In Plain Sight

by Lorena McCourtney

  Sgt. Yates stopped in the midst of reading Tammi her Miranda rights. He gave me a sharp lift of scarred eyebrow. “I heard about that … That was you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I suppose I should have guessed,” he said in a resigned tone that said Who else in Woodston would have a bomb planted in her car? He went back to Tammi’s Miranda rights. “Anything you do or say may be used against you—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Tammi snapped. “I want a lawyer. And my husband.”

  And by then I suspected Tammi didn’t think Sgt. Yates was such a sweetie after all.

  The ambulance arrived, and after a brief conference between Sgt. Yates and the medics, they brought in a stretcher. Tammi was still demanding a lawyer and her husband, but then another thought struck her. Her expression changed from anger to dismay. She struggled to a sitting position.

  “What about Baby? Baby can’t be left here all alone! He’s already confused—”

  “I’ll take care of Baby,” I said.

  Although she’d intended to kill me, I was apparently not unacceptable as a Babysitter. “He hasn’t had his supper yet.”

  “I’ll see that he gets it.”

  They loaded Tammi into the ambulance, which I suspected was a safety move to protect the sheriff’s department legally rather than the result of an urgent need for medical attention for Tammi. The second officer left to accompany the ambulance to the hospital. Sgt. Yates said he’d be along a little later.

  I watched the ambulance drive away. I wondered if the Big Brad would be reporting his wife’s arrest on tomorrow’s news. Sgt. Yates was conscientiously making notes in his little book. Finally he flipped it shut and looked up at me.

  “You seem to have had a busy day, Mrs. Malone. Car bomb this morning. Capture of a possible murderer this evening. Anything on tomorrow’s schedule that I should know about?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, ignoring the facetiousness of the question. “But I did talk to DeeAnn today. She and Mike will be moving back from Hawaii in a few days.”

  “That’s good to hear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better notify Brad Ridenour of the situation.”

  “Would it be okay if I wait here with Baby for a while? Skye should be getting home soon.”

  “Since from what you’ve said, Leslie Marcone was killed here, I’m afraid the house is now considered a crime scene. So you’ll have to wait outside—”

  “Baby and I can sit in the car.”

  “I’ll also need you to come into the office tomorrow and make a full statement.”

  I nodded. “Did you already know about Brad Ridenour’s relationship with Leslie Marcone?”

  He hesitated, then, sounding a bit grudging, said, “No, I hadn’t yet come across that information.” Even more grudgingly he added, “I suppose I should commend you for your excellent detective work.”

  I decided to ignore the unspoken But after this, Mrs. Malone, stay out of police business! and simply said, “Thank you.”

  Sgt. Yates reached for the cell phone on his belt, then turned back for a moment, eyebrows scrunched into a frown. “Oh, Mrs. Malone, there is one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “My father definitely wants to meet you.”

  34

  As it turned out, however, I never did meet Pa Yates. He came down with the shingles, and in the meantime I made new plans. And Brad Ridenour didn’t report his wife’s arrest on TV. Brad’s perfectly tousled hair and cleft chin were never seen on the local TV news show again.

  The initial announcement by his properly somber-looking coanchor was that he was on an “indefinite leave of absence,” no reason given, although listeners undoubtedly connected the “leave” with the news of Tammi Ridenour’s arrest for murder and the revelation of Brad’s relationship with the dead woman.

  I expected the Thunderbird might be held by the sheriff’s department for weeks, but in less than a week, while Sandy and I were still staying at the Shady Lane Motel, Sgt. Yates returned it to me. There were still some residues of fingerprint powder on the dashboard, but other than that it was in fine shape.

  But a week later, when Mike and DeeAnn were home, the Thunderbird was no longer mine. A different vehicle stood in front of the house now. A vehicle crammed with everything I’d brought to Woodston, plus a big supply of groceries and mystery books from Mike and DeeAnn, a carton of homemade pecan-mint brownies from Sandy and Skye, and a paw print on paper from Baby.

  We’d all just finished breakfast at the big dining room table. I crumpled my napkin and stood up.

