Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Okay.” I stood. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure, Nora. Maybe next time we meet it’ll be under better circumstances.” Des tipped his head and studied me through half-closed eyes. “I have a cabin out—” he waved vaguely, I think east. “You’re welcome anytime. I can cook a decent dinner. Another skill I learned in the Army.”

  I sucked in a breath. Was he asking me out? We’d just discussed my husband. Of course, Skip wasn’t exactly present or accounted for. But I was still hoping for a ransom call.

  Maybe Des was just being friendly, welcoming me to the community. I’d already learned that it’s a very good idea to know your neighbors around here. I ducked my head, mumbled a good-bye and scooted out to the car.

  On the drive to Mayfield, the Subaru’s headlights shafted through low, clinging fog, the kind that rises up from the ground even when the sky’s perfectly clear. I was creating my own steam clouds inside the car, and I alternated which hand got tucked under a thigh for warmth and which one managed the steering wheel in an attempt to keep my fingers from going numb.

  I wished I could have had a few more minutes with Hank while he’d been able to talk. The information he’d passed along was nagging around the periphery of my thoughts.

  No matter what Des suspected based on Hank’s unpleasant history with Waylon and Travis, I had to consider that there was another possible explanation for the shooting. At the very least, I needed to investigate my sketchy hypothesis, if only for the purpose of elimination.

  And I was the only one who could do it. Since Hank hadn’t voiced his concerns to anyone else, it was my responsibility. It would have been mine anyway — by default and marriage, I was Skip’s delegate for cleaning up his messes and mitigating the damage.

  Nothing since Skip had gone missing had been simple. By searching his bank accounts, and emptying them, I had learned he had contacts of the questionable variety all over North America. If Hank’s worries were valid, then the problem most likely extended far beyond just this one freight terminal. I ground my teeth together.

  Des hadn’t asked what Hank and I were discussing in the parking lot, and I needed to leave it that way, for now.

  CHAPTER 4

  As I pulled through the narrow opening between trees and drove past Mayfield’s ivy-camouflaged gate, I waved in the direction I assumed my security detail was camped. Hard to see in the dark, but then again, they were hard to see in daylight. To call them discreet would be an understatement.

  However, they’d known I was at the general store at the time of the shooting, since they’d had the temerity to hassle Des about whose investigation it was. I suspected they’d placed a GPS tracker somewhere on the Subaru because they certainly weren’t holding my hand as I went about my daily activities. Omnipresent eyes in the sky. I’d been tempted to take a chilly outdoors dash in the buff just to see exactly how much attention they were paying me, but I hadn’t worked up the courage for that yet.

  I’m using the generic ‘they’ because I don’t really know who they are. FBI agents? Contractors? Male? Female? How many? Collectively, Clarice calls them Snoopy.

  I coaxed the station wagon over ruts and gullies and through potholes. I’m an old hand at off-road navigating now, although, technically it’s not off-road. It is our road. We just have a really 3-D driveway, not one of those nice, graded, smooth paved paths most people follow to get home.

  Before I pulled up in front of the mansion, I dimmed the headlights. I found my cell phone in the bottom of my purse and dialed Clarice.

  “Where are you?” she barked.

  “Outside. Where’s CeCe? I don’t want her to see me.”

  “Well, we’re going to read a bedtime story in just a minute. Do you know Harry the Dirty Dog?” Clarice’s former-smoker, scratchy voice drew out in a falsely sweet staccato, and I knew CeCe was within earshot.

  “Isn’t he on Skip’s list of money laundering clients?” I asked.

  Clarice rewarded me with the breathless, bouncing wheeze that is her laugh. “Girl, you are completely out of touch with classic children’s literature,” she finally rasped. “Gimme ten, and I’ll have her tucked in the bedroom at the end of the hall,” she added in a stage whisper.

  When I clicked off, I noticed that the message icon was blinking on my phone. A huge lump stuck in my throat. Practically no one was calling me on my original phone these days. I’d been conducting my private business on the backup prepaid phones I’d purchased because I assumed the FBI had my original phone tapped. I wasn’t the only one waiting for the possible ransom call for my missing husband.

