Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Jerusha Jones

  I tossed back of slug of cold coffee and rose to refill my mug. A knock at the kitchen door diverted me, and I admitted Walt Neftali on a blast of frigid air.

  He paused in the doorway, and I grabbed his arm and urged him inside with a yank so I could close the door. My teeth were chattering.

  Walt just stood there, blinking his intense blue eyes, then thought to swipe the knit hat off his head. “Good morning,” he murmured.

  And I realized his consternation was prompted by the new addition to our domestic scene and almost laughed aloud. He must think the female population of Mayfield was multiplying rapidly and in secret. New women just kept popping up out of nowhere. At the going rate, it wouldn’t take long for those with two X chromosomes to outnumber the foster boys he served as guardian for.

  I pressed a mug of coffee into his hands and pointed him into a chair. “My mother-in-law, Loretta Sheldon,” I announced. “This is Walt — Mayfield’s caretaker and boys’ camp director.”

  Loretta plastered on a bright smile and offered a limp hand. Walt gave it the obligatory shake.

  “Actually, can we talk?” He leaned toward me with a low voice. When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “Privately?”

  This was new. Walt usually just says whatever he needs to and no more. I studied his pale face and sharp features and wondered how much time he’d spent outside in the past few days. His skin was dry with irritated pink patches under his red-gold stubble.

  I nodded and led the way through the door to the half flight of stairs that took us to the mansion’s great room, a sort of banquet/ballroom with a massive fireplace at one end and double doors that opened onto the front lawn. Also unheated except on special occasions. I wrapped my arms around myself and faced Walt.

  “Does she know?” Walt asked, concern edging his voice. Of course, he’d ask about Loretta’s peace of mind first.

  I nodded. “Most of it.”

  “She’s an alcoholic, right?”

  I nodded again. Common knowledge, at least in my small circle. And Loretta had been awfully up-front about it yesterday.

  Walt’s gaze drifted over to the big windows fronting the fairyland scene of ice-crusted grass and tree branches outside. “So separation is still important.”

  I squinted at him. It’s not like Walt to murmur cryptic comments.

  He took a deep breath. “I got a call from Jilly Mendez, the boys’ case worker. She has a few more.”

  “Boys?” I prodded.

  “Siblings, three of them. The Clayborne brothers. She could place the youngest with a family, but that would mean splitting them up.”

  “That can’t be good,” I whispered.

  The faintest smile flickered across Walt’s face. Now we were on the same wavelength. “Which is why she called. They want to stay together, but she has no other place to put them.”

  “But?” I asked when he was silent too long. What was it he didn’t want to tell me?

  “We’re maxed out in the bunkhouse, Nora, space-wise. I sure wouldn’t want a visit from the fire marshal right now. This is your place. I know we’re guests on your property—”

  “Nonsense,” I blurted. “It’s yours much more than it is mine. You were here first, and Skip wanted you here. Oh—” I stopped as the realization washed over me. “But you have to control who is in immediate proximity to the boys, given their backgrounds. Which means no recently-recovering alcoholics without a proven track record, former moonshiners, or women who are under FBI scrutiny sharing their living space.”

  Walt actually chuckled. “You’re not a problem — the boys love you and Clarice — but yeah. The camp is out in the boonies for a reason. Lots of fresh air and preferably an absence of negative influences and opportunities to get into trouble. Besides, you’re bringing home enough strays that you need the mansion.”

  I frowned at him. “Don’t change the subject. The Clayborne brothers — we can’t let them down.”

  Walt stuffed his hands in his pockets and found something far more interesting outside the windows again. “There is one other building on the property that has working water, sewer and electricity. It’s the one on the other edge of the clearing from the bunkhouse. You’ve seen it?”

  “It looks like a giant carriage house.”

  “That’s because it was, and then it was converted into a garage. The poor farm employed three mechanics to keep the farm equipment and vehicles running. They slept in a loft above the stalls. There’d be room for a lot of boys over there. We could even put in a kitchen and several showers. I could rotate which boys live in which building and give some of the older boys additional responsibility.”

