by J. A. Jance
“My brother wouldn’t do this,” Liza said. “Guy has his own life. He wrote us off a long time ago.”
“He didn’t come to the funeral?”
“He didn’t have to. He was my mother’s stepson.”
“Where does he live these days?”
“In Bisbee, Arizona. I understand he’s the M.E. there.”
“Anyone else that you’re aware of who might have a murderous grudge against you or your mother or Olivia Dexter? When stuff like this happens, there’s usually a reason. I’d like to know if you have any idea about that—not only who but why.”
Sitting alone in the little interview room while Franklin went to get his evil-smelling cup of coffee, Liza had concluded that this had to be about the money. Maybe the money belonged to the people Jonathan Thurgard had warned her about. Somehow they had determined that Liza had the cash, and now they wanted it back. That must have been what they were searching for in her apartment, and they had murdered Olivia when she interrupted them, all of which made Liza glad that she’d been smart enough not to store the money in her apartment.
The sensible thing would have been for Liza to come clean right then and tell Detective Franklin the whole story, but she didn’t. She had grown up under Selma Machett’s thumb and lived by her rules for too many years. Some of Selma’s paranoid rants about the world being full of crooked cops had rubbed off on her daughter.
Liza had worked in the diner for almost a third of her life. When a jerk of a customer came in and hassled the waitresses, they always served him the worst possible coffee and then made fun of him behind his back when he wasn’t smart enough to send the bad coffee back. As Detective Franklin sat there, drinking his cup of swill, Liza Machett made up her mind. Anyone so dim as to drink that appalling excuse for coffee didn’t deserve to be trusted, not with Liza’s money and certainly not with her life. As a consequence, the answer she gave him now was the same one she had given him hours earlier.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, you’re a very attractive young woman,” he said, favoring her with a sly look. “Is it possible you have a disappointed boyfriend lurking in the background?”
Liza’s difficult childhood and worse adolescence had left her in a social vacuum. She could handle the easy banter that was tossed back and forth in the restaurant, but she had trust deficits that made romantic entanglements prohibitive. At twenty-nine, she didn’t like to think of herself as an old maid, but she suspected she was well on her way to that outcome.
“No boyfriends of any kind,” she said.
“Girlfriends then?” Franklin persisted. She caught the small smirk at the corners of his lips and understood what it meant. If Liza didn’t have boyfriends, he automatically assumed she was a lesbian.
“None of those, either,” she told him.
“If you can’t say who or why, how about what?” Franklin said. “They went through both your car and apartment in a way that indicates they were looking for something specific. Maybe they found it; maybe they didn’t. We won’t know for sure until you can get back inside to take an inventory of what’s missing. What occurs to me is that often when we encounter these kinds of unexplained break-ins, there may be some other agenda involved, like illicit drugs, for example, or the presence of drug-making paraphernalia. Is that a possibility here, Ms. Machett? Are you involved in the drug trade, or is it possible someone mistakenly believes you to be?”
Liza’s hackles came up. “I’m not involved with drugs. I don’t use them; I don’t sell them; I don’t manufacture them. I’m a law-abiding citizen without so much as a speeding ticket on my record. I didn’t burn down my house. I didn’t murder Olivia Dexter. I didn’t ransack my own apartment, so I’d like you to start treating me like a victim instead of a criminal. Now, if you’re not going to arrest me, I’m going to leave.”
She stood up, expecting Franklin to object and order her back in her chair. Instead, he didn’t move. “Where exactly are you going?” he asked. “You won’t be able to go home, at least not tonight, and probably not tomorrow, either.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Would you like me to give you a lift?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “Wherever I’m going, I’ll get there on my own.”
A telephone hung on the wall. Franklin reached over, lifted the receiver, and pressed in a code. After a moment, the lock on the door buzzed and the door itself swung open. Without another word, Liza stepped out into the hallway.
“Stay in touch,” Detective Franklin called after her.
She walked away from him without looking back. Halfway down the hall, she realized she’d made a mistake. She was still dressed in the clothing she’d worn to the funeral, including a pair of heels—low heels, but heels nonetheless. It was the middle of the night, she had no idea where she was going, she had no car, and her feet were killing her.
Out in the lobby, she was astonished to see the familiar figure of Candy Small, slumped and dozing in a chair next to the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bruce Schindler called and told me what had happened. I came right down. Are you all right?” He glanced as his watch. “What the hell have you been doing in there all this time?”
“Being interviewed by Detective Franklin. I’m supposedly the victim here, but if you ask me, he’s treating me more like a suspect.”
Candy shook his head. “Amos Franklin was a jerk when we were in fifth grade. Nothing has changed. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Since your place is tagged as a crime scene, I guess you’re coming home with me,” Candy answered.
“I could always stay at the Holiday Inn,” Liza suggested. It was only a halfhearted objection because she was too exhausted to make more of a fuss.
