Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Jerusha Jones

  Money. That’s all I could think of. I swallowed. Whoever owned these shoes had oodles of it.

  I lifted my head, and Lee Gomes’s companion smiled at me from where he was seated on the sofa. His face was almost kindly, gently amused. His jowls spread back from his thick, smiling lips. His arms crossed comfortably on the top of the huge mound of his belly, his knees barely peeking out from under the mass. He must have weighed close to four hundred pounds.

  I hinged up to my knees, sat back on my heels. Slowly, I eased my hand around, my fingers stretching to my lower back — no gun. No safety measure.

  “I see you’ve met my emissary,” the large man said pleasantly, nodding toward the cringing Nose. “You see, Lee has suspected for some time that Neil was cheating me. That’s the trouble with middle management. I have you to thank for contributing to the truth of the matter. Isn’t it convenient that I could wrap up a couple of problems all at once by assigning Neil the task of getting rid of you?” He shook his ponderous head. “Too bad I have to clean up his unfinished messes after him.”

  “Who’re you?” I grunted.

  The man tipped forward with a whoosh of escaped air and lifted my chin with one of his pudgy forefingers. “You look very familiar, Ms. Sheldon. Have we met?”

  Up close — so close I could feel his labored breathing on my face — he wasn’t kindly at all. Hard, glittery dark eyes, delicate nostrils that fluttered with every inhale, and a gold-capped canine tooth. He was examining the scar on my upper lip.

  Then he started chuckling and gave me a rough shove.

  I sprawled backward, clunking my head against the exposed wood base of the recliner.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” he continued. “I knew your daddy long before he went crazy.”

  My anger spread with the pain. My dad is not crazy. He just gets confused. Pretty much all the time. But he still loves me when he’s able to recognize me, and I will always love him. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chin, wrapping my arms around them, tried to get as small as possible.

  “You’re the kid with the defect,” the man continued. “You take after your pop. ‘Course, your mother was a real looker back in the day.” He chuckled, the meanness curling out of his throat.

  “Sounds like you have problems with trust in your business,” I heard Tarq rasp behind me.

  God bless him for filling in the gap. I wasn’t in a condition to speak intelligibly, and I didn’t want our large visitor to feel as though he needed to hurry while dealing with his loose ends.

  “Do you always sneak around, spying on your employees?” Tarq continued.

  The man snorted. “When necessary.” He lowered his gaze to me. “You placed me yet, little girl?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fat Al Canterino, at your service, however briefly.” He stretched his meaty right arm out so far I thought he might topple off the sofa.

  Then I realized he wanted me to shake his hand — as if that cordiality would somehow make his rest of his behavior acceptable. I glared at him instead.

  “Well, well,” Fat Al chuckled and withdrew his hand. “Can’t say as I blame you. Although your husband was much more tolerant. He didn’t squabble about propriety when there were enough dollars on the table. You understand, in my business, this kind of message is an unpleasant necessity.” He nodded to Lee Gomes and began the grunty scooching necessary to get up off the sofa.

  Which was going to take a while by the look of things. I tilted to the side, trying to get a better view of the previously hidden inner-workings of the recliner now that its back was broken. My gun was stuck in there somewhere.

  I pinched the worn piping of a cushion and slowly pulled it away. Yep.

  Wedged between some frayed webbing and an industrial strength spring was the gun, as dull black as ever. I didn’t have to free it — I just needed to fire it. The recliner would be no barrier at all with its disintegrated foam, broken wood frame and metal ratcheting system. Bullets would fly straight through what was left of it. Or maybe they’d ricochet nicely — I didn’t care.

  Lee Gomes was torn between keeping Neil, Tarq and me in his crosshairs and helping his boss get off the sofa. Consequently, he wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to any of us.

  Tarq cleared his throat, or tried to — he sounded awful. I didn’t dare turn around and look at him, but it felt like a signal. Since his chair was still intact, he was higher than my spot on the floor. Maybe he could see my gun too.

  Neil was curled up in a fetal position next to me, eyes still glued shut. He’d be no help one way or the other.