  I was practically jumping up and down. “So we could take in even more than the Clayborne brothers?”

  Walt winced. “Money, Nora. It’s going to take a lot to make the garage habitable. You know the camp barely scrapes by each month as it is. Without your Christmas gifts of jeans and coats and boots for the boys, they’d be threadbare.”

  I stopped bouncing on my tiptoes and took a turn staring out the windows. “I have money, a sort of slush fund. Not sure exactly how much. I haven’t counted it. I mean, I know generally—” My voice tapered off as I reminded myself not to reveal all the sordid details.

  It was money laundering money — or rather money that hadn’t yet been laundered when I’d withdrawn it from Skip’s accounts. I’d given away most of it, but I’d filtered a small batch through several charities before it was driven across the Canadian border in an unmarked truck. Definitely ill-gotten gains. And while Walt could probably guess its shady origin, my source of funds wasn’t a subject I had divulged in depth, hoping to spare him guilt by association. And hoping to provide him immunity should the FBI decide to extend their suspicion and questioning. It was a point of silent contention between us.

  “Which you need to live on,” Walt said firmly.

  “I don’t have extravagant tastes.” I tried to convince him with a smile. “In fact, I have an itch for real estate development. I also have an old codger on the dole who needs to get off his duff, and a mother-in-law who has proclaimed she wants to help. We need a hefty dose of hard work — all of us. Please? We’re not skilled, but we could definitely do whatever demolition needs to be done before the remodeling can begin.”

  “So you’re telling me I just got the green light to start the project and a volunteer workforce?” Walt’s eyes lit up — looking for all the world like a little boy who’d just been handed a bucket full of water balloons on an August afternoon, dreaming of grandiose possibilities.

  I grinned back at him. “We can squeeze the Clayborne boys in, can’t we? As long as Jilly knows their proper accommodations are forthcoming?”

  oOo

  There is something terribly cathartic about ripping things apart with your bare — well, gloved, in my case — hands. Dwayne had perked up when I mentioned there would be sledgehammers, and he led our procession to the garage with our tools over our shoulders like the seven dwarfs going off to the mine, bellowing “Heigh-Ho” with only a hint of a limp.

  Since it was Saturday, we had an eager bunch of boys for company. We set about splintering flimsy partitions into rubble and hauling out the junk by the wheelbarrow load. Rusty parts from both the horse and motor eras, squirrel nests, owl pellets, leather and wood bellows, and one bat skeleton were found and examined thoroughly.

  There were cubbyholes all over the place. Maybe they’d been horse stalls, or maybe they’d been for storage, but nothing was well-built or in the correct dimensions for a dormitory. With the exception of the loft floor over our heads, the place had to be gutted. Walt set the boys to sorting debris into piles well away from the structure — burnable and non-burnable.

  I tired fast — surprisingly and embarrassingly fast. My shoulder throbbed where I’d been grazed by a bullet, and my calf ached. I’d thought I was healing well, but I had also been too lazy the past week or two. My stamina was slipping.

  A
thundering crash sounded from the mechanic’s bench running the length of the shorter east wall, and Dwayne leaned on his sledgehammer for a moment to swipe his forearm across his brow. He was faring better than I was, and he had decades on me.

  I gritted my teeth and hefted the handles of a wheelbarrow, prepared to trundle it out across the rough, frozen ground to the burn pile. But at the opening where the hangar-style rolling door had been pushed out of the way, I caught sight of Loretta out of the corner of my eye. She waved frantically from the base of the stairs to the loft.

  I gladly dropped the weight and trotted over to her. Loretta cast sneaky glances around and grabbed my hand. “Come on,” she hissed and tugged me up the stairs.

