Clean Getaway (Squeaky Clean Mysteries Book 13)

by Christy Barritt

  “I understand.”

  Her gaze met mine again. “Keep looking—if you’re okay with the danger you seem to be in since you arrived. But if you want out, I totally understand that too.”

  “Okay. I’m not ready to give up. We’re getting closer.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.”

  I started to step away but stopped. “You’re happy with Jarrod?”

  She paused before nodding. “I am. He’s a good guy.”

  “Do your aunt and uncle know you’re dating?”

  Her face pinched. She looked down, her hair falling into her face. “No, they don’t. I know they won’t approve. He usually comes over to Norfolk to see me. I decided to come home this weekend. I thought I’d check on things. I had no idea you’d be here at the house.”

  “Your uncle kindly asked us to stay with him since we can’t stay in the rental house anymore.”

  “He’s a kind man. He took me in, didn’t he?”

  I nodded. “Will you be around the whole weekend?”

  She nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Great. I look forward to chatting with you more then.”

  Time was ticking away. I was meeting opposition and apathy at every turn.

  But Gabby Thomas didn’t give up. Not on her life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I needed to figure out where to go next. I’d explored a lot of possibilities so far, but not really Emilio Perez. He was a long shot, but that wouldn’t deter me. He was a possibility worth exploring.

  I had just the opportunity to ask some questions the next morning as I was sitting downstairs and sipping some coffee. Everyone was still sleeping, and the house seemed especially quiet and peaceful.

  Carol padded downstairs, already dressed for the day. The woman could make anything look stylish. She was wearing black stretch pants and a blue T-shirt with a tank top underneath.

  “Good morning, Gabby,” she called.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Nice to see another morning person.”

  I wasn’t usually a morning person, but with my recent work schedule, I’d learned to be one in order to survive.

  “Most people waste the best part of the day.” She nodded toward the bay outside. “Why would anyone want to miss that?”

  I smiled. “Agreed.”

  She grabbed a cup of tea and joined me at the breakfast nook overlooking the bay. I couldn’t wait to dive into my questions.

  After making general talk for a few minutes, I changed the subject from the weather back to the case.

  I broke off a piece of a scone she’d prepared and left on the table for us. It was delicious, and my stomach seemed to be handling it okay. “Carol, do you know anything about Emilio Perez?”

  “The migrant worker who had Margie’s purse?”

  I nodded. “Yes, he’s the one.”

  “Last I heard, he left town and no one could find him.”

  “Right, but were there any rumors about him?” I took another bite of my scone, and the pastry melted in my mouth.

  “Oh, there were all kinds of rumors. Rumors that he was a traveling serial killer. Rumors that he’d escaped Mexico after murdering someone there and disguised himself as a migrant worker. Rumors that he needed cash to get out of town and somehow he’d seen Margie with the money, followed her, and killed them both so he could get his freedom.”

  Wow. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. “But I guess there wasn’t any fact to back up any of those claims?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  I licked my lips. “Carol, do you remember whom Emilio worked for?”

  “You mean, which farmer?”

  I nodded.

  “I believe he worked for Frank McMillian.”

  Another name. Score!

  “Is Frank still in the area?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.”

  I studied her pensive face a moment. There seemed to be something on her mind that she wasn’t saying, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it was. I decided to go with my first guess.

  “Carol, do you think I should pursue this investigation?” I asked.

  Her gaze became hooded. “It’s complicated, Gabby.”

  “I realize that.” Death usually was.

  She rubbed the delicate handle of her teacup. “So many feelings are involved. I hate to see Jessie get swept up in the emotional upheaval of this.”

  “I understand that also.”

  “But I heard you have a great reputation for these types of things. So I’m going to have to trust that.”

  I smiled lightly. “I promise that I’m going to do my best.”

  “You do that. . . . You do that.”

  Evie had something she needed to work on this morning for one of her other jobs. I’d thought she said it was the TV show she was consulting for. And that was fine, because it was nice to have a break from Evie sometimes.

  Instead, Sherman and I set out together to visit Frank McMillian. The vibe between us was much more chill than it would have been with all three of us.

  “I can’t believe you came out here,” I told him as we drove.

  It was the first chance we’d had to talk alone since he’d arrived.

  “Sorry I misunderstood. All I saw was what a good opportunity this was. I jumped on it.”

  “I’m glad you could get time off work.” He’d been a nice break from Evie. His quiet, somewhat awkward presence had broken up Evie’s annoying arrogance.

  “Yeah, me too. I hardly ever take vacation time. Truth is, I feel like I’ve been stuck in a bit of a rut lately. I got passed over for a promotion. They gave it to someone else who had better people skills.” He pushed his glasses up again.

  “That stinks.” I’d been there before.

  “Yeah, I know. I decided that getting away would give me some time to reevaluate.”

