Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5)

by Jerusha Jones

  These were all things I’d wanted to hear. I nodded. The way she phrased it, the business sounded very clean, very appealing. A not-to-miss deal.

  Judge Trane flipped the last few pages around and scritched the pen nib above the lines waiting for her signature. She tapped the pages into place and leaned back so Theo could reach over her shoulder and retrieve the stack from the table. He cradled it in his arms and slipped out of the room. I suspected that the court’s record-keeping system had been digitized to the point that it would accept and time-stamp new rulings whenever they were filed, thus rendering all hours of the day and night equally and properly legal. But the judge’s ruling probably wouldn’t be public until the next business day, which in reality was only a few hours away.

  Judge Trane rested her elbows on the chair arms and pressed her fingertips together into a peak. Although she was as composed and elegant as before, there were deeper shadows under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks, less make-up. She looked older, tired, but somehow—almost surreptitiously—elated. Perhaps it was the way her eyes shone.

  “Unofficially, thank you for leaving the ten million as a cushion and not siphoning that off along with the rest,” she said quietly. “You definitely made my job easier by doing that. However, I don’t know if I should offer my condolences that you have not yet needed to pay that ten million as a ransom for your husband or not. Just know I empathize with your plight. Also, I admire your grit. Go get ‘em. You have two weeks to solicit a reasonable offer.”

  It was as close to a pep talk as I was ever going to get from a woman who had probably been the most ruthless player on her college lacrosse team. There was steel in that spine—and in those eyes.

  “Thanks for making this a priority,” I said, rising.

  She nodded. “Theo will see you out.”

  oOo

  The rest of the night was a blur. The town car driver was amazing—a retired Formula 1 driver or something, because he got me to the airport twenty minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart.

  Josh promised to keep me updated on developments with Ebersole and Zimmermann, and I promised to pass his love on to Tarq. I’d forgotten that Josh had stayed with Loretta and Tarq for a few days during the planning for the Lutsenko shakedown. I’d have been willing to bet they’d had some fascinating late-night conversations—definitely the kind of experiences people bond over.

  I snatched my boarding pass from a self-service kiosk in the nearly deserted ticketing hall then ran for the security checkpoint. There were a few travelers straggling along inside the serpentine lanes roped off in front of the walk-through metal detectors. But the handful of TSA agents still on duty were equally lethargic and waved each person on through with neither friendly smiles nor any hints of additional interest in the contents of anyone’s luggage.

  I grabbed my bag off the conveyor belt and made it to the gate in time to queue behind a young man with ratty facial hair and mandala tattoos on his calves. He was digging through his backpack for his boarding pass. The gate agent stood beside the open door to the ramp, staring into the middle distance, her hand out, waiting, and a wooden smile pinned on her face. She looked like a mannequin that had been propped on its feet for eight hours straight. The young man dropped his backpack to the floor and rustled through the pockets of his cargo shorts. Eventually, both he and I successfully presented our proofs of purchase, and the agent slammed the door behind us.

  San Jose must not be a popular weekend destination for the Portland crowd. The plane was maybe thirty percent full. I passed my assigned seat and headed toward the back where I found an empty row that I could lay claim to. I wouldn’t be sleeping, but it was preferable not to have to speak to anyone. The pretense of amiability just wasn’t on my agenda.

  Takeoff, beverage service, fidget, stare out the window at black nothingness, stretch my legs this way and that way, redirect the air nozzle overhead, fidget, touchdown, wait on a cold bench in Area 7 for the shuttle to the parking lot—all traps of dreary monotony, almost a repeating loop of slogging through ineffectual motions.

  But finally I was in Lentil, nosing her onto I-205 north, and I could control the speed of my progress. I punched the speaker button on my phone and set it on the seat beside me while it rang. Lentil’s windshield wipers squeaked across the glass like a metronome, swiping impermanent streaks through the drizzle.

  “Where are you?” Clarice growled.

