Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Jerusha Jones

  Surprises? My whole life since Skip’s disappearance had been a series of surprises, most of them excruciatingly unpleasant. I didn’t see how the avoidance of surprises could possibly be an effective modus operandi. Yet another aspect the FBI and I differed upon.

  As I slowly prepared for bed and scrutinized my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I realized I was still rosy-cheeked, but not embarrassingly so. My damaged ankle had rebounded, and my limp was hardly noticeable—one of the side benefits of having lazed around yesterday receiving spa treatments.

  Sidonie had left me tubs and tubes and instructions. This cream, then that cream, another one before bed, Vaseline for my feet, a mousse that smelled like marshmallows to scrunch into my hair if I wanted more volume.

  I had the tools. I could only hope I also had the fortitude to pull off the role of stolen jewelry fence-slash-fun girl to hang out with.

  oOo

  The Gas-N-Guzzle Truck Stop was hard to miss. Mainly because the owners had positioned billboard-sized signs along the freeway every mile for three miles before the exit. Otherwise, the acres of parking lots filled with big rigs surrounding the low red-roofed building would have been a dead giveaway.

  Even in a full-sized pickup like Lentil, I felt tiny as I meandered around idling semis to find a parking spot. I had visions of being squashed like a bug on one of the massive front grilles.

  When I found a safe place to leave Lentil, I hopped out and began the trek to the restaurant. I was subjected to a couple catcalls and several not-so-subtly appraising howdies along the way. Good grief. You’d think they hadn’t seen a woman before.

  I was in my usual jeans, but I’d spiffed up with a cute pair of pointy-toed flats and a trim twill jacket topped by a flowered scarf. I’d emptied a soft-sided makeup case from my honeymoon luggage and used that to protect the bracelet in the bottom of my tote bag. I couldn’t very well pull stolen bling out of the padded envelope with my address scrawled on the side in Skip’s handwriting to show Angelica at the crucial moment.

  A throng of people all wearing the same style of bright green T-shirt blocked the entrance. Large people who were hugging and back slapping and shouting about how long it had been since they’d seen each other. I stood on the periphery, trying to get someone with a take-charge attitude to notice and part the sea for me.

  No such luck. When a grandmotherly sort almost trampled me, I got a good look at the writing on her shirt. Haddock-Blumsfeld-Purdue Family Reunion. Let the Good Times Roll. All the Os in the clan slogan were depicted as spinning truck wheels.

  I was going to be late if I didn’t get through the blockage. I didn’t want to give Matt even a hint of a reason to scrap this venture.

  Once again, my tote bag became useful—as a battering ram. Clarice is undoubtedly rubbing off on me. I held my bag stiff-armed at shoulder level and plowed through. I figured by the time anyone noticed the rude shove I’d given them and turned around to complain, they’d only see another long-lost family member in a green T-shirt and decide to respond with a hearty embrace instead.

  I burst into the relative calm of the restaurant. But not for long. The exuberant family was hard on my heels as though I’d started a green lemming riot.

  Per instructions, I scurried for the restroom—clearly marked in neon above a narrow opening in the back wall—without having a chance to scan the seated patrons for Matt’s dark blond military-trimmed head.

  A spray of a rather caustic orange-scented air freshener doused my entrance to the ladies’ room, and I blinked to clear the fumes. The door nearly whacked me on the backside as a tiny blonde bimbo barged in behind me. She slammed the door closed and flipped the lock.

  If this was the extent of the femininity those men in the parking lot usually cavorted with, then I could understand the looks they’d given me.

  “About time.” She narrowed a fierce glare at me.

  I blinked some more. “Violet?” I croaked.

  Her hair was teased out to Cyndi Lauper proportions from back in the singer’s heyday, and she was wearing an alarmingly low-necked blouse of clingy polyester knit and super tight jeans with strappy stiletto heels. Her toenails were fire engine red. I was absolutely sure the clothes had not come from her own designer label closet. I also thought she may have overdone her attempt to blend in with the natives just a bit. She was definitely casting off a borderline hooker vibe.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s changed her appearance,” Violet muttered.