  Three bedsteads with painfully lumpy, thin mattresses were spaced evenly down the length of the loft, separated by short cupboards with drawers on one side and a door on the other. The room had the air of an abandoned barracks, stopping just shy of a jail. Dust swirled in the gray light filtering through the small, high windows, one per bed. Personal belongings had long since been removed, but the function of the space was clear. Apparently, mechanics didn’t rate much in the way of creature comforts.

  Emmie was sprawled on the last bed, trying to hold down the curling edges of some kind of mat with her arms and legs. My first thought was bedbugs, then I remembered that they would have died off long ago without the detritus of human occupants to feast on.

  Clarice leaned over the bed too, scowling, completely absorbed. Loretta led me down the narrow aisle.

  “What have you girls gotten into?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” Loretta dug her fingernails into my arm.

  I winced and wondered if extreme emotional swings and bizarre behavior were part of alcohol withdrawal and recovery. She looked a little unhinged.

  “What?” I asked again, even louder, unable to hide my impatience.

  Clarice pointed to the mat on the bed.

  Blocky blotches — flesh colored, white, black, a few brown roundish spots. I touched a corner. Thick paint on canvas. Crackles — either from age or from being rolled up too long.

  “She’s naked,” Emmie said.

  I blinked, swallowed, glanced at the little girl then back to the painting. That was news to me. “It’s a woman?” I croaked.

  Clarice emitted a muffled snort.

  “That’s her head and hair, and here’s her tummy. Her legs are crossed. She’s looking over her shoulder. That’s why her nose is big like that and you can only see one of her eyes.” Emmie spoke slowly and pointed out each part, as though she was instructing a beginner-level anatomy class.

  “Maybe one of the mechanics was taking a painting correspondence course, and he was practicing. He certainly wasn’t very good.” I tried hard to put a palatable spin on the concept of an abstract nude and was suddenly immensely glad none of the boys had made their way upstairs yet. “Are there any others?”

  “Several.” Loretta lifted a knee onto the counter of the tiny galley kitchen kitty-corner from the last bed. With a quick wriggle, she was standing, straddling the sink and reaching into the highest shelf of the overhead cabinet. “I was just checking the cupboards when I found them.” She drew three rolled tubes out of the narrow space one at a time and handed them down to me.

  I stood there, clutching the canvas scrolls to my chest. While they were a curiosity, to be sure, I didn’t want to risk finding out that the mechanic’s skill had improved by unrolling them in front of Emmie.

  Loretta hopped off the counter in a remarkably agile move. We adult women locked eyes over the top of Emmie’s head and came to an immediate and silent consensus.

  “I’ll take these back to the mansion,” I announced. Safe custody was paramount. I supposed there was a strong chance the boys would find a pinup calendar or two downstairs, and the odds were high it wouldn’t be their first time seeing such things, but in no way did I want to contribute to that kind of exploration.

  Clarice whipped the painting off the bed and deftly curled it back into a tidy roll. “There’s something else you should see.” She tipped her head toward the corner kitchen.

  Loretta scurried over and opened the cabinet door below the sink so I could peer inside. A smelly trash can. I wrinkled my nose.

  Then she pulled open the drawers and other doors in rapid succession. All the basics — silverware, a few cups and plates, a can opener, paring knives, a spatula, cans of soup and tuna, cracker boxes, tea bags.

  “Look at the labels,” Loretta whispered. “You know how packaging gets redesigned periodically? These look like what you can buy at any grocery store right now.”

  “And the garbage is fresh — relatively,” I murmured. “No other personal effects — clothes, sleeping bag?” I darted a quick glance at Clarice.

  She shook her head.

  “Could be some of the boys,” I ventured.

  “Walt would’ve known and put a stop to it — and made them clean up,” Clarice countered.

  “Dwayne?”

  “Too recent. Dwayne’s been eating us out of fridge and pantry for the past two weeks. He hasn’t had the mobility or the need to come cook up here by himself.”