  “Leaving Portland. I’ll be there in two hours, tops.”

  “Go straight to the hospital. Don’t stop at Mayfield.”

  I tightened my hands on the steering wheel until they ached. I desperately needed something solid to hang on to.

  “Walt just left to go there too,” Clarice carried on, filling the void. “I’m keeping an eye on the boys and Emmie here at the bunkhouse—they’re all in bed. She knows she won’t see Tarq again. It’s—um—we haven’t really talked about it. She’s gone back to being super quiet the past couple days. I think she’s saving up her questions for you.” Clarice’s voice broke. My eminently practical, knowledgeable, tough, and crusty assistant was sniffling into the phone.

  How could a person ever get to the point where they felt proficient at dealing with death? No matter the pervasive ache I might have to endure, I never wanted that kind of detachment.

  The speedometer needle was touching 80 mph, and I flicked a glance into the rearview mirror and lightened my pressure on the gas pedal. “Will you keep me company?” I finally asked. “Now? On the phone?”

  “Yeah,” Clarice murmured. “I’d like that.”

  But we didn’t talk as I sped through the night.

  oOo

  Loretta was sitting in a chair by Tarq’s bed, knitting furiously, a pile of wool on her lap. Walt was slouched sideways on a worn love seat which was pressed against the far wall beneath the window. It was of the industrial type of furniture that has very little padding under the rough upholstery and is designed to show hospitable intentions but which no one actually expects to have to use.

  Tarq was a shell between two sheets. Papery-thin, sallow skin and prominent bones, his eyelids dark and hollow over his sunken eyes. It would have taken better eyesight than mine to perceive if his chest was rising and falling. His equipment setup was simple—an IV shunted into one arm and a cannula looped over his ears and into his nostrils, delivering oxygen.

  Walt immediately unfolded and pushed to standing when he saw me, and I walked straight into his arms. “He’s been asking for you,” he murmured into my hair.

  “When was the last time he spoke?”

  From the tension in Walt’s muscles, I could tell he didn’t want to tell me. “A couple hours ago.”

  There was a shuffle and squeak on the linoleum behind me, and then Loretta’s thin arms wrapped around me too. It was a pile-on embrace, and never had that smothered feeling been so needed. I worked an arm around her waist and pulled her in tight.

  “You just missed Des,” she said softly. “He went to get coffee. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “You need a break too. Is there a place where you can sleep?” I asked. “When Hank was here, the staff brought in a cot for Sidonie.” I pushed her back far enough to get a good look at her face.

  But her colorless lips were in that thin stubborn line I’ve learned to respect. “Later—after. But you can sit with him for a while.” She gave me a little shove toward the chair she’d just vacated.

  I slid onto the warm seat and picked up Tarq’s hand. It was nearly weightless, and even though his fingers were long, they appeared almost feminine since they were so slender. Wrinkles bunched at his knuckles. His nails were clean and cut close to the quick. Dry, with an abstract quality—Tarq’s hand sandwiched between my own seemed as though it belonged to a different man. A man who could and should keep on living for another couple decades.

  Des came in and quietly handed around paper cups of coffee. He offered me his, but I waved it off. He needed the caffei
ne as much or more than I did.

  Time crashed. I’d been in a mad rush since Loretta’s first call, and now it felt as though I’d slammed into something muffled and deep, like I was bottoming out on a trampoline without being sprung back into the air.

  I must have dozed. Because I flinched, abruptly regaining consciousness, canted stiffly against the edge of Tarq’s bed. My head jerked up, and I found Tarq’s dark, glittering eyes staring at me.

  A small, startled sound burst out of my throat, and I squeezed his hand. His dry, cracked lips opened, tried to form words. I leaned over him and stroked his cheek.

  “Nora.” It came out like a rattle, a rough pulse of the small amount of air remaining in his lungs.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Did…you…do it?” So much effort in those short, faint words.