  “This isn’t a vice sting,” I said. “Well, I guess it is—but not that kind of vice.”

  “Shut up and take off your shirt. I am certainly not enjoying this.”

  And she wasn’t. I could tell by her jerky, frustrated movements as she taped a wire to my skin and clipped a tiny, flesh-colored microphone to my right bra strap.

  “The scarf is a nice touch,” Violet admitted. “It’ll hide any bumps under your jacket. Where do you want this?” She held a small black box in her palm. “It’s the battery pack and transmitter.”

  “You’ll be listening?” I asked.

  “Not us. Matt and I will be eyes on you the whole time. But we’re in contact with a couple agents in the parking lot who are handling the recording. This is actually a pretty good meeting spot,” she added grudgingly, “provided that family reunion doesn’t get too rowdy. They’ve gone into a banquet room around the corner.”

  We decided the little black box could tuck into my waistband with the on/off switch positioned so I could flip it while pretending to scratch my side.

  “Turn it on about half an hour early. We don’t care about recording ambient noises, just as long as we get all of your conversation. The batteries will last four hours.” Violet tugged on the hem of my jacket and smoothed the wrinkles from my shoulders. “Make sure it’s comfortable. Move around. Stretch.”

  I complied, and now that the equipment had reached body temperature, it wasn’t too bad, just a little itchy.

  “Matt or I will signal you to let you know the recording’s working. After that, you’re on your own. She’s driving a Chrysler 300 rental from Enterprise, not that you’ll get a chance to see her arrive since the parking lot’s so crowded. You know what she looks like?”

  I nodded. Oh yeah. There was no doubt Angelica would make a splash when she entered the Gas-N-Guzzle.

  “Afterward, just let her go. We’ll be tailing her the whole way.” Violet clicked through the instructions as though she was reading them off a routine checklist in her head. “TSA at the Portland airport has been notified. We’re going to let them take the lead on this one, pull her aside for a comprehensive security scan. That’s when we’ll arrest her if you’ve gotten enough evidence on the recording. That’ll remove you from the equation in her mind and hopefully protect you from suspicion. Got it?”

  I nodded again. When the FBI got themselves in gear, there seemed a finality, an inevitability to their machinations. Done deal. Just play my part. Awfully nice to be on this side of things.

  “Go get her.” Violet thumped me on the back, giving me a glimpse of the inner toughness that must have been what prompted her to want to be an FBI agent in the first place. We should have stacked our hands in a pyramid and chanted the team hurrah.

  But we’d already tied up the ladies’ room for too long. I unlatched the door and sauntered out, trying to achieve a why-no-I-don’t-have-unusual-lumps-under-my-clothes nonchalance.

  I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror. I knew I didn’t look odd, but there’s something about having tape stuck to your belly that doesn’t let you forget you’re doing something you’ve never done before.

  CHAPTER 21

  Most of the men—and the customers were about ninety-five percent male—were giving their food their full attention. Heaping plates of omelets and hash browns and slabs of chicken-fried steak drowning in creamy gravy. My stomach rumbled.

  One fellow, though, had the audacity to smirk at me. I shuddered and then almost laughe
d out loud.

  It was Matt. Dressed to the nines in a John Deere baseball cap and flannel shirt unbuttoned over a grungy T-shirt and mud-crusted jeans. He was slouched in a booth, arms propped protectively around a half-eaten breakfast. Unlike Violet, he seemed to be relishing this opportunity to get out of the office.

  I skipped down to a curved corner booth that had just been vacated—where Matt could see me and I could see him. I figured we’d need a direct line of sight for the signals to come. A waitress materialized in an instant, wiped off the crumbs and coffee rings, and suggested the Heavy Hauler, a skillet hash of sausage, bacon, ham, scrambled eggs, cubed red potatoes, onions, and a few token spinach leaves. I took her up on the offer.

  And as soon as it arrived, I realized a meal of this magnitude would require some pacing. Good thing I had time and something to do while I waited.

  The coffee was also surprisingly delicious, and I had to regulate my intake of that as well so I wouldn’t need to dash off to the bathroom at an inconvenient juncture. I didn’t think I’d be able to readjust the wires and battery pack by myself afterward.