  I quickly punched through the menu and held my breath as a recorded male voice I didn’t recognize came on.

  “Uh, Nora? This is Josh. Um, I heard — well, word got around. Your mom, I guess, through a couple people my wife knows. You’ll know what I’m talking about. Uh, except my wife’s left me. I’m staying with my sister — she’s the only family member who’s willing to talk to me at this point.” He gave a slight chuckle, and my heart sank for him. It was the sound of a man trying to make light of a situation that was cutting him to pieces. “Which means I’m closer to you now, up north, if you’d like to get together—” His voice dwindled into a long pause. “Quietly, you know,” he finally whispered, and the call ended.

  I knew exactly who he was, not that I’d ever met him. Josh Freeney was another of Skip’s casualties — the FBI agent he’d somehow persuaded to pass along pertinent information. Josh had lost his job and, from the sound of things, much, much more. I’d left him a message a few weeks ago, hoping for the long shot that he’d be willing to talk to me.

  My phone jumped to the next message — a wealth of riches today. And a weak, female voice I also didn’t recognize.

  “This is Susanna White. I have something of yours. Well, of your husband’s, I guess. I can’t — there are just things in my life right now, and I can’t — I just can’t anymore. It’s urgent, obviously. I’m heading to Canada, and I need to — well, I need to stop by on my way. Call me.”

  I listened to the message again. And again. I didn’t know anyone named Susanna White. But it sure sounded as though she knew Skip. I scowled at my phone and punched the replay button again.

  A crack of light shot across the windshield as the kitchen door opened. A stout form stood there, backlit, with her hands on her hips. My ten minutes were up. I slid out of the car.

  Clarice’s face switched from her usual slightly irritated pucker to slack disbelief when she saw me. “Oh, Nora.” She pulled me into the warm kitchen and scanned me up and down, her eyes wide behind her cat’s eye glasses. “Oh, Nora,” she repeated and dropped into a rickety ladder-back chair, visibly deflated. “I had no idea it was like this—” she waved a hand toward my bloody clothes. “Walt didn’t say—”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “Hank’s surgery went well.”

  “You need to clean up.” She jumped out of the chair and jabbed a commanding forefinger at me, her bluster back in full force. “Strip.”

  I grinned. “Not in the kitchen. Let’s unload the car.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was standing under a steaming hot trickle of water in a cast iron tub in a bathroom that sported a 1950s-era Pepto-Bismol pink and floral vibe.

  Clarice was on the other side of the shower curtain, perched on the closed toilet seat and peppering me with questions. My little chat over coffee with Des had just been a warm-up session compared to the grilling she gave me.

  “What do you think?” I called through steam swirls when I’d finally put a dent in her curiosity. Back when I was engaged to Skip and ran his charitable foundation for a living — it felt like a lifetime ago, but it’d only been a few weeks since my botched honeymoon — Clarice was my executive assistant. She’s stuck with me through every catastrophe. I value her opinion, no matter how bluntly stated, more than all others. Maybe particularly because she doesn’t believe in personal artifice, at least not when it comes to exp
ressing her thoughts. Although her more natural appearance is a recent phenomenon.

  “I’m sweltering,” she hollered back. “You’ll have more wrinkles than a prune’s behind if you don’t hurry up.”

  Yeah, that voice of experience I appreciate so much. I stuck my head around the curtain. “My phone’s in my purse. Could you listen to the voice messages on it and tell me what you think about those too?”

  Clarice rolled her eyes, but she disappeared, letting in a blast of cold air in her wake.

  I turned off the water, toweled dry and bundled into Skip’s terrycloth robe. I’d returned from Mexico sans-husband, but I did get to keep his luggage. Some consolation. We’d packed for a couple weeks of Cozumel sunshine, not a chilly, wet winter in the Pacific Northwest, so I’d added a few of his layers to my own. His scent — a combination of bay rum aftershave and shoe polish — wafted up from the plush fabric.

