Fly by Night (A Gracie Andersen Mystery Book 3)

by Laurinda Wallace

  The line at the bank was long for some reason. Only two tellers were available; everyone else must be at lunch, Gracie surmised. She caught sight of Kevin pulling a folder from one of the large black filing cabinets that lined a dark-paneled wall. Wondering who his victim was, she craned her neck to look around the large silk ficus tree next to his desk. You didn’t see the top-gun loan officer unless you were behind on your mortgage or begging for a big loan. She smothered a laugh when she saw a red-faced Ben Richter, writing furiously. He tore a check out from a black binder and threw it on the antique walnut desk. Kevin sat back comfortably in his chair with a look of satisfaction. He caught Gracie’s gaze and quickly looked back at his customer. The bearded man stood, pushing his way past a secretary carrying a load of files in her arms. She stumbled and caught the slippery folders before they escaped. The Renew Earth CEO, who evidently couldn’t have cared less, pushed through the double glass doors without looking back.

  Gracie’s cell phone began ringing “Who Let the Dogs Out” just as she reached the window. Placing the bank bag on the counter for the teller with an apologetic look, she rummaged in her bag to drag the phone out. The caller was Kim. She shut the ringer off and tossed the phone back into the bag. Once she finished at the window, she stepped out on the sidewalk in the warm sun. Hitting the call back button, she couldn’t imagine what had happened so soon to warrant a call. Kim really needed to get a grip.

  A young male voice answered the phone. It was Kim’s son, Duane. His voice sounded shaky as he told her the news. The sheriff’s department had returned his father’s truck right after his mother had come home from seeing the lawyer. When he and his mother examined the truck to make sure everything was intact, he’d noticed that the .20 gauge shotgun that should have been hanging on the rack in the truck was missing. His father had carried a shotgun in the truck for years. When Kim asked the deputies if they were holding the gun, they informed her they hadn’t found any gun in the truck.

  Chapter 23

  The counter at Midge’s was almost empty. The lunch hour rush was over. Midge stood facing the grill, ready to flip the last burger onto the toasted bun that sat waiting on the thick blue plate. Perfectly sautéed onions and mushrooms were piled up next to the burger.

  Roscoe sat at a corner table where he had an unobstructed view of the counter and grill. His tablet had finally connected to a random wireless network while he waited. He scrolled slowly through pages of articles about N.E.S.T. They’d been around awhile and were experts on applying for and receiving government grants for renewable energy projects. Roscoe pulled a mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket and scribbled a few notes in a small notebook.

  A plate clattered on the table, startling him. A server with curves in all the right places positioned the plate expertly next to the iPad. Crispy fries and a burger joined the glass of iced tea he’d been sipping.

  “Thank you, Miss,” he said, grabbing the burger. He groaned with happiness, biting into the huge sandwich. Allie smiled and peeked at his screen.

  “I’m Allie. “Whatcha doin’ there? Playing games? I love computer games.”

  Roscoe quickly swallowed, washing the burger down with tea. He was momentarily speechless in admiration of Allie who was a petite brunette with sparkling brown eyes.

  “No games, just some research.” He patted his disheveled hair, sat up straight, and pushed his glasses back into place.

  “What kind of research? Are you in school or something?

  “No,” he said, looking myopically at her. “I’m assisting some friends about inquiries into wind turbine farms. I’m a reporter for The Sentinel.” His chest puffed out with importance.

  “Wow! A reporter,” Allie said with surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a real live reporter.”

  “Well, I’m … I’m …” Roscoe stammered, “I’m just a neophyte reporter.”

  Allie gave him a questioning look. “A caveman reporter? What are you talkin’ about?” She turned on her heel and made for the kitchen.

  “No, no, miss. That’s ‘neophyte,’ not ‘Neanderthal!’” the confused Roscoe called after her, his face flushed red.

  Sighing, he turned back to the screen. The sound of male voices coming through the door distracted him from the lines of text in front of him. He glanced up, seeing N.E.S.T.’s CEO claim an empty table. Dean Jenkins joined the squarely built man with glasses and thinning brown hair.