  I had to wave off several offers of pastries or coffee refills or “Shoot, whatever you want to eat, sweetheart” which supplemented the implicit offers of companionship from lonely truckers. Part of the problem was that I was occupying a huge booth all by myself. I probably looked a little forlorn sitting there surrounded by empty red vinyl cushions.

  Raucous laughter sounded at increasing intervals from the banquet room. I was at just the right angle to see that the Haddock-Blumsfeld-Purdue family had set up a projection system and were watching a slide show of old pictures. From the hoots and hollers, I guessed there was more than a little good-natured ribbing going on in there. Everyone I know photographs badly—except, perhaps, Angelica Temple.

  Matt knocked my table with his knuckles as he walked by. “Turn it on. She’s here,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  I choked on my coffee and fumbled at my waistband. Early. She was incredibly early.

  But then, so was I. What did that say about the both of us? Wanting to scope out the competition?

  I stacked three sugar packets into a little tepee and slid them to the edge of the table—the cue I’d prearranged with Angelica.

  Matt ambled back past my booth, dropped heavily onto his seat across from Violet and gave me a nod. All good. This was for real.

  My heartbeat skyrocketed. And my knees were jiggling under the table. Now? Really? I was getting a case of nerves now? So I did the only thing I could think of—I stuffed my mouth full of eggs and potatoes.

  I recognized her as soon as she stepped through the doorway—the long chestnut hair swept up into a perky ponytail, the deep blue eyes, the svelte figure which was surprisingly and appropriately adorned in jeans and a trim gray sweater with the collar and hem of a button-down shirt peeking out from underneath. Classy, not flashy, but she still took everyone’s breath away.

  Angelica didn’t hesitate. She strode over, slid into the booth and gracefully scooted around the curve until she was beside me. “Whew. For a second I was worried you were that blonde floozy over there—” she flicked her hand in Violet’s direction then leaned in until our shoulders were bumping and whispered, “Get a load of her outfit.”

  “Polyester,” I mumbled around the mouthful.

  Angelica let out a ringing laugh as if it was the funniest comment she’d ever heard, and all eyes that hadn’t been on us before were now.

  Angelica settled back comfortably and tucked her Coach satchel against her thigh. “Are you eating?” She asked as if it was a foreign concept.

  I swallowed and was finally able to give the impression that I was articulate. “Coffee’s good.” I waved to a waitress. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “No problem. I always like an excuse to get out of the city.” Angelica swished her ponytail over her shoulder. “But this is way, way out. Do you live around here?”

  I took a swig of coffee to give myself a second to come up with a suitable answer. “Just until I wrap up my grandmother’s estate. She was a bit reclusive, so I’m stuck here for a while—lawyers and stuff.” I twirled my fork on my plate to indicate just how annoying I found those fictitious lawyers to be and decided to plunge ahead. How much chatting would she be willing to indulge in?

  “You must have a lot of flexibility in your schedule if you can take off for a weekend on such short notice.” I buried my nose in the mug again, hoping Angelica would feel like unloading on a sympathetic listener.

  She shrugged and smiled politely as the waitress slid a full mug in front of her. “I run several businesses, but yes, I have lots of flexibility. It pays to be on top, you know.”

  Thanks to her old sugar daddy. But I plastered surprised astonishment on my face. “Several?” I gushed. “Wow. That’s exciting. Would I have heard of them?”

  She tittered and feigned modesty. “Probably not. You’re the wrong gender. I run a chain of men’s clothing stores which is really kind of a dud. You can imagine, I’m sure.” She pushed her fingertips against my arm and kept talking. “But the fun part is behind the scenes, in an entrepreneurial way. I’m sort of a—” she fluttered her fingers in the air, searching for the right word.

  I would have chosen fixer.

  But Angelica settled on “—organizer. See, I connect like-minded small business people for profitable joint ventures. And a small portion of the proceeds flows back to me as a commission.”

  She was good—very, very good. I could see why all those middle-aged, male business owners flocked around her when she appeared at chamber of commerce networking socials.

