Checkered Past (A Laurel London Mystery Book 2)

by Kappes, Tonya

  “Driving strangers around all day isn’t my idea of a good job.” Trixie huffed so hard her shoulders and arms jerked up. “Little Missy, you aren’t fooling me none with any of that ‘I want to open an account’ bull malarkey.”

  “The Gorilla left me a lot of money.” I wasn’t planning on using it, but it kept Trixie happy to think I was. I turned the car right down Fifth Street. “I can’t hide all the cash in the floorboards much longer. What if we had a fire?”

  “No. Let Ben Bassman deal with it. I’ll give him a call and he can take the cash to his place. Keep it in some safe or something.” Trixie’s head almost twirled off her shoulders when we passed Shear Illusions. She stuck her hands on the dash in front of her. “Stop!”

  Kim Banta was standing in front of her shop holding a big bunch of flowers. Curly Dean was standing next to her. There was an airbus attached to Curly’s husband’s 1972 Ford wood-paneled station wagon. Bo Dean recently passed and his funeral was in a couple days. They lived in the country and had the best land to garden.

  Many times I had snuck over to their farm and dug up a few raw vegetables to eat. On Sundays at the Friendship Baptist church service, I’d overhear Bo and Curly telling everyone how their garden was being ravaged by bunnies. Little did they know, it was me. I stopped because Bo was a kind man who always gave me a lollipop when I walked into church.

  Curly. She was not so nice. She snarled at the orphans as Trixie marched us right up to the front pew in our dumpster-rescued outfits. I guess Trixie never forgot it and she and Curly hadn’t been friends since.

  Curly was the same in my teen years. She was the secretary at Walnut Grove High and she was just as nasty to us then.

  Bo had the best spot to sell his vegetables and ferns at the Farmer’s Market that was held every Sunday in the parking lot between Lucky Strikes and Food Town on the far side of town.

  I did what Trixie asked. It was either pull over or listen to her gripe about why I had really gone into the bank. She jumped out of the Old Girl quicker than a jackrabbit.

  Kim squinted watching Trixie with a close eye. She was a tall woman with frizzy, bleached-blond hair. Every time I saw her she had different colored hair. No wonder it was so fried. I’m not sure why everyone in town still kept her in business. It was closer than heading to Louisville. Even I found myself in her chair with her fingers in my hair.

  “What’s all this about?” Trixie stood between Curly and Kim. She pointed to Curly’s big silver airbus, Dean’s Florist written across it in green spray paint.

  “Advertising.” Curly took the dangling cigarette out of her mouth, threw it next to her foot and snuffed it out. She pushed back her stray brown hair that had lost its way out of the low ponytail she always wore, exposing her tan, wrinkly skin—from years of working on a farm, gardening, and not using a bit of sunscreen.

  “Advertising what?” Trixie eyed the flat-butted cigarette.

  Inwardly I smiled knowing it was killing Trixie not to pick it up or tell Curly to.

  Many times throughout my childhood, Trixie had me and the other orphans pick up trash every time we walked to town. We each carried our own trash bags and she made sure they were filled to the gills before we got home. If they weren’t, she’d send us back out until they were.

  She’d say, “Walnut Grove was gracious enough to let us have our home here. We need to do our part in keeping it clean.”

  “Curly here has opened up her own florist. Dean’s Florist.” Kim’s painted-on brows lifted. Her smile was lopsided as she held the vase of wildflowers close to her. “She gave me these to put in the shop to help advertise. Isn’t that nice of her, Trixie?”

  Trixie harrumphed and glared at Curly with one cocked brow, judgment dripping all over her face. “Bo Dean was the nicest man in this town and his corpse ain’t even cold.”

  “Now, Trixie.” Kim stepped in, the flowers smacking Trixie in the face. Trixie stepped back, spitting at the ground. “Curly has to keep making a living.”

  “Don’t you go around judging me, Trixie Turner.” Curly planted her fists on her hip and slowly slid her eyes toward me making me feel like I was sitting in the front pew again.