  Dean looked nervously at the reporter. He looked around the dining room repeatedly, as if uncertain whether he should stay or leave. Mitch Allen looked cool and in charge. The attractive waitress who’d served Roscoe the best burger he’d had in some time was already taking their order. She quickly returned, depositing two slices of pie and coffee in front of the men.

  Roscoe only caught odd snatches of the conversation. “Tobias McQuinn,” “foreclosure,” and “bonus” were the words of interest.

  *****

  Gracie and Jim finished bed check and turned off the lights in each corridor. Every bone in Gracie’s body felt weary tonight.

  Haley trotted through ahead of them to the reception area, as anxious as her mistress to get to the house. Her otter-like tail whacked loudly against the door, while her tongue, long and pink, hung goofily from her mouth.

  Jim’s cell sang out the opening notes of the “Twilight Zone” theme just as he punched in the security code to lock up. He pulled the phone from the belt holster.

  “Good. It’s Roscoe.”

  “You told him to come over?”

  Gracie stood with her hands folded across her chest, vainly trying not to sound irritated. She leaned her back against the kitchen counter, mentally calculating whether she had enough bread and peanut butter for supper. Her head hurt, and she really just wanted a long, hot shower with no interruptions, especially from Roscoe.

  “Yes, and I know you’d rather not, but he’s got some updates. Besides we need to put all our information on the table. Toby’s still in trouble, and so is Kim.”

  She had to admit that was true. Since Tobias’ release and Kim’s becoming the focus of the investigation, everything had been happening so fast. They needed to regroup. Gracie shrugged. If this pow-wow would help Kim, then she could survive a Roscoe invasion. At the moment, there was no doubt: Kim was knee deep in cow poo.

  “Let me change,” she sighed. “I’ll cowgirl-up to face Mr. Myer.”

  Leaving Jim standing in the kitchen, she went to her bedroom to peel off her hairy clothes. Every dog seemed to be shedding, including. Haley. Dog hair covered every inch of her clothing. She heard Haley bark as soon as she closed the bedroom door. Roscoe never wasted any time.

  Pulling her mass of red curls back tightly and clipping it in a tortoise shell barrette, Gracie took a quick look in the mirror. Clean shorts and a T-shirt would have to do.

  Her cell phone rang where she’d laid it on the bedspread just as her hand touched the doorknob. She picked up the iPhone and squinted at the read-out. It was her mother. But the caller turned out to be her father. He’d just gotten back from his card night at the Legion Hall. Her mouth dropped open in surprise as he filled her in on the events of the evening.

  *****

  “She said what?” Jim asked incredulously.

  “Unbelievable, don’t you think?” Gracie answered, sitting back on the big leather sofa with her legs pulled up to her chin.

  Jim claimed the repaired recliner, while Roscoe sat doodling in his notebook, apparently in his own world, on the large ottoman near the coffee table. Haley was snoring on her back, comfortable in her bed next to the fireplace.

  “Streeker’s aide was very persuasive. Of course, in a re-election year, aren’t they all? But my dad said she flat-out promised that all kinds of money could find its way to Wyoming County if the wind farm was built in Greerson’s Meadow. She wants everybody’s support to convince Toby that it’s crucial to the local economy. It’ll mean jobs and additional financial support for dairy farms. She said th
ere were lots of ways the congressman could make sure Deer Creek got the bulk of the “help.” Ms. Harkness also played the vet card. She’s an ex-Army sniper. Served a couple of tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The guys were impressed with that.”

  “No doubt,” Jim said, closing the recliner.

  He laced his hands, put them behind his head, and leaned back against the chair. He closed his eyes. Gracie could tell the wheels were turning.

  She stretched her legs out on the coffee table and took a sip of coffee from her mug. “A couple of them even asked her to go to the club to shoot. And she agreed.”

  “Really?” Roscoe jumped in, breaking his unnatural silence. “I actually researched Ms. Harkness today. Quite a versatile person. I imagine she’s invaluable to the congressman.”

  “I hope you’ve got more than that,” Jim said scowling.