  “That was a wonderful breakfast, DeeAnn. Thank you.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider,” DeeAnn said. Under her Hawaiian tan, she looked close to tears. I patted her hand.

  School was out now. Mike and DeeAnn were fully moved back from Hawaii. Skye and Baby were living here with them. Tammi was in custody in Fayetteville awaiting trial or, if her lawyer could manage it, a plea bargain. The fibers under Leslie’s fingernails had matched the carpet in the Ridenour house, and the animal hairs in her lungs had matched Baby’s.

  Skye’s mother had balked at Skye coming to New York to live, especially with Baby in tow. Brad Ridenour had slunk off to California, with assurances he’d send for Skye and Baby later. I had my doubts. I’m sure Skye did too. But she was seeing a counselor at church, and, with Mike and DeeAnn and Sandy’s help, seemed to be coping with the situation. Baby occasionally wandered around as if searching for Tammi, but mostly he seemed content.

  Now, we all went outside. A gorgeous June morning. Sunshine sparkling on the lake. Birds twittering in the trees. I have to admit I felt some apprehension about what I was doing. It was indeed a leap into the unknown. But exhilaration overrode the apprehension.

  I opened the door of the motor home. Hanson Watkins and I had traded vehicles a few days ago. I’d had to blink back sentimental tears when I relinquished the old ’bird, but I think we both figured we got the best of the deal. Hanson had ridden with me several times, showing me how everything worked and helping me get the feel of driving the bulky vehicle. As size goes, twenty-one feet is fairly small for a motor home, but it still felt like a lot of vehicle going down the road.

  “You don’t have to do this,” DeeAnn said. She clutched my hand as if she might physically try to hold me back. “We have no qualms about your staying here with us.”

  “I know. I appreciate that. But—”

  I hesitated, a little embarrassed about the “but.” It seemed ungrateful to say, “But I’m looking forward to this. I’m going to go places I’ve never been, see sights I’ve never seen, meet people I’ve never met!” Although, I have to admit, somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought that I might run in to someone I did know out there somewhere. Mac MacPherson would surely be back on the road again before long. So what I said was, “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll keep in touch?” Mike asked.

  “As much as I can.”

  I had no doubts about who had planted the dynamite under my car, but so far the authorities had not found anything to back up my belief. According to Sgt. Yates, they were investigating the Braxtons, but no arrests had been made. I doubted any arrests would be made. The Braxtons were too adept at covering their tracks. Dix, my police friend back in Missouri, had come up with the possibility that a Braxton niece who worked for the post office may have provided information about my whereabouts, which was an unpleasant reminder of what a wide net the Braxton clan could cast.

  I doubted the Braxtons would give up on their plans to make roadkill out of me just because their car bomb plot had failed. If I stayed here, the people I loved might be caught in the cross fire of the Braxtons’ vengeance over my sending one of their own to prison.

  I figure if I keep on the move, they can’t find me.

  “You’re just going to head off cross country?” Sandy asked. She sounded troubled. “No idea where you’re going?”

  “Not a clue,�
� I replied. I tried not to sound too cheerful about it.

  “But so many things could go wrong,” Skye said. “Flat tires and engine problems … all kinds of breakdowns! You could get really sick. Or lost on a strange, dark road in the middle of nowhere. Or—”

  She broke off when we all looked at her. “Okay, sometimes I’m a pessimist,” she muttered. “But to just take off by yourself, all alone …”

  “I’m never alone. The Lord has been with me all my life. He’ll be with me out there on the road too.”

  Skye smiled. “Yeah, I guess he will.” In the midst of all the upheaval in her life, Skye had been walking closer to the Lord these past days. She was learning about not being alone too. She gave me a hug and stepped back.

  There were more hugs all around, including a dignified paw and less dignified slurp from Baby. Then I climbed in the motor home. There was a new bicycle strapped on back, a going-away gift from all the family. I pulled the door shut and started the engine. I gave them all a big wave as I headed down the driveway.

  Out on the highway, I gave another good-bye.

  So long, Braxtons. Open road, here I come.