  I sat up straighter, elongating my entire five-foot-eight-inch frame. Was she referring to me about something? Gingerly, I tucked the edges of my short-sleeved button-up plaid shirt into my skinny jeans and ran my hands through my hair.

  “Ladies.” Kim used her free hand to push up the side of her frizz. “I think it’s wonderful you bought the Phone Store and I wish you nothing but luck. Isn’t that right, Trixie?”

  Trixie waved her hand dismissively at Kim and got back in the car.

  “Well?” Trixie eyed me like I could read her mind. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Bye.” I smiled the polite southern smile and got back in the car.

  I threw the gearshift in drive, turned left on Main Street and headed out to the country toward the old orphanage Trixie and I were fixing up as our home.

  Trixie stewed about Curly’s news. I was happy because it took the heat off of me.

  “I can’t believe she is out and about acting as though Bo meant nothing to her.” Trixie wasn’t good at hiding her disgust, nor did she try. “And if she don’t watch it, the Good Lord is going to take her from smoking all them cigarettes. Or take her for littering.” She turned to me. “Enough about them. Let’s get back to you and why you were really at the bank?”

  “I wanted to talk to Sally Bent about account options.” I kept my eyes forward and held the curve of the road out to our house.

  “Damn it, Laurel!” Trixie snapped. “I know you better than that. You are telling me a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie.” I gulped down the words. They felt like I was swallowing thistles. “Like I said, I’m not so sure we should keep that much money at the house. I know Ben Bassman has a lot of it and is in charge of the larger sums. But we have at least a hundred thousand under the floor board.”

  “What are you saying? Is someone trying to question you about how we are fixing up the house?” Trixie questioned me. “Do you think the aliens will find it?”

  “No, no, and no.” I let out a sigh. “There is no such thing as aliens. You have to stop watching the SyFy channel.”

  Technically, I wasn’t telling a full lie. If Willie Ray Bowman had broken out of jail and he was in Walnut Grove, he just might try to get money out of me and Trixie. Or even worse. . .keep us hostage.

  Chapter Four

  After dropping Trixie and Henrietta off and taking a quick look around the old orphanage and grounds for any intruders, mainly Willie Ray, I had to get to Jax’s office. If anyone could help me (on the down low), it would be him.

  “Something is going on in this town.” I bolted through Jax Jackson’s Private Investigation door. I held onto the strap of my black hobo bag strapped across my body with a death grip. It held the leather pouch of evidence I needed. “I mean big. . .”

  I stopped in my tracks when I noticed Jax had company. Gilbert.

  “Laurel, I believe you have met Eric.”

  “Eric?” I laughed. “You mean Gilbert?”

  “Gilbert?” Jax did some type of man high-five. “You old dog, you! Ha! Gilbert was the name of the last perp we had together.” He pointed to Gilbert…Eric, whatever. “Good one.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped.

  “Laurel, you are small potatoes compared to the criminals we dealt with in the agency.” Jax referred to his stint with the FBI.

  “This is. . .” Gilbert busted out, doubling over until he was practically crying. “Don’t tell me. . .you are the little felon who is helping Jax on a few cases?”

  “I’m out of here.” I threw my hands up in the air. I didn’t need this.

  “Wait!” Jax didn’t find it funny anymore. He stepped in between me and the door. “It’s all in good fun.” His head tilted to the side. His blue eyes dipped down. “Guy crap. Stay. You need to know why Riley is here.”
<
br />   “Eric, Gilbert, Riley. . .” I glared. “Which is it?”

  “Eric Riley, Federal Bureau of Investigations.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m here about a local boy who killed a federal agent during a bank robbery gone bad in Louisville a few years back. He’s escaped from Eddyville and we believe he will come back here to get someone to help him. He was an orphan in the local orphanage that shut down a few years ago.”

  My jaw dropped. I stood there for what seemed to be hours but was only mere seconds. Suddenly, I felt numb. My feelings were paralyzed. Jax Jackson knew I was an orphan too and so he knew I knew Willie Ray.

  Our eyes met. There was something unexplainable between us. It happened the first time we had met. Jax Jackson was hot. Slick black hair, hazel eyes and lean muscles hot. There was something deeper than his looks. He could read me like a book. There was chemistry between us. Something neither of us explored, but we loved to dance around it.