  Chapter 24

  What Roscoe had was quite a bit of information. Between the three of them, the sketchy outline of N.E.S.T., Renew Earth, and the personnel involved with both was starting to take shape.

  The would-be reporter pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and confirmed that Cynthia Harkness was a sniper in her former life. She’d worked with Congressman Streeker for five years and had been his chief of staff for the last two. Ms. Harkness was single, about 40, and very ambitious. She had built a substantial resume with her military service and political interests, and as a liaison for the government grants and N.E.S.T. Jim shared what he’d seen from the woods, and the three concluded maybe there was a reason for that exclusive connection.

  Roscoe had managed to download the previous year’s balance sheet for the wind farm company, which appeared to be cash poor. It looked like Mitch Allen was counting on the construction of this last wind farm for a generous influx of grant money straight from the taxpayers.

  Gracie uncurled herself from the chair and went to collect glasses and the pitcher of lemonade chilling in the refrigerator.

  “I guess my time with Kim wasn’t wasted today then. I’m afraid Mr. Allen is going to get a shock when he has no leverage to get the land.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Jim quizzed.

  “The mortgage isn’t under the farm’s name,” Gracie answered, filling the glasses and carrying them carefully to the living room.

  “So, Mr. Jackson held the mortgage personally, and not the farm?” Roscoe asked as he reached for the lemonade.

  “That’s the story. The attorney said she could do what she wanted. Kim plans on just discharging it and calling it paid in full. She’s the executrix of the estate, so it’s her choice. She told Nolan to write a letter to Toby about it and get the paperwork done. She’s never been happy that D. B. held the mortgage over his head. I don’t think she was happy with D. B. in general and this whole windmill business.” Gracie resettled on the couch. She set her glass on the cork coaster on the end table.

  “I guess you’d have to get in line on that cause. D. B. wasn’t known for his warm, fuzzy business dealings.” Jim rubbed his jaw and smiled. “Toby’s going to be happy to get that letter, but that may not be the end of things for him. There are at least four people who want that land pretty badly. Your cousin’s boyfriend is one of them too.”

  Gracie narrowed her eyes and grimaced. “I’m sure Isabelle knows exactly why Kevin’s pushing to get the land. I can’t believe it’s just about a loan to N.E.S.T. Maybe I can do a little more snooping on that.”

  Roscoe looked up from his iPad, his spider-like fingers finally motionless on the screen.

  “Now, do you want me to pursue any further information regarding Mr. Richter?”

  “Yes,” Jim and Gracie answered together.

  “I’m wondering if he’s trying to hide his identity,” Gracie said.

  “Why do you say that?” Jim asked, surprise in his eyes.

  Gracie explained the hit on the news article of Samantha Richter’s death.

  Jim gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “Definitely check that out.”

  Roscoe nodded gravely and promised to look into the Vermont connection to Ben Richter. He sat cross-legged on the floor, focused on the iPad. He tapped the screen and typed furiously.

  Gracie drummed nervous fingers on the arm of the sofa, wondering if Investigator Hotchkiss would take any of this seriously enough to let Kim off the hook.

  Roscoe seemed exasperated with his Internet search, making some odd grunting noises. She glanced at the mantel clock, surprised that it was already 10:30. Looking over at Jim, who had fallen silent, she saw he was dozing in the chair. He suddenly jerked wide awake, startling himself.

  “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go home. It’s been a long day,” he said sheepishly. He stretched his arms overhead and yawned.

  “I agree,” Gracie said, rising from the sofa. She yawned dramatically with the hope Roscoe would get the hint.

  “I feel quite invigorated. I can continue all night if necessary with the research,” Roscoe responded.

  “Great idea, but we’d better let Gracie get her beauty sleep,” Jim said, giving Gracie a wink.

  “Oh. Right.” His pale face flushed with embarrassment. “Uh, I can certainly continue my research elsewhere.” Roscoe stumbled to his feet from his cramped, cross-legged position on the floor. He snatched up the tablet and stuffed it in a battered messenger bag.