  I found Clarice in the kitchen, paging through her overstuffed, but more valuable than gold, Day-Timer. “Not here,” she muttered. “The woman calling herself Susanna White. Neither the name nor the phone number are in my list.”

  I slumped into a chair across from her. “So I’ll have to meet with her then.”

  “And Josh Freeney.” Clarice pitched an eyebrow at me. “You realize you’re lucky he called back?”

  I nodded. “Maybe I can get some answers about what, exactly, Skip was doing.”

  “And you need to do it like your hair’s on fire,” Clarice added, “because of what happened to Hank today.”

  I stared at Clarice for a long moment, then sighed and reached for my purse. “I know, but I was hoping you’d come to a different conclusion. Maybe we could argue about it.”

  “No way, girl. This has Skip’s fingerprints all over it, no matter what our local sheriff thinks.”

  I rummaged through my purse and made a tidy row of prepaid cell phones on the table. I was keeping a list of which one I used for which contact. Now, I had to more names to add.

  oOo

  Early the next morning, armed with a thermos of coffee and as many layers of clothing as I could pull on and still function without waddling like the Michelin man, I borrowed Clarice’s station wagon yet again and hit the road. I wanted to get out of sight before CeCe woke up. I hadn’t figured out how to explain to the little girl what happened to her daddy. The tires hummed a patchy tune on the slippery pavement, and I was grateful for the Subaru company’s commitment to four-wheel traction.

  Before I’d gone to bed I’d left return messages for both Josh and Susanna. None of us seemed eager to actually answer our phones.

  I’d also updated my email correspondence with a charity in Mumbai — one of the many Skip’s foundation had supported — that is, until I had emptied his accounts. But I’d spread the wealth around, and orphanages and health initiatives worldwide were currently rolling in dough. The money came from Skip’s carwash franchise business and from the other, much bigger, business he’d had on the side — laundering money for a whole string of unsavory characters. This act of generosity made me very happy, in theory. Skip’s clients, not so much. And therein lay the rub — the source of my current troubles.

  The Good Hope Home for Boys and Girls — I love how they name orphanages in other countries, or at least how the names translate into English — was one of my favorites. One hundred and seventy-three children between the ages of four and twelve, with a school, library, playground, and soccer and cricket fields on site, clean dormitories and as much food as they could eat. The young woman who runs the orphanage, Garima Kaur Gulati, is from a large Sikh family and has relatives (who in India doesn’t?) in the finance sector. She was making a few connections for me as well as caring for those adorable children.

  And then I’d spent the rest of the night staring at the dark ceiling. It actually felt good to climb out of bed at first light and embark on a mission.

  The hospital parking lot was nearly empty — the few cars probably belonged to the staff on duty since it was far too early for visiting hours. One vehicle, however, did stand out — Des’s official Jeep with the May County logo on the door and spiffy light bar on the roof.

  After his friendly warning yesterday about not getting involved in the shooting investigation, I had no desire to bump into him. I looped through the lot several times, then finally settled on a spot between two cars that had thick layers of ice on their windshields — they’d obviously been parked overnight. The spot also afforded me a good view of the Jeep’s driver’s door. I’d know when Des left.

  If I stayed awake, that is. I’d spent the night in a perfectly good bed. But no, I had to wait until I was slumped at an awkward angle in the Subaru’s bucket seat to fall into the deep, comatose type of sleep where your mouth drops open and you get a huge wet drool spot on your jacket.

  Right. And that’s when your weird dream about the sheriff knocking on your window becomes reality.

  I jumped, letting out a most unladylike grunt, and squinted through the fogged-up glass at the olive green blur beyond it.

  I groaned and turned the key in the ignition so I could roll down the power window.

  Des leaned into the opening. “Been here long?”

  I rubbed my eyes and muttered, “I guess.”

  Again that flicker of a smile across his face, and he shifted to peer into the empty backseat. When his gaze returned to me, I knew what he was thinking. Yes, I really had managed to make all the condensation coating the windows all by myself.

