could scream or move, he thrust his massive body into the booth next to her, his thick arm wrapping around her shoulder like a steel band, drawing her body close to him so he could whisper in her ear. “Say one word and I guarantee your blue-haired Auntie Bea will have an accident in her Jazzy.”
“Leave her out of this,” she hotly replied, her mouth full. Aunt Beatrice was like a second mother to her and she knew that he knew it—that was the bitch about the compound. Word had gotten around that they had something on everyone; an Achilles heel that could be exploited anytime a member didn’t toe the mark and walk the line. Aunt Bea was the chink in her righteous armor.
“Who did you call?”
“Call?” she echoed, quickly chewing and swallowing the food tucked in her cheek.
Continuing to hold her tightly while using the tabletop as concealment, he pressed the blade of a huge hunting knife near her bellybutton. “Don’t fuck with me,” he snarled, his voice low. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way....”
Chapter Three
10:55 A.M. Breaking every speed limit to get there, Jewels screeched the Humvee to an abrupt halt in an empty parking space outside the front door of Peggy Sue’s Deli. With a wad of keys in one hand and her beige and platinum Gucci hobo handbag in the other, Jewels dashed from her car toward the deli.
Bursting through the door, slightly out of breath, she quickly scanned her head back and forth in search of her high school friend. A few early lunch eaters dotted the otherwise empty restaurant. Jewels didn’t recognize any of them as being the Sharon Jeppson she remembered from high school. The familiar surrounding rushed her mind with fond memories of drama club. Thoughts of Kirk Kirkland, her high school boyfriend, momentarily relieved the tension on her face. More than once, as the drama trauma gang snuggled tightly into the hidden booth, she had to smack the playful football star’s roaming hand off her thigh and keep his nimble fingers from scurrying up her skirt. Life was so simple back then....
Without warning, a hulking man clad in a black sweatshirt with the hood up over his head came barreling from the back of the cafe, making a hasty beeline to the front door.
As he passed Jewels, he clipped her hard on the shoulder with his forearm, as if on purpose, like a hockey player shoving his opponent away from the puck. The impact nearly knocked Jewels off her stilettos, but like a high wire walker using a raised foot for balance, she steadied herself.
The ruffian didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. Didn’t even mumble an apology.
Eyes narrowed and smoldering, she chalked up the rude experience to a close encounter with unrefined testosterone and stiffly straightened her suit.
“Can I help you, Miss?” inquired the skinny sandwich maker pacing behind the counter, about ten feet to Jewels’ left.
Preoccupied with browsing the faces of the customers, she ignored the man.
“Ma’am,” he called again, his voice a little louder this time.
Gesturing an impatient no thanks, Jewels continued to look for Sharon.
The man behind the counter shook his head in annoyance, mumbled something in Spanish, and resumed pacing.
Duh, Jewels said to herself upon realizing Sharon would probably be seated in the drama trauma gang’s table, perfectly located out of sight from the wandering eyes of the mainstream deli patron. She strained her neck to see into the alcove. Sure enough, Jewels caught the profile of the familiar, though somehow different, face she was seeking. “Sharon,” she called, enthusiastically waving her hand at the woman.
The woman nodded.
Jewels sprinted, as best she could in four inch heels, the length of the dining area toward the rear of the building. Sharon was huddled in the curve of the horseshoe booth. Head drooping. Shoulder-length coffee-colored hair hung like stalactites around her face. Wrapped in a black Nike windbreaker, her arms were folded tightly across her stomach like she was bucking frigid tundra air. Though the same age as Jewels, thirty-four, she looked fifty and haggard.
Anxiously, Jewels plopped into the booth.
“You made it,” she said, slowly lifting her head to look Jewels in the eyes. A faint grin blossomed on Sharon’s face. “Pretty. You’re still so pretty.”
Sharon’s voice was weak. Not like it was on the phone about half an hour ago. “Sharon? What’s going on?” Jewels scooted closer to her friend from the past. Stared. The woman looked like a dirty homeless person. And appeared to be in terrible health. Her face was pale. Dark rings encircled her eyes. She shivered as if chilled. Not the norm for such a warm summer day.
Sharon sat there. Silent.
“You don’t look well, Sharon. I’m calling for help.” Jewels dug the cell phone out of her purse, her fingers poised to dial, but a bloody hand stopped her.
“Sharon!” Jewels dropped the cell phone on the table as her eyes followed the trail of Sharon’s bloody hand. It led to an open windbreaker revealing the bunched up camouflage T-shirt covering Sharon’s stomach. Blood oozed between Sharon’s fingers as they tried, unsuccessfully, to mesh together the gaping wound. “Good heavens, Sharon. You’re bleeding!”