  “Having time to reevaluate is always good.” I kept my eyes on the road, looking for the turnoff into Frank’s farm.

  “How do you do it? You seem to be living the dream and doing what you love.”

  Living the dream? Most people didn’t describe my life that way.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes along the way. Believe me. And no one would have said that I was living the dream a few years ago when I was cleaning crime scenes and barely making ends meet. Riley was in a coma. My life felt like it was falling apart.”

  “That surprises me.”

  I thought about my response. “You know, sometimes you just don’t realize it until later how all the pieces are coming together.”

  “We’re just seeing one section of the street while there’s a whole roadway system that you need a satellite—or at least a drone—in order to comprehend.”

  “Exactly!” I would have never thought of that analogy, but it was perfect.

  A few minutes of silence stretched between us. “So, Evie’s something else, isn’t she?”

  Yeah, you could say that. I could also think of other ways to describe her, but I’d keep those to myself. “She is.”

  “She’s just so smart and witty.”

  Did he think her biting sarcasm was wit? Interesting.

  More than that, I heard another undertone to his voice. He was in love with her, wasn’t he?

  “Why don’t you ask her out, Sherman?”

  His face reddened. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t ruin it. Maybe it would be the start of cultivating something even more beautiful.”

  He shrugged, his eyes downcast. “I’m not sure.”

  “Think about it.” I was giving dating advice? I couldn’t even tell you how twisted that was, especially after all my man mistakes. They were as plentiful as the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

  “Better yet—would you talk to her for me?”

  Oh no. I was back in middle school. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that again. “I don�
��t know . . .”

  And this was why I should have stayed out of it.

  Every. Time.

  I was barely keeping my head above water while sticking my nose into police investigations. But sticking my nose into other people’s love lives? That seemed like a recipe for disaster.

  “Just feel her out. See if she’s even open to the idea. Please.”

  His voice sounded pleading and so hopeful. And I just didn’t think I could say no . . .

  “I’ll think about it.”

  His formerly downcast eyes lit up in a grin. “Thanks, Gabby.”

  Just then, we pulled down a service road toward Frank’s property.

  Here went nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Somewhere between leaving the Banks’s house, Sherman’s talking, and arriving here, a trickle of an idea had begun to form in my head about how I would approach my conversation with Frank McMillian. And I decided to go with the direct route.

  I pulled up to Frank’s farm, making a quick note that Dewey’s farm just happened to be across the road.

  We stopped in front of a traditional-style farmhouse, put the car in park, and strode up to the front door. A man with a shock of white hair answered, wearing dirt-smudged overalls and holding the biggest glass of iced tea I’d ever seen.

  “We’re looking for Frank,” I started.

  A guarded expression locked over his gaze. “I’m Frank.”

  “I was hoping to ask you some questions about Emilio Perez,” I said.

  Surprise registered on his face. He slipped outside, shut the door behind him, and chugged some more tea before saying, “I wondered when you might show up.”

  And there we went again. Everyone in town knew our business.

  “Here we are,” I said, doing an awkward little curtsey.

  “What about Emilio?” he said.

  “He worked for you, correct?” I asked.

  “That’s correct. That was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already talked to the police, and I can only assume that you have no idea where he is.” Make it appear you’re on his side. Of course, I had no reason not to be on his side or to sound in any way accusatory.

  “That’s correct. He disappeared right after that murder.”

  “Was it another one of your workers who saw him with Margie’s purse?”

  The guarded expression stretched tighter. “That’s correct. Daniel saw him and told me. But, by the time I called the police, Emilio was gone.”

  “Were you surprised that Daniel reported Emilio?”

  “I was. There’s a certain amount of loyalty between the workers. But I guess Daniel saw a news story. One of the photos used in the story showed Margie holding a certain kind of purse. Daniel recognized it right away.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He said he saw Emilio with it. He asked him about it at the time. Emilio told him that he’d found it—that it had washed up on shore. Daniel asked what he was going to do with it, and Emilio told him he wasn’t sure.”

  “Perhaps Emilio then realized that the purse belonged to the dead woman,” I said. Perhaps he’d seen it on TV. Or perhaps he knew because he’d killed her.

  “That’s the theory. He disappeared the next day. Turns out that all his paperwork was false. Emilio wasn’t even his real name.”

  “Is that unusual?” Sherman asked.

  He shrugged. “Not necessarily. It happens, though we try to catch things like that.”

  I shifted. “Did he strike you as a killer?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “No, he didn’t. Granted, I didn’t know him well. But Emilio seemed like a kind man. He was a good worker. He even brought in stray dogs to the migrant worker housing. He couldn’t stand to see an animal without a home.”

  That was good to know and gave me a better picture of the man.

  “One more question, if you don’t mind,” I started. He didn’t object, so I continued. “Is there anyone working here today who worked here ten years ago?”