  Lee finally bent and grabbed Fat Al under the elbow. Tarq let loose with a hacking attempt at phlegm-clearing. I jammed my arm into the chair, weaseled my hand in beside the gun, earning a nasty scrape from the sharp end of the rusty spring, found the safety with my thumb and slid it off.

  I gave one fast yank, but couldn’t loosen the gun. It was aimed generally toward Fat Al’s heavy feet. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

  Next thing I knew, I was face-first in stuffing, but the gun was free because I was clutching it against my stomach with my right hand. The dull roaring was back, mixed with stuttering blasts of gunfire — not from my gun.

  My left shoulder hurt — a lot. The remnants of my scream were still echoing in my ears.

  But I rolled over and pulled the trigger a few more times in the direction of the sofa. It was a lumpish blur because most of the lights had gone out in the ruckus, and I couldn’t tell if Fat Al was filling out its contours or not.

  Then there was yelling — serious commands barked in deep voices. Boots stomping everywhere. I curled up into a tight ball and thought maybe Neil had had the right idea all along.

  CHAPTER 23

  A bump from a grizzled snout, white whiskers twitching. Sad brown eyes. Tarq’s chocolate Lab nuzzled closer. I lifted my arm and let him wriggle his weary old body against my chest. He reeked as though he’d been feasting on roadkill. But I like to snuggle. His stiff fur prickled my cheek. We could snooze together — our commonality — while the world beyond our little circle sorted itself out.

  “You going to come out of there?” a voice said.

  I cracked an eye open again. I knew this face leaning down, looking at me. Hazel eyes, thick lashes, dark blond hair mashed down by that silly helmet. We’re not in the trenches, buddy.

  “No,” I croaked.

  “The correct answer is yes. Yes, you are.” Matt dragged the coffee table out of the way, losing part of its load of books as it bumped over the carpet. He picked up chunks of the recliner and tossed them into the corner. Then he knelt over me and eased me onto my back. He gingerly peeled my torn jacket sleeve away from my shoulder. “I hope you don’t get woozy at the sight of blood.”

  “Tarq?” I asked.

  “He’s okay.” Matt winced as the Lab scooted over and wheezed putrid breath on him too.

  “He didn’t get hit?” I rasped. “All those bullets?”

  “There weren’t as many as you think, although one of them got you. Can you sit up?”

  “Did I hit Fat Al?” I slowly straightened my legs, preparing for the extraordinary exertion of doing a single sit-up. I’ve never liked calisthenics.

  Matt grinned briefly. “Yep.” Then his expression switched to concern as his gaze flicked over my lower half. He pressed me back to the floor. “Just hang out here for a minute.” He stood and hurried out through the front door.

  I summoned the energy to lift my head and look down the length of my body. There was a sodden, reddish patch on my left jeans leg. I groaned and began associating the throbbing pain I was feeling with memories of the reasons why my nerve endings were on fire. That’s when I started shaking.

  As much as I disliked Fat Al, I hoped I hadn’t hurt him badly. The confusion, the noise, the choking odor of burnt gunpowder, the flying bits of wood and plaster, the yelling, Tarq coughing — I couldn’t claw out of the swirling eddy. And I’d actually
pulled the trigger — several times. I remembered that part clearly — the kick of the gun, my abject inability to control where the bullets I couldn’t see went.

  I lifted my right hand, flexed it in front of my face. I’d had no right to fire the gun — no right at all. How many people had I put at risk?

  Matt returned with another man in a black flak jacket and helmet with a matching black duffel bag. Those federal guys sure know how to accessorize. Shiny scissors and clamp things came out of the bag, and I tried not to look at what he was doing to my leg.

  I clutched Matt’s arm. “How bad — Fat Al?”

  “A scratch — not bad enough to keep him from complaining. No one died, Nora, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re going to have a talk later about where you got that gun.”

  I winced at the goings-on down below and muttered, “I’d be willing to bet it wasn’t the only unregistered weapon in the room.”

  “Give her a pain killer,” Matt said to his companion.