  Contact the author:

  Lorena McCourtney

  P.O. Box 773

  Merlin, OR 97532

  Visit the website at:

  www.lorenamccourtney.com

  Turn the page for a preview of the next Ivy Malone book.

  The pickup had been tailing me for at least the last thirty miles. I slowed. It slowed. I speeded up. It speeded up. We were as synchronized as the wiper blades swishing back and forth on my windshield.

  Not good.

  In the same jittery brain wave, I scoffed at my reaction. No reason to think this was a malevolent Braxton honing in on me like a heat-seeking missile programmed to the temperature of a little old lady in polyester pants. Probably just a cautious driver who didn’t want to take chances passing on a curvy, rain-slicked highway.

  “No need to get all sweaty-handed and jelly-kneed, right?”

  Koop, who never gets sweaty-handed or jelly-kneed, opened his one good eye and regarded me with mild interest. Koop is a stubby-tailed, one-eyed Manx with orange fur and a laid-back disposition. Except for an aversion to cigarette smokers, in whose presence he turns into Psycho Cat. We’d adopted each other at a rest area in Georgia.

  Now he surprised me by suddenly jerking alert. He hopped down from his usual spot on the passenger’s seat and prowled the length of the motor home, even jumping up on the sofa and peering out the window, stub of tail twitching. Do cats get vibes, like my old friend Magnolia from back home claims she does? Maybe hostile vibes from that pickup back there behind us?

  I peered into the motor home’s oversized mirror, trying to get a better look at the vehicle. It was a light-colored pickup, not new, not ancient, nothing threatening about it. But wasn’t that exactly the generic type of vehicle the Braxtons would choose if they were closing in on me? I couldn’t tell if the driver was man or woman, or even how many occupants the pickup had. Neither could I make out the license plate.

  “Okay, we’ll give them an invitation to pass, one they can’t refuse,” I told Koop.

  Ahead was a straight, tree-lined stretch of highway with a nice dotted line down the center. No other vehicles were in sight. I slowed to a crawl. An arthritic centipede could have passed us. But the pickup didn’t. It stayed behind, maintaining what was beginning to look like a calculated distance.

  My hands turned sweaty on the steering wheel. What did the driver have in mind? Forcing the motor home into a fatal crash on a hill or curve? Picking just the right spot for putting a bullet through a tire or window?

  Oh, c’mon. Wasn’t that a bit melodramatic? How could the Braxtons have found me? I hadn’t stayed more than a few days in any one place in the last couple of months. I’d contacted my niece, DeeAnn, and my friend Magnolia only by prepaid phone card. I never told anyone where I was heading next.

  I glanced at Koop again. Next thing I’d be suspecting he was wired for espionage, sending Cat-o-grams to the Braxtons with a high-tech tracking system implanted behind that scruffy orange ear.

  No matter how I tried to pooh-pooh my way out of my fears, however, the hard fact was that the Braxtons were out to get me. I’d been instrumental in convicting one of the brothers for murder. Drake Braxton, the leader of the clan, had vowed to turn me into roadkill. They’d already tried to burn my house back in Missouri, with me in it. When I hid out at my niece’s place in Arkansas, they’d tracked me down and planted dynamite in my old Thunderbird. Which was when I’d decided hitting the road would be a prudent plan, both for my safety and the safety of my niece and her family. Surely, I’d thought, they couldn’t find me if I kept on the move. A rolling motor home gathers no Braxtons.

  And I’d rolled steadily during the last few months. From Arkansas to Florida, up the eastern coast, now back inland to this wooded valley somewhere in Tennessee. I’d met wonderful people. I’d met strange people. I’d visited an eclectic variety of churches. I’d been encouraged by the love of the Lord I’d found in most of them. I’d been discouraged by internal squabbles in others. In some congregations I’d been no more visible than a dust mote hanging in the air; in others I’d been welcomed like a wonderful new friend. From other travelers I’d accumulated invitations to visit people all over the country. Never had I encountered anyone I even remotely suspected was stalking me.