“No,” Candy said. “You’re staying in my spare room. You’ll need some different clothing and shoes and whatever else, but we can get those later today after the stores open up. Right now I’m taking you home. No arguments.”
His car was parked right outside in what, during the day, was a loading zone. Candy’s collection of waitresses swore he was the model for the Norwegian bachelor farmers that peopled Lake Wobegon on NPR’s Prairie Home Companion. Liza understood at once that he wasn’t making a pass at her; this was an offer of a safe place to spend the night, no strings attached.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he helped her into his car, a two-year-old Impala.
“You’re welcome.”
Candy climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Is this about the money?” he asked. “Is that what the bad guys were looking for in your apartment?”
She had told Candy about finding the money. He was, in fact, the only person she had told. It had come up in conversation when she had been trying to figure out how to organize repairing her mother’s house. At Candy’s suggestion, she had used one of the empty employee lockers off the restaurant’s kitchen to store the bulk of her cash. Since the place was open round the clock, that had seemed like a wise idea. Now she hoped that whoever had broken into her apartment hadn’t done the same thing at the restaurant.
“I think so,” she said.
“Did you tell Amos about the money?”
“No, I was afraid he’d figure out some way to confiscate whatever I have left. He’s already as good as accused me of committing fraud, suggesting that I burned down my own place just to collect the insurance money. Since I was at the funeral and couldn’t possibly have started the fire, he must think I hired someone to do it.”
“Why would you fix up the house and then burn it down?” Candy asked. “That makes no sense.”
“Not to me, either,” Liza said miserably.
They turned into the driveway of Candy’s 1950s-era bungalow and pulled inside a surprisingly spacious two-car garage, with a door that closed behind them. The house was only a few blocks from the restaurant. When the
weather was decent, Candy often walked back and forth to work. When the door finished closing, he came around to help Liza out of the passenger seat.
“Somebody I didn’t know came to the funeral today,” Liza said as they headed into the house. “His name is Jonathan Thurgard. He claimed that he knew my dad and he said something about watching out for people who never forgive and never forget. It sounded like he was trying to warn me about something or somebody.”
“What did he say exactly?” Candy asked.
“That he had known my dad back in the old days when they both drove bread trucks.”
Candy stopped in his tracks just inside the kitchen. “Your dad drove a bread truck?” he echoed.
“Evidently,” Liza said.
“Holy crap! Why didn’t I know about this before?” Candy demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sounded either surprisingly angry or surprisingly scared; Liza couldn’t tell which.
“How could I tell you something I didn’t know myself until this afternoon?”
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve gotta go.” Grabbing Liza’s upper arm in a surprisingly painful grip, he spun her around and propelled her back into the garage and toward the car.
“Ouch,” she whimpered. “That hurt. Let go of me.”
“I meant it to hurt,” he said.
“Why?” she demanded, more angry now than scared. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I gave you a set of bruises because you’re going to need them. They’re your ticket to ride.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
When they reached the car, instead of opening the front passenger door, he opened the rear one and shoved Liza inside.
“Lie down on the seat so no one can see you,” he ordered, “and don’t move.”
“I’m not lying down until you tell me what’s going on and where we’re going.”
“Don’t you watch the news?” Candy demanded. “Haven’t you been following that big racketeering trial going on in Boston?”
“Hello,” Liza said. “Are you kidding? In case you haven’t noticed, my mother just died. Between her being in the hospital and me rehabbing her house, I haven’t exactly been sitting around eating bonbons and watching the evening news. I know there’s been a big trial—some kind of old mobster guy—but I haven’t been paying attention.”
“It’s not just some old mobster,” Candy replied. “The mobster happens to be Johnny ‘Half-Moon’ Miller. His older brother, James, aka ‘Big Jim’ Miller was a stone-cold killer if ever there was one. Ditto for Half-Moon.”
“But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you, because if the Millers are after you, sweetheart, you are in deep trouble.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“And it’s a good thing, too. Now give me your cell phone.”
“Why? Don’t you have yours?”
He stood there with his hand outstretched, not taking no for an answer. Finally, she dug her phone out of her purse and handed it over. He immediately turned it off and removed the battery.
“Hey,” she objected. “What are you doing? I need that.”
In response, he stuffed the now-dead phone into his shirt pocket. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “Now, are you going to lie down or not?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want to live,” he said grimly. “If somebody’s watching my house, it’s close enough to time for me to go to work that they won’t think twice about my leaving for the restaurant at this hour.”
“What about me?”
“As far as they’re concerned, they’ll think you’re still here, which is exactly what we want.”
With no further objections, Liza did as she was told and lay down in the backseat. Slamming the back door, Candy hustled around to the front seat. Once in the driver’s seat, he opened the garage door, turned the key in the ignition, and then shifted into reverse. After waiting long enough for the garage door to close again, he tore out of his driveway and rocketed forward with the tires screeching on the pavement.
“So that’s where we’re going?” Liza asked. “The restaurant?”