  “No,” I moaned. “I don’t want it.” I needed to think, and clearly. “Who was recording?”

  “What?” Matt bent over me so the only thing I could see were his hazel eyes. But he’s not a good liar — I could tell his ignorance was feigned.

  “Neil Byrnes’s wire,” I gritted through clenched teeth.

  He had the decency to look surprised, then sheepish. “He came to us two days ago. He wasn’t comfortable with the hit Fat Al ordered on you. He wanted protection, but he had to earn it.”

  “By spying on me,” I blurted. “Because you think I’m involved with Skip’s criminal activities.”

  “The timing looked — looks — bad.” Matt’s lips pressed in a grim line. “Skip’s reappearance in Texas, the money showing up in the accounts, your attempt to halt operations at the freight terminal.”

  He had a point. I turned my face away, held my breath against the probing and cutting, the lancing pain below my knee.

  “Stay with me, Nora.” Matt placed a hand on my cheek and turned my head back to face him. “We didn’t expect Lee Gomes and Fat Al to follow up on Neil. We had to wait to see what they came for, what incriminating evidence they might offer us. It was too good of an opportunity to let pass.”

  “Where were you?” I moaned.

  “Just past the tree line.”

  “How long can you hold them?”

  “Long enough to get search warrants and find even more reasons to hold them. You won’t have to worry about Fat Al and his underlings for a long time.”

  “Because I have the best lawyer. Tarq knew what it would take to irritate them into imprudent action.” I shuddered and glanced down. Matt’s companion was scritching tape off a roll and wrapping my calf tightly.

  He held up a jagged splinter of blood-stained wood almost as long as his latex-gloved hand. “Foreign matter. Feels better when it’s not under your skin, doesn’t it?” He gave me a little half-grin and resumed taping. “Whether or not you get stitches will be up to you and the doc.”

  I struggled to prop my torso up on an elbow. “Nope.” I sucked air in through my teeth and got my first look at the neat red channel on the outside edge of my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. We have an infirmary at Mayfield, knowledgeable staff, chicken soup, the works. Just give me a little white lightning, and I’m good to go.”

  The medic scowled, and I could tell he was doing some quick calculating behind the scenes. Ooops. Moonshine humor was not appropriate at the moment. My brain-to-mouth filter must have been jostled loose by the adrenaline flash flood I’d just endured. Probably best he didn’t find out that homemade hooch was standard treatment at Mayfield, provided Walt hadn’t been too zealous in getting rid of it all.

  To keep the nosy agents from asking impertinent questions, I started grunting and trying, but failing, to get my feet under me.

  “Easy does it.” Matt hoisted me up, arm around my waist, and helped me hobble down the porch steps.

  It was light outside, sunrays barely cresting the treetops and setting the dissipating fog aglow. A couple battered black Chevy Tahoes with standing platforms welded around their sides and backs hunkered in the meadow, and more black-clad men ambled about. They appeared to be packing up equipment.

  To the side of the porch, Tarq sat in a kitchen chair that someone must have dragged outside for him. He was wrapped in a blanket, his bald head shining in the sunlight, his breath rising like a steam halo in the cold air.

  I put an arm around his shoulders. “You okay?”

  “Most excitement I’ve had in a long time.” Tarq’s leathery, yellow face split in a wide grin. He worked an arm free of the blanket and grasped my hand. “Got ‘em good, didn’t we, girlie?” His dark eyes danced.

  I smiled back at him. “I’m sorry about your living room.”

  “Been thinking about having a decorator in, anyway.”

  I snorted. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Carted straight off, separately. These agents of yours didn’t want them talking to each other. Regardless, I got the impression Fat Al thinks all his employees are imbeciles.” Tarq rasped a dry chuckle.

  My breath caught in my throat in anticipation, but a couple seconds passed, and Tarq’s mirth didn’t turn into a savage coughing fit. His shoulders were rising and falling evenly with deep, productive breaths.