  Which didn’t mean the Braxtons weren’t stalking me. And had found me. Because, at the moment, this isolated road seemed an ideal spot to commit exactly what they’d threatened: roadkill.

  What now, Lord?

  An immediate answer. A sign! No, not a lightning bolt from heaven. A road sign. Stanley, Population 42.

  “Hang on, Koop,” I muttered. Just beyond the sign I whipped the motor home hard to the right. At which time I was reminded that motor homes, even smaller ones like my twenty-one-footer, do not take kindly to abrupt changes of direction. It tilted like a vehicular Leaning Tower of Pisa and wobbled for a precarious moment before settling back on solid ground.

  My attention was elsewhere. I held my breath as I peered out the window. Would the pickup slither in behind me? Two guys with machine guns get out and close in on me? No. Without even slowing down, the pickup zoomed right on by.

  Oh, happy day! I let out my breath and wiped my sweaty hands on Koop’s fur when he jumped into my lap.

  Okay, I’d imagined hostile intentions where none existed. Making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. Or perhaps, in these days of computer-speak, making a gigabyte out of a kilobyte would be more correct. But isn’t it better to be on guard than sneaked up on?

  Now I had time to inspect Stanley, Tennessee, which appeared to consist of a lone gas-and-grocery and a few shabby houses on the far side of a field. Muddy water puddled the potholes around the gas pumps, a wet flag drooped overhead, and a gray mule peered over a nearby wooden fence. Posters advertising chewing tobacco, Campbell’s soups, and, incongruously, a cruise to the Bahamas covered most of the windows on the weather-beaten building. A man in old black work pants, khaki jacket, and a faded red cap ambled out the door.

  Given the price of gas and my limited finances, I’d intended to wait until I reached a discount station before gassing up, but the place looked as if it could use some business. I eased the motor home up to the pumps. The man peered up at me through heavy bifocals. Tufts of gray hair stuck out from under the cap that read “Voorhee’s Heavy Equipment—We’ll Dig for You!” I slid the window open.

  “Fill ’er up?”

  “Yes, please. Regular. I’ll have to unlock the gas cap.” I slipped on a jacket and opened the door. The rain had let up, and the air smelled fresh and woodsy, with just a hint of wet mule. I unlocked the gas cap, and he stuck the nozzle in. The gas gurgled. My motor home guzzles gas like Koop gleefully downing his favorite treat, a half can of tuna.

  “Nice rain,” I offered conversationally. I hadn’t talk
ed to anyone except Koop for two days. He’s sweet but not a big conversationalist.

  The man nodded.

  “Planning a cruise to the Bahamas?” I motioned toward the poster.

  He gave me a “what-planet-are-you-from?” look, and I felt properly chastised for my frivolousness. When the tank was full, he surprised me by climbing up to clean my bug-speckled windshield, an action I appreciated more than small talk anyway. I went inside to pay.

  A gray-haired woman with a perm tight enough to offer the bonus of an eyebrow lift took my money and rang it up on an old-fashioned cash register.

  “You folks travelin’?” she inquired as she peered between the posters at the motor home. Unlike the man outside, she sounded hungry for small talk.

  “Just seeing the countryside.” To divert attention from myself, which is what I usually try to do, I asked, “Is your town named for some special Stanley?”

  “Zeke Stanley. Story goes he was the slickest thief and card shark in three states. Could steal yer horse out from under you right while you was settin’ on it.”

  An impressive though questionable talent, but possibly one that would interest my friend Mac MacPherson, who wanders the country looking for little-known places and events to write about in his travel articles. I’d been thinking our paths might cross somewhere on the road, but so far that hadn’t happened.

  “Course, ol’ Zeke eventually got hung for his troubles. Used the same rope he’d just stole from a guy he was playin’ cards with to hang ’im, they did. Called poker justice, ain’t it?”

  I thought she probably meant poetic justice, but perhaps, in Zeke’s case, poker justice was appropriate. The door opened, and the man stuck his head inside.

  “Left front tire’s runnin’ low. I knocked on yer door, but I cain’t rouse nobody. Want me to air ’er up?”

  Even the woman looked surprised. Three whole sentences in a row.