  “Another squatter,” I sighed. “Probably not uncommon. At least it looks like he’s conscientious and neat. I’ll let Walt know, although now that we’re interrupting his hideout, our guest will probably move on. Could you pack his food in a box and set it near the door outside? He’s probably hungry, and I don’t want to take away what he most needs.”

  I made it out of the garage without garnering questions from any of the boys about the awkward bundle in my arms and set off on the trek to the mansion. It was crunchy and cold, and I didn’t have a free hand to wipe my dripping nose. I sniffed heartily and chuckled at a mixed flock of chickadees and juncos that fluttered ahead of me, keeping to the shrubby underbrush at the side of the rutted tracks and pecking at seed pods.

  A beat-up blue pickup was parked next to my new beat-up brown one — beat-up pickups being the ubiquitous form of transportation in May County. I grinned and picked up my pace — I knew the owner of this particular beat-up truck.

  Hank Gonzales slid out of the cab with a cell phone in his hand and a worried look on his face. “I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  My heart stopped beating for a terrible moment, and I nearly dropped the paintings.

  My phones.

  In all the excitement about the prospect of demolition, I’d left my array of phones in my tote bag in my bedroom. What if Skip’s kidnappers had finally called with a ransom demand?

  CHAPTER 5

  After a hurried scrambling and checking for messages — there were none, although my heart kept pounding at the possibility for several more minutes — I settled Hank at the kitchen table and put water on for coffee. We both needed the sustenance.

  I didn’t have to explain my frantic behavior to Hank. He knew all about my missing husband and the enemies I’d made in trying to sort out Skip’s affairs. He’d even been shot by a local mob hireling as a scare tactic — a message for both of us that hadn’t been terribly effective. I mean the bullet had nearly killed Hank, but I was stubborn and kept on prying anyway.

  Hank was looking better, less feeble, closer to his original vigor and wiry strength. The new gray hairs among his jet black ones were probably here to stay, but his skin had less of the ashy pallor he’d come home from the hospital with. More pink and tan, signs of the resilience of his heart in pumping his blood around.

  Tears sprang to my eyes, and I leaned into the counter, fussing with the coffee bean grinder until they dissipated. Hank had a beautiful wife, a darling daughter, and infant twin sons. And I’d almost caused an incredible tragedy in their family.

  “Your shipment came,” Hank said. “The one from Mumbai.”

  I almost chuckled at the way he said it — as if there were others. I’d had my fingers crossed for one shipment — and one shipment only — for over a month now.

  As it
happened, through the wonderful legal system that allowed married couples without prenuptial agreements to share the ownership of all combined assets, I owned a freight terminal, courtesy of Skip. Hank was running it with great skill and patience for his newbie boss.

  My shipment had arrived at the port of Seattle via ocean freighter, cozy in a consolidated cargo container until it cleared customs. Then Hank had arranged transport since my shipment, although small, was inordinately heavy, which required a truck line.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “On dock B-15, down at the end, by itself.”

  “Are the boxes marked?”

  “Crates,” Hank corrected. “Nope. They’re nicely generic. Paperwork’s in order, though.”

  “Safe?” I slid a full mug in front of Hank and sat down opposite him.

  Hank nodded. He knew what was in the crates. I’d had to tell him. “Shouldn’t leave them there too long though. Shipments move through the terminal quickly. Anything left sitting will draw attention. We don’t want one of the shift supervisors opening a crate out of curiosity, thinking he’s just doing his job.”

  “I have a place. Tomorrow?”

  Hank slurped, winced at the heat, and set his mug down. “How’s the suspension in your new truck?”

  I screwed up my face, and Hank laughed — a miraculous sound, all things considered. “Maybe it’ll ride better with that weight in the back.”

  oOo

  The shipment changed a lot of things. Especially the potential funding of the boys’ camp expansion. And now I had things to do — a rapidly growing urgent mental checklist. I was bursting to tell Walt about the windfall but knew I couldn’t. It was a small victory I’d have to enjoy privately.