  I nodded, blinded by tears. “To the best of my ability. And a surprise—I got a favorable ruling from the bankruptcy judge. Now we’re waiting.”

  “Waiting,” Tarq agreed. His gaze moved past me for a moment before his eyelids slid closed. His fingers curled around mine.

  And I knew he wasn’t waiting for me anymore. He had only one thing left to wait for, and it was coming very, very soon.

  There was a blurred dimness to everything. Loretta swapped places with me, and I slumped against Walt’s shoulder on the love seat. Des eschewed sitting altogether and leaned against walls and doorjambs, moving stealthily on the periphery, offering everything he could for our comfort. Nurses stole in and out on their quiet, rubber-soled shoes, checked equipment, and touched Tarq, feeling the slow fade of his vital signs.

  I don’t know how much time passed. Hours, maybe. A day? It was no longer relevant. My senses narrowed down to registering only essentials—Walt’s steady warmth and deep breathing beside me and the click of Loretta’s knitting needles.

  Then Walt shifted. “He’s gone,” he murmured.

  I straightened and stared at him, confused, irrationally trying to put his words into a different context.

  Quickly, but very gently, he pulled me onto his lap. He looked stricken, the pallor of his face stark against the dull background of the room. Walt had his arms locked around me as though he was worried I might, in reaction to the news, do myself harm. Indeed, along with the meaning of his words a surge of frantic energy flashed through me. But it was gone just as fast, and I went limp and buried jerky sobs in Walt’s shirt.

  A nurse came in and spoke quietly with Loretta. Loretta clung to Tarq’s hand for a moment, then tenderly straightened his arm and stroked his fingers until they relaxed at his side. Together, she and the nurse leaned over the bed and neatly tucked the sheets around his body.

  Tarq was no longer waiting.

  CHAPTER 19

  We carried on, did the things that had to be done. Certainly not with enthusiasm, and I think in many cases just to prove to ourselves that we, the living, did still have blood flowing through our veins. Because, sometimes, when sitting numbly by myself, I wondered about that. Those clichés about the death of a loved one leaving a hole in your heart, or a gap in your life, as though a part of you is missing—they’re clichés for a reason. The sensation is very, very real.

  Loretta came home from the hospital with me, Walt following closely in his pickup. Our mini-caravan pulled up outside the bunkhouse, and we were greeted by a long line of intensely solemn boys along with Clarice and Emmie.

  Walt stepped back into the day-to-day routine of school, meals, and chores with the boys. I wanted the same thing for Emmie, making sure she resumed her studies, giving her time to process and figure out what questions she needed to ask. I hoped it would provide some semblance of normalcy when she found out that adults really don’t have any more answers about these things than children do.

  Des said he’d keep an eye on the cabin, secure Tarq’s leftover painkillers, pack Loretta’s few things and ferry them to her at Mayfield. She’d been living out of a suitcase for the duration of her stay with Tarq, so it wasn’t too daunting of a task for Des. It also spared her from having to face the empty cabin just yet.

  Instead, Loretta shouldered most of the responsibility for planning Tarq’s memorial service. She insisted upon it. Clarice and I helped her some, but she seemed to have a very efficient network within the Alcoholics Anonymous group and the First Presbyterian Church where the group met.

  We were inundated with food. Judging by the number of casserole dishes stacked on the kitchen counters, it seemed every woman and a few of the men in May County had prepared something. Etherea provided a food consolidation and shuttle service for those who weren’t able to drive all the way out to Mayfield to deliver their dishes themselves. She also helped Clarice label all the untagged pans and bowls and platters and pie safes so they could be returned to their rightful owners later. There seemed to be a strict protocol about this process.

  We funneled the food on to Walt and the boys because there was no way we could consume it all. I caught Clarice more than once, when she had to rearrange the oversupply in the kitchen yet again, muttering about wishing the old room-size icebox in the basement, which was connected by dumbwaiter to the kitchen, still worked.