  “Whatchya doing?” he asked.

  “Special delivery.” I held up a sheet of paper that had been folded into quarters and was covered with crayon drawings. The artist favored hot pink and purple. CeCe’s get-well card for her dad. Clarice had promised the little girl that it would reach its destination with the utmost dispatch.

  “Non-family visiting hours start at 10:00,” Des said.

  I glanced at my watch —three hours to go — and played dumb. “Oh. You were in there.” I don’t have great acceleration from slumber to full mental prowess.

  “One of the perks of the job. How about breakfast?” He jerked his chin toward the McDonald’s across the street.

  “Already ate,” I lied. Well, unless coffee counts — which it did, in this case. Actually, an Egg McMuffin was sounding really good. The scent of sizzling sausage drifted through the open window — straight from the restaurant’s grill to my nose. I swear they have directional fans on their range hood vents.

  Des chuckled and drummed his fingers on the window ledge. “See you around, then.”

  “Yep.” I tried to sound cheery.

  “He’s in room 215.” Des tossed the words over his shoulder as he sauntered away. “Side door, straight up the stairs, on the right. And he’s awake.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek and watched Des as he slowly, carefully, turn-signals-and-everything, exited the parking lot and cruised through the McDonald’s drive-thru. I hadn’t fooled him one bit. He knew I’d planned on sneaking in to see Hank as soon as possible.

  I sighed and popped open my door. No time like the present.

  CHAPTER 5

  Des’s directions turned out to be perfectly accurate, and they got me to Hank’s door without having to pass a receptionist or a nurses’ station. Des had helped me evade the hospital’s gatekeepers. I wondered about that man. Maybe I should let him buy me food. However, if he thought my company was charming, then I questioned his judgment.

  I softly tapped my fingernails on the partially open door and peeked through the crack. There was some shuffling, and Sidonie’s huge dark eyes appeared.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the room. “Thought that sheriff had come back. He wore Hank out with all his questions.”

  Hank did not look good. Better than dead, but still not good. His skin was pale and waxy and deeply shadowed, almost as though he’d been beaten to a bruised pulp underneath the surface. A gown much too large for him sagged
against the lumpy bandages on his chest. He was attached to several machines and tubes, his arms limp at his sides as he lay in a slightly inclined position, eyes closed. But his chest was rising and falling in a regular, if slow, cadence.

  The room was crowded with Sidonie’s makeshift bed on a wheeled cot, a crib which held the sleeping twins, a rolling bedside table, and two plastic chairs.

  “How’s CeCe?” Sidonie whispered.

  I smiled and showed her the card.

  Sidonie sniffed and brushed away a tear. “He wants to talk to you,” She squeezed my arm. “I’m going to take a walk, get something from the cafeteria. You want anything?”

  I shook my head, not trusting my own voice.

  She gave me another squeeze and slipped from the room.

  Of course, she would need a break. I couldn’t imagine my world being ripped apart the way hers had been.

  I bit my lip. Maybe I could. For the first time, I considered and was grateful for the fact that Skip and I hadn’t been married long enough to have children. At least my husband’s disappearance hadn’t affected any precious little people.

  I pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Hank’s. His eyes fluttered open. I propped CeCe’s card where he could see it, and his face broke into a pain-controlled grin.

  “Thanks, Nora,” he rasped.

  I nodded. “You feel up to talking some more?”

  “Got to.” He struggled to sit up straighter.

  I pushed the pillows tighter around him to provide support. “Who else knows about Skip’s involvement?” I asked.

  “No one.” Hank cleared his throat and swallowed, every movement seeming to make his eyes glass over.

  “You didn’t tell the sheriff?”

  Hank shook his head. “He’s certain it was a revenge shooting because I fired those boys.”

  I slid the bedside table closer so Hank could reach the glass of water with the bendy straw in it.

  He took a sip, licked his dry lips and concentrated on returning the glass to the table, but even so his hand shook. “I don’t think they’re that bright,” he finally said. “They were set up to do it, probably for money.”