The Bristol Trucking operation out on the west edge of Jupiter, Florida, was two acres of semi-trucks, their engines and assorted parts. There were large covered areas for truck maintenance and repair. Tractors and trailers, of varying remaining life expectancies were lined up along the side. A covered maintenance area was in front of a large two-story steel barn on the back lot.
Sandy parked with other cars behind the small office building, careful not to get her baby MX-5 close to any of the highway giants. She walked back to the maintenance area where one of the huge cabs was tilted forward and a man had his head immersed in the entrails.
“You have a driver named Cal Boyd here?” she said to his back.
Without raising his head from the dirty depths of the engine compartment, “If you know him, you’d better tell the kid to get his ass in here, or he’s out of a job.” Then he turned his head enough to see who was speaking. “Oh, you a friend of his?”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen him for a few days. Is he out on the road?”
“So he gave you some bullshit about being a truck driver? No way. He’ll never be a driver—too wild. A truck driver needs discipline. Mucho hours a week for not mucho pay. Not bad if you don’t mind living on a highway.”
“But he told me he went to driving school and that’s how he landed the job here.”
“He moves the rigs around the lot here. Parks them, brings them out, moves them around. We needed someone who could at least start them, drive them around the lot and back them up without injuring too many people. Mainly he washes trucks. Been here only about six months, and the word is he won’t be doing that much longer, if he doesn’t show back up soon.” The man straightened his back with a slight grimace and wiped his hands. “Now I’ve a question for you. How does a loser like him hook up with an uptown girl like you? I guess it’s not brains you’re looking for in a man.”
The uptown girl part of that sounded okay. She winked at him. “Hey, whatever makes your bacon sizzle.”
He shook his head. “See Myra inside. She’ll know where he is.”
“Myra’s the one who keeps track of everyone?”
“Well, she does a mighty good job of keeping track of him.” The man’s head disappeared back into the engine compartment.
So, Boyd wasn’t a truck driver. That’s why he was unhappy with his job here, as the woman at Nationwide Driving School had mentioned. Sandy left her car parked and walked around to the front entrance. Martin had just stopped and was starting to get out. She raised one hand signaling him to stay put.
There were two desks and a long unoccupied counter inside. Two young women sat at desks in front of computers. Behind them, beyond the row of filing cabinets, was an enclosed corner office with an open door. Sandy couldn’t see inside from her angle. She leaned over to the nearest woman. “Myra?”
The woman jerked her head toward the office. “You one of our accounts?”
“Looking for Cal Boyd.”
The woman moved over from her desk and stuck her head in the corner office. “Myra, some woman here asking about Cal...Myra?” She took a step in and then stepped back out. “Funny, she was just here.”
Sandy walked over beside the woman and glanced into the back office. There were two unoccupied desks. On either side of the back door was a row of windows; she could see the guy with his head in the engine and could see her parked car.
Sandy checked her watch. “Where’s she go for lunch?”
“Brown bags it.”
“I’ll phone her, you have her card?
The woman laughed. “We don’t use cards around here.”
“What’s her last name?”
“What’d you want Cal for?”
“Last name, please,” Sandy said sharply.
“Don’t be so touchy.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You the police or something?”
“I’ll do until someone better comes along.”
“Okay, Cramer...Myra Cramer.”
“She the manager?”
“Bookkeeper.
Sandy thanked her and hurried outside. Martin stepped out of his Lexus to greet her. She said, “Did a car just pull out of here?”
“Yes, came around the building in a hurry. A black Kia. Pretty nice.”
“Maybe Jane was driving.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, she ran.”
Chapter Sixteen
Martin was following Sandy from Bristol Trucking down Hibiscus Road in northern Palm Beach County, when she braked unexpectedly and pulled into the parking area of the Coral Bowling Center. She was already out of her MX-5 by the time he’d parked beside her. Her tablet was in her hand. “Lunch time, Martin.”
“I’m ready to eat something but what are we doing here?”