  Tarq’s expression turned serious. “Before they could stuff him in the backseat of a squad car, Fat Al screamed at Lee Gomes about the botched hit on Hank Gonzales too. He was lashing out at everybody. The FBI will have his comments documented, but we need to tell Des.”

  I nodded slowly. “I thought so. Probably why Neil decided to attempt his assignment himself instead of hiring local talent like Lee did.”

  “Huh,” Tarq muttered, and I followed his gaze to the sheriff’s department Jeep that was barreling at speed across the meadow.

  The brakes squealed hard, and I heard the transmission slammed into park. Des jumped out and strode over to us.

  Green eyes narrowed, hands on hips, packed full of judicial righteousness. “One day,” he said, his tone low and controlled. “One day I leave the county to visit my daughter and her husband and you two—” Des jabbed a finger between us, “you two pull a stunt like this.”

  “We couldn’t control the timing, couldn’t predict—”

  But Tarq cut me off by patting my hand. “Don’t you worry, girlie. Des is just upset because he missed the excitement.” His delighted grin was back.

  Des released a hefty, irritated exhale, then nodded toward me. “Is all that blood yours?”

  I glanced down. My clothes were a tattered, stained mess.

  Matt joined our little group and shook hands with Des. “Borrowing a few cells in your jail, just until we can transfer the prisoners up to Seattle.”

  “No problem,” Des muttered, but his expression didn’t match his words, not yet.

  “There is something else we can do,” Tarq said. “Feel like conducting a raid, gentlemen?”

  Matt immediately turned wary. “I have to go through the proper channels, get a warrant—”

  But now Des was grinning at me. “What’s the owner say?”

  I grinned back. “Definitely.”

  “Still need a warrant,” Tarq warned. “But how much do you want to bet our judge is faster than yours, especially the day after Christmas?” He sent a sly wink Matt’s direction.

  “My team and I need to be there,” Matt shot back.

  Des nodded. “As a professional courtesy, of course. But first I’m taking Nora home.” He hooked my elbow and ushered me toward his Jeep.

  “Wait. I wanna—” I hissed as he dragged me along.

  “Don’t argue,” Des muttered. “You shouldn’t be standing on that leg. It’s either home or the hospital. Besides, Clarice gave me an earful about twenty minutes ago. Seems she just noticed you and her station wagon were missing.”

  That killed the volley of objections I was about to launch. Right. Clarice. And Emm
ie. It seemed years since I’d been sleeping in my bed at Mayfield.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” Des said once we were on the road. “Your message about gave me a heart attack.”

  So I filled him in — or tried to. But he was bouncing with suppressed laughter before I even got to the part about the shooting and my woeful lack of accuracy.

  “You sat in that recliner?” Des wheezed. “The death trap recliner? I made the mistake of sitting in it once. Barely escaped with my limbs intact.” He was turning positively pink from trying not to chortle.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I replied, unable to keep the miff out of my tone, “that recliner is no longer of this world.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Clarice was mad. She was waiting on the concrete patio, her body tipped forward aggressively at the waist, the muscles along her jaw bunched into bulges, the eyes peering through the lenses of her cat’s eye glasses fiery. In short, she had the demeanor of a squatty, steam-powered bulldozer.

  I took a deep breath. Better suck it up. I was about to be royally chastised.

  Des turned off the engine but made no move to exit the vehicle. He ran a finger across the back of my hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, “how’s the pain?”

  I glanced at him, smiled that it was tolerable. “I hope you had a good Christmas with your family, in spite of my interruption.”

  Des cleared his throat. “Found out I’m going to be a grandfather. Becca told me yesterday.” He scrubbed the back of his neck with a callused palm. “Didn’t know I was that old.” But his awkwardness was layered with a happiness that shone from his eyes.

  And then my door was wrenched open, and Clarice gave us both looks that had the power to wither our joints in their sockets.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mostly what I gathered from the following tirade was that Clarice was furious about being left out. Next time I make a middle-of-the-night dash into a hostage situation, I’m under strict orders to wake her up and take her with me. I think she considers herself my good luck charm or something. Don’t leave home without Clarice is the new mantra that has been drilled into my head.