“That’s right. First we’re going to collect your money, then we’re going to see a friend of mine and figure out a way to get you the hell out of town.”
“How come? What’s wrong?”
“The Millers spent decades ruling the roost as far as the Massachusetts drug trade was concerned. In the seventies and eighties they were able to operate practically out in the open, because they paid off everybody who needed to be paid off.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’re not paying attention,” Candy said irritably. “How do you suppose the Millers transported their drugs out to their various suppliers and brought the money back to Boston? How did they deliver the bribes that made it possible for them to stay in business? I’ll tell you how. They bought themselves a bakery, a working bakery, but the guys who drove bread trucks for them delivered a hell of a lot more than bread, and once Big Jim was gone, Half-Moon ran the business on his own.”
“You’re saying my dad was mixed up in all that?”
“Don’t be naive,” Candy admonished. “Of course he was mixed up in it. He took off, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did,” Liza conceded, “when I was just a baby. He ran off with another woman—a blonde.”
“I’m willing to bet that your father didn’t take off with any blonde,” Candy declared. “More likely, he took off with some of Big Jim’s money, and now some of Half-Moon’s associates are coming after you to get it back.”
“You think they’re watching us right now?” Liza asked.
“They’d be stupid not to. They’ll have someone watching the house and someone watching me.”
He pulled into what Liza guessed was his customary parking place behind the restaurant. Instead of getting out, however, he picked up Liza’s cell phone. Without turning it on, he held it to his ear, pretending to be talking on it when he was really talking to Liza. Realizing Candy was that sure they had been followed from his house, Liza felt a shiver of real fear pass through her body.
“What happens next?”
“They used bread trucks, so we’ll use a bread truck, too,” Candy said. “I’ll pull up next to the loading dock. Andrew McConnell should be here with the bread delivery in forty-five minutes. I’ll get your money out of the locker. Once Andrew shows up, I’ll give it to him. Then I’ll create a diversion. When that happens, get out of the car, climb into the back of Andrew’s truck, and stay there. He’ll know where to drop you off. All you have to do is follow instructions. Got it?”
“It sounds like you and Andrew have done this before,” Liza observed quietly.
“Yup,” Candy said. “Many times. You ever hear of the Underground Railroad?”
“Sure,” Liza said, “but that was back in the old days, during the Civil War, when they were smuggling slaves out of the South.”
“That was Underground Railroad 1.0,” Candy replied with a chuckle. “Welcome aboard 2.0. From now on, this is the story: you’re on the run from your bad-guy husband—the one who put those ugly bruises on your arm. I’m putting you in the care of some good folks who would be a lot less likely to help if they knew that the people who are after you are some of Half-Moon Miller’s old pals.”
“That’s how this works? I claim to be a victim of domestic violence?”
“That’s right. Make up a good story and stick to it like glue. Whatever you do, don’t get back in touch with me. Since you were with me earlier tonight, they’ll probably be watching me, too, same as they are right now. Got it?”
“Got it,” Liza replied, “but where do I go?”
“You must have someone. What about your brother? Where’s he?”
“In Arizona.”
“Go there, then,” Candy advised. “As I recall, your brother
was always a real smart guy. Have Guy help you figure out how to deal with this mess. Good luck, and for Pete’s sake, keep your head down.”
Pocketing her phone, Candy got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. For the next hour Liza stayed where she was, not daring to move and hardly daring to breathe. She heard the bread truck pull up beside her and then she waited some more, wondering what the diversion would be.
When it came, there was no mistaking it. Sirens sounded and lights flashed as a fire truck pulled up behind the Impala. Doors slammed open and shut as another emergency vehicle arrived on the scene. With amber and red lights pulsing behind her, Liza cautiously pushed open the door and scrambled outside. The bread truck was parked right next to her, and the driver’s door was wide open. Holding her breath, she clambered into the vehicle, made her way into the back, and sank down onto the floor.
For a long time after that, nothing happened. Much later she heard the grumble of engines as the emergency vehicles departed. Soon after that, Andrew McConnell—two eggs over hard, whole wheat toast, hot cocoa—came out of the restaurant and loaded a dolly into the back of the truck. Next to the dolly he set Liza’s roll-aboard suitcase, the one that held the money.
“Just settle in and stay put,” Andrew warned her. “You don’t get dropped off until close to the end of my route.”
CHAPTER 10
ON SATURDAY MORNING, WHEN THE PARADE OF GIRLS ON HORSEBACK charged through the gate and surged into the dusty rodeo arena at a full gallop, Denny squealed with excitement. “There she is,” he said, pointing. “There’s Jenny.”
Joanna saw at once that he was right—there was Jenny, bent low over Kiddo’s back, holding aloft a huge American flag that streamed out behind both horse and rider. The troop of girls circled the arena at a gallop several times before coming to a stop before the judge’s stand, where they stood stock-still while a recorded version of the “Star-Spangled Banner” blared over the loudspeakers.