Inside she ignored the four lanes busy with midday league bowlers. The food service area was in the far corner with a long curved counter and booths along the wall. One woman, behind the counter, was taking care of the dozen or so people sitting on stools along the counter.
“Is this okay?” Sandy set her tablet on the table in a nearby booth. “Can you get me a black coffee?” She continued on to the restroom.
Martin sat for a couple of minutes before the server came over and took his order for two coffees. After Sandy came back and they were served, he said, “So tell me what you found out at that trucking place. What made you think it was Jane driving that Kia that sped out of there?”
“Okay, to start with, Boyd was working there, so we know that. The bookkeeper is a Myra Cramer. When I went in the office and asked for Boyd, she scrammed out the back door.”
“Why? Do you believe she’s Jane and she recognized you?”
“Don’t know.” She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “You want a sandwich or something?”
“Tell me again why we’re eating in a bowling alley.”
“Don’t look so bewildered. Of course, we could go to a fast food place and get some fat, sugar and salt, but when I’m in an unfamiliar locale, I look for a bowling alley. They always have wireless. In the days before cell phones, that’s what traveling salesmen would do in strange towns. Look for a bowling alley. They had your phone books and public phones. They had your restrooms. They had your cheap food. And they had a waitress who knew everything about the town, was off duty at seven and maybe wasn’t busy that night. Spread your papers out on the table and have a cup of coffee.”
“A home away from home,” he added.
“Might be better than home, if you throw in the waitress. Hey, you know a better place to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich that isn’t fried in this area? Why drive around looking for something? You see a bowling alley, you pull in.”
When the server came over to top off the coffee, Sandy asked, “What’s good today?”
“Everything. I just made fresh tuna salad. Hungry?”
“I am now. How about on toasted whole wheat?”
Martin also said okay to the sandwich.
After a sip of coffee, Sandy phoned Detective Jaworski and told him they’d located where Cal Boyd had worked at the time of his death.”
“That’s very nice, Sandy, and I realize you’re hunting down Jane and your money. However, I’m investigating his murder and you’re getting close to the line where I have to pull you off of this and send in a detective for an official investigation.”
“Not yet Eddy, please. You’re right I’m hunting for Jane. But she might have shot Boyd. If so, then the closer I get to Jane, the closer you are to solving Boyd’s murder. Give me another few days.”
“Okay, but I have to pretend I don’t know what you’re doing and might cut you off at any time. So watch my back, buddy.”
She told him about the bookkeeper freaking out and taking off at the sight of her. “Myra Cramer, you got anything on her?” She waited while he accessed the Florida Law Enforcement database. “Is she married? While I have you. What kind of car does she drive?”
“That’s another website
...hold on.” She could hear Jaworski busy at the keyboard. He said, “Oh, did anyone tell you, the FBI says the blindfold was torn from a brand new T-shirt. Soaked in your sweat—no other usable DNA. Here’s the info on Myra Cramer—”
She wrote down the information and then said, “Thanks, Eddy. Talk to you later.”
She hung up and turned to Martin. “That brand new Kia sedan is registered to Myra Cramer. Jane drove a dark colored SUV.”
He said, “What if she sold the SUV and bought the Kia she’s driving now?”
“Always a possibility. And switching would have the additional advantage of getting rid of the vehicle that might contain trace evidence of the abduction.”
“If Myra isn’t Jane, then why did she get spooked when she saw you?”
“Exactly. A mechanic out back made it sound as if Myra had a special interest in Boyd. If so, then maybe she took off because I asked for him.”
They started in on their sandwiches. Martin especially liked the accompanying pickle and a small scoop of potato salad. “You know I had this same lunch at The Four Seasons in Manhattan except they cut the sandwich into cute little triangles and added a sprig of parsley. It still tasted as though it came out of a vending machine. This is better.”
“Jaworski just told me Myra is married to Ryan Cramer,” she said. “They’re both clean—no priors. We don’t have their photos, but here’s their address. The husband has two commercial vehicles registered. So he’s in some kind of business. They might be as innocent as lambs. All we know is she hurried out when she saw me. Which do you want to go after?”