  Sighing with relief, Gracie locked the door after the two men. Haley whined at the French doors to the patio, and Gracie hurried to oblige. The dog bounded ahead of her, happy to investigate the night smells. Finally, she raced back to the patio and pushed the unlatched doors apart. Gracie followed, feeling zombie-like. The dog made a beeline to the coffee table, sniffing the phone that was vibrating insistently. She had a text message. “The UFOs are back.”

  Chapter 25

  “You saw them this time?”

  Gracie shoveled dog food into stainless steel bowls, while Jim put fresh water in for each canine guest. Everyone seemed eager for breakfast; muzzles immediately plunged into bowls.

  “Well, sort of. I saw lights or something, I guess. Roscoe is going to stay at the trailer and set up his equipment. He and Toby are hatching some plan to catch it all on video, create a website, the whole nine yards.”

  “How did Toby get a hold of you last night? I didn’t think he had a phone.”

  “My parents talked him into a cell phone. It wasn’t easy though. They got him one on their plan. Reason finally won out.”

  Gracie nodded. “It’s a good idea. He’s gotta have a phone with everything that’s going on. So, what did you see?”

  Jim gave a belly rub to the golden retriever, who begged for one any time a human walked by. The dog panted and whined for more attention.

  “All right, Jasper. Just a minute more, buddy.” He turned back to look at Gracie. “I saw some lights over the woods on the other side of the Meadow. They kind of hovered and then just disappeared. It could have been some kind of small airplane, I guess, but Toby’s all over this. He’s convinced they’re UFOs, aliens, whatever. He could be right. It was pretty weird.”

  “Who owns the woods past the Meadow?”

  Jim rubbed the dog’s belly once more and closed the gate. Jasper stood, disappointment in his gentle brown eyes.

  “Sorry, boy. We’ll be back later.” Jim pushed his Yankees cap back and scratched his head. “I’m not sure who owns the woods. It used to be Hansen’s. Seems like I heard they sold it off a couple of months ago.”

  “Maybe I can find that out or maybe our super researcher can,” Gracie said as she dumped the last of the kibble into a bowl.

  “I’m not sure what that’ll do for us though.”

  “I’m not sure either, but it might help,” Gracie answered, absorbed in thought.

  The walkie-talkie clipped onto her waistband crackled into life. Marian informed her that a Mr. Richter wanted to talk to Jim. He was waiting in the office. She raised an eyebrow, smiled, and watched Jim head to the office.

  Ben Richter
paced impatiently in front of Gracie’s desk. He was in business casual attire, khaki Dockers and a crisply pressed white button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The man was fit and Jim could see that Mr. Richter worked out regularly. He held out his hand to Jim, who shook it reluctantly.

  “What can I do for you?” Jim asked in clipped tones.

  “I’m here on a business matter.” Ben said smoothly, stroking his dark beard. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to one of the uncomfortable vinyl chairs.

  “I can’t imagine what business we might have.” Jim’s eyes narrowed, and he motioned for the visitor to sit, while he took a seat behind the desk.

  “Actually, it’s about your cousin’s property. I’m here to make an offer to purchase the back 30 acres. Not the whole piece, but the area behind the pond.”

  “Why ask me? Toby’s the owner.” Jim watched the man carefully.

  “I have. In fact, I just left there. Your cousin is a rather difficult person, and I don’t believe he’s competent. He’s talking about UFOs and space visitors.”

  “Tobias is competent. He must have told you ‘no.’”

  “He did. Unfortunately, he did it with a shotgun. I’m sure you understand what that might mean in his particular situation.” A look of satisfaction crossed Richter’s tanned face. His dark eyes flashed with triumph. The trump card had been played.

  Jim groaned and stood, wishing he’d never heard of Greerson’s Meadow.

  “I’d be happy not to press charges if he’ll agree to sell the back portion of the Meadow property. I don’t want the entire piece, just that acreage. You might want to tell your cousin that it’s in his best interest. Otherwise … ” He paused and then continued, “He could lose the entire property easily enough while he serves his time. I can then pick it up for the back taxes.”

  Jim took off his cap, curling the bill in his hands. Toby had done it this time. He sighed and replaced his cap. “Let me get back to you, Mr. Richter,” he said coldly.