  “Most workers move on. But there is one person who’s been with me every year for the past fifteen years. His name is Miguel Fernandez. He’s working here right now, as a matter of fact. He’s out in that field of collard greens.”

  If I said I was an investigator looking into a murder, none of these workers—especially Miguel—would talk to me.

  Most of them probably feared being deported or confronted about the cash-only payment for their weeks of work—tax-free payment. I wouldn’t be seen as their friend. Unless . . . I could speak to their needs. Which was exactly what I was going to try and do.

  I offered my warmest smile as I approached my first group of men. They were sweaty and hoeing and picking over some leafy green crop that I couldn’t identify. I thought it was kale, though.

  “Good morning!” I called as Sherman trotted alongside me.

  They stopped and stared at me, saying nothing. I could already see the distrust in their eyes.

  “I’m from the pharmacy in town,” I started.

  I’d picked a pharmacy because I figured everyone needed medications at some point, and there were some things you just couldn’t get from your local bodega.

  “We were hosting a contest there to win a hundred dollars. I’m looking for a,” I glanced at a scrap of paper—it was the directions to my rental cottage, actually—“a Michael Fernandez.”

  I’d used the wrong name on purpose.

  They stared another moment, the shields over their eyes coming down slightly.

  And then I raised a one hundred dollar bill. I didn’t usually carry them, but with Garrett’s generous payment, I’d stuck some cash in my pocket just in case.

  And boy was I glad I did.

  The shields lowered even more.

  “You mean Miguel?” one of them said.

  I looked at the paper in my hands and squinted as if I hadn’t read it correctly. “That’s right. Miguel Fernandez.”

  “He’s working in that field over there,” the same man said. “He’s the one with the red hat.”

  I smiled again. “Thanks so much.”

  I started across the dry, sandy road, pulling my sweater tighter. I just couldn’t get over how cold it was out here in the winter. The wind must stretch from one side of the peninsula to the next, and the cold waters acted like a cube of ice, cooling everything considerably.

  A new group of men stared at us as we crossed the road.

  “I feel like a freak,” Sherman whispered.

  “Just stay cool.” My smile reappeared. “I’m looking for Miguel Fernandez.”

  No one said anything.

  I pulled out the one hundred dollar bill again.

  “He won a drawing we were hosting at the local pharmacy.”

  The man in the red hat stepped forward. “I didn’t enter any contest.”

  “All you had to do was shop with us to be automatically entered.”

  His eyes remained narrow. “You drove all the way out here and tracked me down for this prize? How did you even know where I was? Purchasing something at the store didn’t tell you that. Or are you big brother?”

  Okay, so maybe my plan hadn’t quite been foolproof. This man wasn’t going to let his guard down just to win some money. And if I continued this charade, he would just shut down. I could sense it in my gut.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I want to talk to you about Emilio Perez.”

  “How do you know who Emilio is?”

  “I don’t.”

  His gaze darkened, and he gripped his hoe—a hoe that could turn into a dangerous weapon. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

  He turned on his heel and started away. I had to stop him before I lost this opportunity.

  “Please, Miguel. I’m not here to start trouble. I just want some answers.”

  He paused and turned back toward me. “Who did you say you were? Who are you really?”

  “I’m Gabby. I’m trying to figure
out what happened to Ron and Margie Simmons.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know who they are.”

  “I just want to know how your friend got Margie’s purse.”

  He froze and slowly turned around fully. Anger simmered in his eyes. “What purse?”

  “The one he was seen with before he left for . . . wherever he went.”

  “Emilio didn’t have anything to do with those murders.”

  “I didn’t say he did. I just want to ask some questions.” I lowered my voice. “Do you remember the purse, Miguel?”

  He stared at me until finally nodding. He still appeared stiff and uncertain, but he hadn’t shut down yet. “I do.”

  I licked my lips, trying to plan everything I said carefully. “How did Emilio get it?”

  “He didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re asking. He said he found it on the shore. That it washed up.”

  “Was there money inside?”

  He shook his head. “He said there wasn’t, and I believed him. We don’t make much out in these fields. Some farmers try to pay us only ten dollars a day for all our work. Ten dollars.”

  “So he could have easily disappeared with ten thousand dollars. It would be enough to live off for a long time.”

  He swung his head back and forth. “He wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Then why didn’t he just take it to the police?” I asked.

  “He was going to,” Miguel said. “But then he heard about the murders. He knew how it would look if he was found with that purse.”

  “What did he do with the purse?” I asked.

  He scowled again. “He told me he was going to bury it.”

  Well, that was a surprise. “Where did he bury it?”

  He shrugged and looked off in the distance. “I’m not 100 percent sure. But someone told me they saw him out at the Ridge.”

  “What’s the Ridge?” Sherman asked.

  “It’s a place where we like to hang out. It’s some property on the edge of the migrant worker camp. We don’t know who it belongs to. But it’s a good place to party after a long day’s work. We have bonfires there.”