“If Myra somehow is Jane, then she’s already recognized you and just had a tremendous shock seeing you down here. You’d be in danger. She doesn’t know me. I’d better take her.”
“Be careful, Martin. Remember, we know Jane has a gun, and we’re guessing she shot Boyd.”
“Where do I start?”
“Go over and check out where they live. We don’t know if it’s a condo, a mansion or what. Take a look at the neighborhood. See if there’s a safe place to park for a stakeout. Such as a convenience store on the corner, or a park across the street. Definitely, don’t just park in front of someone’s house. You know that doesn’t work. We won’t do a stakeout unless necessary and entirely safe. Check for anything usual at their house but don’t drive around the block more than once.”
“All that won’t take long.”
“After that go back and stake out the Bristol trucking place. That’s a commercial area—you can park anywhere around there for hours with no problem. Let me know if her car’s back there at the office. And if she leaves follow her.”
“Meanwhile, you’re going to check out the husband?”
“We don’t know where he is. I’m going to sit here awhile. Now that we have a couple of names, I’ll do some Internet searches with my tablet. If I can’t find someplace to start, then I’ll have to follow him from his house tomorrow morning.”
“He may or may not be in on the crime with Myra,” Martin observed. “So, you be careful as well.” He rose to leave.
“I know. Keep in touch.”
She stayed sitting there typing, sifting through the usual garbage. After a few minutes, she found a business license issued to the husband, Ryan Cramer, a landscape design business—Garden of Eden.
Sandy found the business address on the Internet. She finished her coffee, folded up her tablet and papers, and headed out the door.
A twenty-minute drive north took her to the Garden of Eden landscape design office on Caloosahatchee Avenue between Palm Beach Gardens and Jupiter. Her phone rang as she was getting out of her car. Martin said, “I didn’t find out much, Sandy. Are you still at the bowling alley?”
“No, I located Ryan Cramer’s business and I’m there now.”
“I checked out the Cramer house,” he said. “I don’t know if she was home. The garage door was down, so I’m not certain if her Kia was in there. The neighborhood is a modest subdivision—winding streets, lots of trees. They have the best-looking lot on the block—beautiful shrubs and flowers. I didn’t want to ask the immediate next-door neighbor, but I spotted this woman working in her back yard three houses down. So, I stopped and we talked over the fence.”
“Sounds good...this story does have a happy ending, doesn’t it? You’re not phoning from jail?”
“Of course not. I told her I was a lawyer and there was a claim being made that concerned the Cramers. I wasn’t at liberty to discuss the details—she understood. Among other things, she said the Cramers had some new furniture delivered one day and new appliances the next. And, as we expected...they just bought that brand new Kia she drove. None of this is very useful is it?”
“No, it’s fine. It confirms some of our guesses. I’m going in and confront the husband now. Meanwhile, you go back to the trucking office and keep watching for her.”
“It seems the Cramers are spending other people’s money faster than a politician.”
“Let’s catch them while there’s still something left.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sandy’s GPS had led her to the office of Garden of Eden Design, the landscape design business of Ryan Cramer. His wife, Myra, the elusive Bristol Trucking bookkeeper was now high on Sandy’s suspicious list for no other reason other than she had run out when Sandy appeared and mentioned Cal Boyd. Did the husband know anything about what was going on with his wife?
An expertly lettered sign on the small office building announced: Our Designs Combine Nature & Culture. Two men were inside busily working. A forty-something man was at a desk in the corner office busy talking on the phone and a younger man sat working at a large drafting table with a computer at hand. Sandy walked over to the younger, “Ryan Cramer?”
The young man pointed a protractor at the man in the corner office. After talking another three minutes, the man hung up the phone and stepped to the office door to greet her.
“May I help you?” He was all smiles.
How should she start this conversation with him? She’d like to ask him what his wife was up to, but instead she said, “How’s the landscape design business these days?”