  “Willie Ray Bowman.” Jax held a file up in the air, dropped it, letting it smack on his desk. “Do you know him, Laurel?”

  His eyes told me to be vague.

  “He wasn’t around much.” I bit my lip. I took slow steady breaths. I could feel Eric watching my every move.

  Images I’ve spent years trying to bury about Willie and me, rushed back. My face burned at the recollection of how his hands glided over my body. A dull ache of desire hit my heart.

  “Really?” Eric asked. “Uh.” His eyes peered at me intently. He rubbed his chin. “Because aiding and abetting is also a crime.”

  “Eric, she told you she wasn’t friends with him.” Jax came to my defense.

  “No,” Eric shook his head. “Word for word she said he wasn’t around much. So?” He stood with his legs cop distance apart. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  I hated that stance. I hated the look on Eric’s face.

  “Well, Laurel? Do you know him?” Jax asked again.

  “I knew him, but I haven’t seen him.” I shrugged.

  “Knew him how?” Eric dug.

  “We were orphans.” Sarcasm dripped from my mouth. I gripped the strap of my hobo bag. Willie Ray was looking for me and he left his leather pouch as his calling card. “What can I say? He got in trouble. Find him.”

  “Don’t worry,” Eric warned. His face hardened. “We will find him and bring him and whoever has helped him to justice.”

  “Yeah, they are going to shoot the juice to him.” Jax did a little hip-hop in the air like the electric chair gave him the heebies.

  Normally I would think his shimmy-shake was cute, but not when it had to do with Willie Ray, nothing was cute. No matter how hard my feelings for Willie were, we had a history. The day he robbed the bank in Louisville and killed the officer trying to stop him, was the day he stole my soul.

  “You will let me know if you hear from your old pal?” Eric asked a question but it sounded more like a threat.

  “Of course she will.” Jax smiled. “She’s working with us on this one.” Jax picked up the file off his desk. He handed it to me. His hand lingered a little too long. Our fingers touched.

  I gulped.

  An even more terrifying feeling washed over me when I realized that if Willie did come to me, there was no way I’d be able to turn him in. Or tell Jax.

  “Hello?” Jax answered the ringing phone.

  I was wildly aware that Eric’s eyes weren’t leaving my face. I had to work hard not to make any facial expressions when I looked down at the file and saw Willie’s name printed on the tab. My mouth watered. My armpits dampened. I mustered up enough courage to open the file.

  Damn. Those big brown eyes looked good in his mug shot. He looked at the camera seductively, the way he used to look at me before he made love to me—I gave in every single time. His tattoo wrapped around the back of his neck was somewhat visible in the photo. I could almost see the last letters of my name.

  Images of my fingernail outlining his tattoo as his fingers outlined my curves made me light-headed.

  “Damn.” I gasped. How in the hell could he still have that effect on me?

  “What?” Eric stepped forward and asked.

  “Umm. . .” I gulped back the lump in my throat. I pointed to his list of misbehaviors he had accumulated while in the slammer. “His list of crimes keeps going.”

  “Yeah, we are dealing with a first-rate asshole and criminal.” Eric’s distaste for Willie Ray was apparent. “I’m going to find this motherfucker and I hope he tries to fight me.” He lifted up the edge of his shirt. There was a pistol attached to his belt. “I want to blow his brains out.” He laughed. “Save the taxpayers some money.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to muster up a fake smile, but it wasn’t happening.

  “That was Sharon Fasa.” Jax took a deep breath when he put the phone back on the receiver. “She said someone keeps stealing her homemade baked bread off her windowsill.” He had taken notes and was reading off his notepad. “She thought it was the birds at first so she lowered the window. Next time she put bread on the sill, someone had opened up the window and took it.”

  “Looks like someone is hungry.” A smirk crossed Eric’s lips. “I bet I can tell you who it is.”

  “Let’s go check it out.” Jax grabbed some equipment out of the closet. I could tell it was some surveillance cameras. “If he did it twice, he’ll do it again.”