Sharon shook her head, indicating Jewels should disregard the seepage of life. “Don’t worry about that.” Pointing to her thigh with her chin, she whispered, “Under my leg, Jewels. That’s what’s important. Take the paper under my leg.”
“Are you kidding? You need help.” Jewels leaned out of the booth, waved her arm, “Hey—”
“No! Listen to me,” Sharon scolded, preventing Jewels from attracting attention. “
Get the paper,” she instructed through clenched teeth, once again motioning under her thigh.
Extracting the white paper placemat from under Sharon’s leg, Jewels glanced at it, immediately tossing it on the table without regard to her friend’s implied importance.
Sharon’s bloody fingers latched around Jewels’ forearm, squeezed.
Jewels’ linen suit quickly soaked up the blood from Sharon’s handlike a Brawny paper towel commercial.
“Promise me, Jewels,” she paused, her breathing labored. “Promise your best promise ever that you won’t give that map to nobody, no where, no how, especially not the cops.” Sharon coughed. Blood sputtered from her mouth.
Jewels’ eyebrows knitted. “Sharon, you need a doctor—”
“Not until you promise.”
“I promise—”
“No cops, Jewels,” Sharon insisted, squeezing Jewels’ arm tighter. “Promise me, Jewels. I want to hear you promise me, no cops.”
“Okay, I promise, Sharon, no cops. I promise.” Patting Sharon’s hand in reassurance, Jewels nodded at the paper, “But this can wait. First things first, you need medical attention.” Jewels reached for the cell phone, but again Sharon stopped her.
“No! Please ... the map ... look at the map first.”
“All right, Sharon. All right.” Jewels picked up the amateurishly sketched map, scrutinized it. SPOF HIDEOUT was written at the top. Beneath it a bunch of lines apparently meant to represent roads and sloppily drawn boxes labeled COMPOUND and CABIN and an oval marked LAKE. “Okay, I’ve looked. Why does this matter?”
Sharon’s body was sliding off the smooth vinyl seat like it was slowly being sucked into a bottomless swamp. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Help! My friend’s bleeding. Please call nine-one-one,” Jewels yelled toward the front of the deli, hoping someone would respond.
Consciousness was about to elude Sharon as death, eager now, arrived to claim her. Quickly folding the map into a two-inch square, Jewels shoved it in her bra. “Don’t worry about the map, Sharon. I promise it will be safe with me. But right now I’m calling the paramedics. Just hang on, Sharon. Hang on!”
Extending a bloody hand toward Jewels, Sharon wrapped it around the lapel of her Anne Klein suit, pulling her in closer, once again thwarting the emergency phone call Jewels was about to make.
Tenderly responding to her dying friend, she draped her arm around her shoulder, leaned down, cocked her ear toward Sharon’s mouth.
With death so near, talking was nearly impossible for Sharon, but with her dying breath warned, “Don’t trust ... the old times....”
Distant sirens closed in. Thank goodness someone, probably the guy pacing behind the sandwich counter, called for help.
“Hang on, Sharon! Hang on!” Tears tumbled down Jewels’ cheeks. Instantly she was reminded of Robert. Thank goodness she hadn’t witnessed his death, but she had seen death arrive before; once at a gruesome car accident she just happened to behold, then again in her father’s eyes as she stood at his bedside. And it was here, now.
The few people dining in the deli when Jewels arrived just moments earlier had sprouted into an overbearing crowd. Huddling around the booth, their mouths gaped and eyes jumped with morbid excitement; vultures waiting for a fresh meal.
With her arms wrapped around Sharon’s shoulders and Sharon’s head resting on her chest, Jewels gently rocked side to side, as if lulling a baby. Waiting. Thinking. Knowing she was directly involved in what was soon to become a murder investigation. Being the last person to speak with Sharon, and given her prominence in the community, would make her involvement in this murder news. Big news. But in her mind, she wasn’t supposed to make the news, she was supposed to report it!
Then there would be police. What was she going to tell them? She had made a promise, her best promise, to a dying friend, vowing she would not give the so-called map to the cops. But her friend was dead. The map was evidence. Maybe even some sort of clue. Could the map help solve her friend’s murder? She wanted to do the right thing, but at the moment had no idea what it might be.
As Jewels weighed the pros and cons of fessing up to law enforcement about the map, her father’s words echoed with distinct clarity in her mind: “Your word is all you have, Jewels. Your word is your bond. No matter what, always keep your word. Always.”
The decision was no longer a conundrum: she would keep her word. Obviously, Sharon had figured the cops were corrupt. But why? Were her suspicions motive for murder? And what did the crude map have to do with anything? And the warning about the old times....
“Paramedics! Coming through,” an aggressive, reassuring male voice announced.