  It wouldn’t be fair to say I’d forgotten about all the turmoil in San Francisco, but it took a call from Josh to bring it back to a place of prominence in my mind.

  “How’re you holding up?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Josh was quiet for a long minute. I appreciated that he didn’t offer platitudes. “I’ve heard rumors,” he finally said.

  “The juicy kind?”

  He chuckled. “Depends on which side you’re on. Zimmermann’s store was raided—very quietly, which is always a bit of a challenge for the FBI, but they pulled it off—the day after our visit to him. They missed him but got the records he’d left behind. Given what we know about the incinerator party, it couldn’t have been much. It seems Zimmermann had had a lucky premonition and took himself off to his vacation house in Carmel just before they arrived. However, on Monday morning, Zimmermann’s lawyer contacted the FBI and suggested that Zimmermann would be willing to turn himself in, with certain provisos. He’s now in federal custody.”

  Josh had hardly taken a breath, the information rolling out in logical progression with a disciplined meter to his cadence. I headed up the stairs toward my attic think tank, under the suspicion that I may need to take notes before this conversation was finished.

  Josh laughed softly at himself. “Those aren’t the rumors. Those are facts,” he said. “I forget that I don’t have to report to a supervisor anymore, don’t have to build case files. Old habits.”

  “Die hard,” I replied. “For which I’m very grateful. If I remember correctly, your habits have saved my bacon a time or two. So has Zimmermann talked?”

  “That’s the rumor. Everyone knows the old man is angling for the lightest sentence possible. Of course, I don’t know exactly what he’s saying, and he might wait to say anything until we see if Ochoa will take the bait. But I like the direction this seems to be heading.”

  “Me too,” I huffed, breathless from my climb. Dust bunnies swirled around my feet as I walked down the third story’s central hallway.

  “Better yet, one of Lutsenko’s lawyers has been to visit Zimmermann in jail,” Josh added.

  “Confirmed?” I clicked on the lamp on my rickety desk and looked around the room at the sloped ceiling and three dormer windows. Familiar territory—nothing had changed up here.

  “By a guy I know whose cousin is a custody officer at the jail. So that’s the rumor part. I can’t check the visitor logs myself, and there’s a chance the visit was off the books anyway, if it did occur.”

  “Right. It would be better for all of us if he was able to convince the powers that be to keep it quiet. What’s your read on the attitude toward this mess at your old FBI office?”

  “Surly. They’re mad that they missed Zimmermann in the raid and blame that on our
interference. But Matt has your back. You’re his case, and they know to keep away from you because of Judge Trane’s warning.”

  “But they could still screw it up.”

  “About a million things could still screw this up.”

  As usual, Josh was right.

  oOo

  Through the generosity of several close neighbors, we had enough vehicles and drivers to allow all the boys to attend Tarq’s memorial service at the First Presbyterian Church on Friday. Even though our procession lacked the number of seat belts that would have matched the number of passengers, every available seat belt was indeed fastened around somebody’s middle.

  Bodie was driving my pickup, and he had four other boys jammed onto the seat beside him. Walt had a similar load in his pickup. Hank and Sidonie brought both of their vehicles and packed them full as well. Bob and Etherea Titus stuffed their Scout to the gills with boys. The convoy could easily have had a carnival vibe except for the somber nature of our excursion.

  I rode with Clarice, holding Emmie on my lap while the three Clayborne boys occupied the backseat. Behind them, Eli and Mason sat crunched in the station wagon’s cargo area, their knees hinged under their chins.

  So as we pulled into the church’s parking lot and I remembered that I needed to apply the common courtesy of turning off my phone’s ringer for the duration of the memorial service, Emmie and I had to make a combined grappling effort to reach it in my tote bag which was wedged at my feet.

  Phones had been my oxygen supply for the past few months, and I was accustomed to being tethered to several. But I was only carrying one now, and this one was unusual.