  “You going?” Eric stopped shy of the door.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m going to work on who really knew him in town.”

  “Lock up!” Jax hollered behind his shoulder and Eric followed him.

  Once Eric was in Jax’s car, Jax said something to him and came back into his office.

  “Do you know this guy, Laurel?” Jax asked.

  I hesitated.

  “Listen.” He put his hand on my arm. “I won’t tell Eric if you do. I’m just warning you how dangerous Willie Ray Bowman is or has become. The big house makes evil men, more evil. I’m worried about you and Trixie living in the old orphanage. He might come there.”

  “Don’t worry about us.” I tapped my hobo bag. “I’ve got my pistol if I need to shoot him. But I knew him.” I trusted Jax. “Only a little though.”

  “Let me know if he comes around. The agency is especially wanting to get him back behind bars so he can serve his time after killing one of us,” Jax warned. “And you only knew him a little?” he asked again.

  “A little,” I lied.

  Jax left and jumped in his car.

  “A little too much,” I whispered. “Laurel London Bowman,” I sighed.

  I watched them get into the copper 1975 Buick Regal Jax had gotten from Derek Smitherman. It was an old unmarked police car and Jax loved it. He said he felt like Kojak.

  The tires squealed as he peeled out.

  “Willie Ray will see you coming from a mile away,” I said, watching the taillights blur in the distance. “He’s way smarter than you give him credit for. God help me.”

  All of the spy equipment he used on cheating husbands, parents paying him to spy on their teenagers, and whatever else he spied on was in the closet. I dug through the devices and picked a listening device I knew Jax wouldn’t miss. The dime-sized one was one he never used because he liked the ones so tiny, not even the naked eye could see it. Not me. This one was just fine. It was going under the bar top over at Lucky Strikes.

  “Tracker.” I ran my hand down the shelves of the closet until I reached a car tracker I could easily slap on Sally Bent’s car.

  If she wasn’t going to talk to me at the bank, I’d follow her and make her talk to me. Or if she was seeing Willie Ray, I’d find the sonofabitches.

  I wasn’t saying I wasn’t going to turn Willie Ray into the authorities; I was going to get my answers and I didn’t care by what means I had to get them. And I didn’t care who I had to go through. I’d kicked Sally Bent’s butt once; I could do it again.

  I tucked all my goodies in my hobo bag, locked the door and shut it be
hind me as I walked out.

  I didn’t peel out like Jax did, in fact, I walked across the street and darted down First Street. The only person I could talk to without getting arrested was Gia.

  The Cracked Egg was still packed when I rushed in the door. The bell jingled, everyone turned and looked. With my head down, I made my way back to the counter and took my spot next to the regulars, which were the old men of the community who came in day in, day out to catch up on the latest gossip.

  “Gia,” I called in a loud whisper to get her attention. She had stacked plates full of food ascending up her arm and held a pot of coffee in the other hand. “Gia,” I said a bit louder.

  “I hear ya!” she snapped. “Let me deliver the food and I’ll be back to give you a cup of coffee.”

  Not so patiently I drummed my fingers on the counter waiting on her to come back. I twisted my neck to see Gia finish placing the last stacked plate in front of a table of eight. When she was walking back, I turned, swiveled my stool forward to face the counter, and stuck my hand in the front flap of the hobo bag.

  “What’s up?” Gia planted her hip against the counter and flipped over the coffee cup.

  “This.” I slapped the tobacco pouch on the counter.

  She arched her plucked brows, causing her eyes to pop open and her lip to curl up in an “oh shit” way.

  I slid the pouch back under the counter and into my hobo bag. I propped myself up on my elbow and covered one side of my mouth.

  “This was in my car,” I whispered. “And the FBI guy in town.” My eyes grew. Gia nodded. “He is here because Willie has escaped from the Castle on the Cumberland.”

  “He what?” Gia stood before me stunned. Her long false eyelashes slowly opened and closed.

  Slowly I nodded my head.

  “Have you seen him?” She leaned way in, almost lying on the counter. The scent of her expensive store-bought perfume wafted over the smell of bacon. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “Oh my God, Laurel.”