“We’re hanging in there. We do condo landscaping mainly, plus some smaller contracts. Many of the big commercial jobs we used to get, now do everything themselves with design software. Of course, they don’t get the result they’d have using us.”
“Of course not.” If she mentions something relating to Boyd, money, or extortion, will he start swinging, head out the door like Myra, or what? “Sorry, Mr. Cramer, I’m not a customer. The good news is I’m not a salesman either. Can you give me a minute?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She took out the printout of Boyd’s driver license Jaworski had sent her, handed it to the man and waited for a reaction.
He flinched and the color left his face when he examined the photo. He closed his eyes tightly. His reaction scared her for a second. He was boiling inside, she could tell, and she didn’t know what he was about to do physically. Nevertheless, he composed himself quickly. “We need to talk.”
They stepped into his office and she took the offered chair next to his desk. He appeared to be late forties. A pleasant face and a balding head. The sleeves of his open-collared shirt were rolled up. Too young for his shoulders to be stooped like that, perhaps shaped by years of leaning over a drafting board.
They sat and, after he caught his breath, he leaned forward confidentially. “Are you his wife?”
She thought that was a useful assumption; she’d go with it. Something was going on but she had no idea what. She put an unemotional expression on her face. “How do you know him?”
“I just knew this was going to get all messy.”
Let him assume she knew many ominous things—worth a try. “I know you’re involved.”
“I suppose I could have done more. Lord knows I tried to discourage her.” He sat back and slowly shook his head. “I should have had more backbone.” He look
ed away from her.
“Yes, you certainly should have.” Not a bad response she thought, considering she was still trying to make sense of it all.
“One night your husband actually slept in our house—on the couch. He brought Myra home late and she told him he could sleep on the couch. Did he tell you that? The three of us, my wife, her boyfriend and I were there in the house. Unbelievable? Maybe he actually slept with her. I was in the other bedroom, of course. Sorry, you don’t want to hear that.”
So there it was. An affair between this guy’s wife and Boyd. The bookkeeper was screwing around with one of the employees. No wonder she took off when Sandy showed up looking for him. Was that all there was to this? One thing was certain—the husband wasn’t talking about abduction or extortion. She felt sorry for him, but she wasn’t interested in hearing about his private soap opera—unless the two collaborators were also hooked up together in crime. Sandy knew Boyd was criminally involved, but what about Myra? Was she just something Boyd had on the side? Sandy needed to hear more, and she didn’t need to trick this guy into talking; he seemed quite willing to put it all out there.
He said, “I’m very sorry for all the anguish this must be causing you...what’s your name?
She hadn’t actually said she was Boyd’s wife although she hadn’t corrected his assumption, which was just as bad. Even so, she didn’t want to flat out lie. She answered, “Sandy Reid.”
“I see you’ve taken off your wedding band. You have to realize that I’m going through exactly what you’re going through, Mrs. Reid. First came denial...then the rage. Next came all the pain and humiliation. Am I right? Isn’t that the way it was? I suppose the images of them together are the most difficult. I don’t know how you get rid of those.”
She hoped all this emotional release was heading somewhere. It seemed unlikely this guy was personally involved in the kidnapping and extortion, but did he have any knowledge of it? “When did you first realize she was cheating on you?”
“Only suspicions at first, of course. I guess the same as you. One begins to notice little things. Happenings that you later realize were clues after you become conscious you’ve been humiliated. Looking back, I remember one of the first signs was—now this is going to seem silly. I seldom drive her car but that day I was taking it in for servicing. When I started it, this loud music blasted away. That rap crap. We’ve always been kind Soft Rock people. I pushed the radio button to change it—she’d set all the buttons to those stupid stations. I actually looked around, thinking for an instant I was in the wrong car. Within weeks, her hair had gone blonde with a complete change of style. Some wild frenzied look from the cute bangs she’d worn all her life.”
Alive After Friday (Sandy Reid Mystery Series) Page 9