Finally, Jewels thought. But she knew help had arrived too late. Sharon was already dead.
Chapter Four
2:37 P.M. “Thank you, ma’am. If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch,” the portly detective told Jewels. Like an overused scene in a Hollywood movie, he flipped shut the note pad and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
Statements. Police and news reporters were a lot alike. Both eager for a statement. Jewels felt a tinge of guilt for not sharing the SPOF HIDEOUT map with the detective. But told herself a dying woman wouldn’t make such an urgent, pointed request without good reason. Besides, she had given Sharon her word. Therefore she easily dismissed the speck of guilt festering, rationalizing she could always tell the detective about the map tomorrow ... if necessary.
Emergency vehicles finally began disappearing from the scene, opening a path for Jewels’ Humvee to edge out onto the street.
A small crowd had gathered around her vehicle, but she was used to it. There weren’t many Humvee H1 Alpha Wagons in the Salt Lake area, or Utah for that fact. And of those that were, none of the four-door hard tops were cloaked in a rich metallic burgundy paint, tastefully pin striped in pink and white, and heavily accessorized in bright chrome. Jewels’ H1 had been spectacularly customized.
Equally sensational was the interior. Loaded. Custom burgundy leather heated and cooled seats. A Bose twelve-disc CD stereo system, built-in cell phone, CB radio and navigation system; few luxury cars could compare. JEWELS V the vanity plate announced. It was her dream machine and so much more.
At the time, Robert couldn’t have known the extravagant SUV would be the last gift he would ever give his beloved wife. Yet he acted as if he knew.
Investing a painstaking amount of time in the customizing process, with ardent attention to every detail, he had ensured the vehicle would be perfect for his sweetheart. Once certain all elements were as he wished, he prepaid, adding a handsome tip to make certain his instructions would be followed to the letter. His instructions included delivering the customized vehicle to Jewels at the Press on their fourteenth wedding anniversary, which would fall about six months from the date he had placed the order.
Sadly, as fate would have it, Robert’s mortal eyes never witnessed his wife take possession of her dream machine. But if they had, Robert would have been pleased, because his gift arrived precisely as he had requested at the Press, exactly at noon, on the very date that would have been their fourteenth anniversary. Fourteen dozen long-stemmed pink roses filled the front seat. A note written in Robert’s own handwriting was taped to the steering wheel:
I love you, Jewels. Thanks for fourteen terrific years. Looking forward to fourteen more. All my love, always and only to you, Sweetheart. —Robert
The vehicle’s title lay in a white envelope on the dash. It was apparent Robert had thought of everything.
The Andrasy Humvee story had become a romantic tragedy of legendary proportions in New Greensburgh, though it barely had a year to circulate. Starry-eyed young lovers tearfully told the sad story with hopes that someday their love would grow into something as precious and timeless as Jewels and Robert’s, yet not end tragically.
Jewels found comfort, peace and deep internal strength in her Humvee. Rarely would she drive her other car, a giallo Ferrari 458 Italia, though Robert
had bought the brilliant yellow sports car for her, too. After all, the Humvee had kind of become her trademark. And besides, she really didn’t mind the attention the H1 attracted and loved showing it off. Several times she had given permission for someone, usually a male teen, to sit behind the wheel to snap a picture.
The crowd around the Hummer gasped and parted way as Jewels walked toward it. Somebody whispered something about Kennedy and a blonde Jackie. It wasn’t until glimpsing down at her jacket she realized how much of Sharon’s crimson life-juices had ended up on her linen suit.
Before crawling into the Hummer, Jewels peeled off the blood-soaked jacket, tossing it over the console onto the passenger side of the front seat. Once inside, she closed the door and stuffed the key into the ignition.
The manly roar of the Duramax diesel engine turned heads. Three male onlookers bounded to Jewels’ unsolicited aid to help her maneuver through the scattered array of emergency vehicles still at the scene.
One man stopped traffic.
Another asked a policeman to move his car forward about a foot.
A third gave Jewels the go sign, pointing in the direction she should drive.
An unnatural smile stumbled across Jewels’ face as she waved and whispered a thank you while pulling away from the curb. Naturally, Jewels had nothing to smile about. She had arrived at Peggy Sue’s, to Sharon, too late. Just a few minutes earlier.... “Maybe only a few seconds earlier,” she shouted aloud, pounding her fist on the steering wheel.
The too late thought triggered the memory of the man who had collided with her. Could he be Sharon’s killer? The police needed to know.
Searching her mind for details, she came up empty. The fact was, she didn’t get a good look at his face. Not even a glimpse because it was shrouded in the hood of a sweatshirt. Exactly what would she report to the police about the hooded man? At this point, she couldn’t imagine.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 5