  With me, she was flirting around the edges, but I’d be willing to bet that when she got around to mentioning to viable partners that her connections resulted in illegal betting franchises accompanied by the logical extended function of loan sharking, they’d be so enamored that it would sound like a robust strategy for vertical integration. There was probably no need to mention leg-breaking and extortion right off the bat. Better to let them find out about those little details later. Franchising at its finest.

  “Is your boss nice? He must be thrilled to have you onboard.” I busied myself by impaling more potato cubes with my fork.

  Angelica snorted. It was ladylike and dainty but still a snort. “Yeah, well. He’s going to die pretty soon.”

  It was my turn to snort. And then I coughed up the piece of bacon I’d inhaled.

  “I mean he has to, right?” Angelica hurried on. “He’s ninety-one. He can’t last forever.” She must have seen my shocked expression. “But he’s sweet. He’s the reason I started my collection of Medellin jewelry. The first—a set of earrings—was a gift from him, and then I was just obsessed. Speaking of which, you’ve held out long enough.” She nudged me with a sly sidelong glance. “Let’s see the bracelet. I’m going to hyperventilate if I can’t hold its sparkly goodness in my own two hands.”

  She was everything I’d hoped she would be—glib, conspiratorial, talkative—but from then on out, I lost her. We had no chance to discuss the nitty-gritty of her life of crime because, at least to Angelica’s bedazzled eyes, the bracelet stole the show.

  She let out a little squeal when I extracted the bracelet from the makeup case and slid it over to her under the table.

  “I’m dying to know, but I’m not going to ask how you got this. Frankly, I don’t care,” she whispered.

  And then she counted the emeralds, checked all the fittings to make sure they were secure. She wasn’t so overwhelmed that she couldn’t verify she was getting a solid return on her investment. I watched in silence.

  Two women fascinated by something just under the lip of the table. I’m sure it looked awfully fishy. But by now we’d scared off any additional amorous advances, so at least we didn’t have to deal with inquisitive truckers too.

  Then she plunked her big Coach satchel on the table, pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and semi-hunched behind her
bag to inspect the gems. I flashed a look of disbelief at Matt and Violet, but they were studiously ignoring the shenanigans at our table.

  I mean, we were most definitely out in public, and here she was not very subtly examining a piece of jewelry we both knew was stolen. However, I doubted anyone else in the joint had ever seen a trinket worth so much money. At best, they would suspect the sparkles came from rhinestones, so maybe we were okay.

  Angelica found the 07 imprint and audibly sucked in her breath. “Gorgeous,” she whispered. “I want it. No question. I know we haven’t discussed the price yet, but I brought you a little bonus.” She slipped a bulging manila envelope out of her bag and pushed it across to me.

  I peeked inside and forgot to breathe.

  “Eighty-five,” Angelica whispered. “Since it’s off the books, I can’t quite offer you auction price, but it’s close. Agreeable?”

  She meant thousand—eighty-five thousand. That’s how big the wad of cash was. Funny how I’d learned these things, like how much space cash takes up, even if it’s in large denominations.

  For a fleeting second, I wanted to say no and see what her reaction would be. But she was right—she was offering a very generous payment. If I hadn’t had ulterior motives, it would have been to our mutual benefit to have both parties satisfied with the deal and to complete it as rapidly as possible. So I had to play along. I nodded.

  Angelica clasped the bracelet onto her wrist and slid it up under her shirtsleeve cuff. Then she opened her wallet, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table for her one cup of coffee, and scooted around to the edge of the seat. “Lovely meeting you,” she said. “Let me know if you ever come across anything similar.” She fluttered her fingers in a goodbye wave and breezed through the door.

  CHAPTER 22

  I sat there somewhat at a loss, realizing I hadn’t been coached on this part. But it was probably wise to clear out just as quickly as Angelica had. I left one of the hundred dollar bills from her envelope to pay for my meal. The waitress certainly deserved a generous tip for all the time I’d hogged a gigantic booth. And I figured if the bill was counterfeit or marked, then the FBI could clean up my mess. I was looking at all money as suspect these days.